Page 31 of No Good Fight

But the truth was uglier than that.

The danger hadn’t created this part of me…it had only given me permission to stop pretending.

The bathroom light shut off a few minutes later, and the apartment finally went dark completely.

I should’ve driven home after that.

Instead, I stayed parked across the street for another hour anyway, because my night is never complete unless I make sure Alex is home and safe.

5

ALEX

By the end of the week, Ryder has become a problem I can’t stop thinking about.

It’s incredibly inconvenient because I already have enough problems. My apartment doesn’t feel like my apartment anymore, my window lock has become more important than any piece of cheap hardware should, and every vehicle with tinted windows is now auditioning for a starring role in my personal mental breakdown.

Adding Ryder to that mess feels excessive.

Even for me.

I sit at my kitchen island with my laptop open, coffee going cold beside my left hand and the steady thump of my neighbor’s footsteps passing overhead. Every ordinary sound in this building has turned suspicious since the break-in. The pipes knock, and I look toward the bathroom in case a Stephen King monster is going to pop out and drag me to my death.

The refrigerator kicks on, and my spine straightens because all I can think of is the idea of being grabbed when I least expect it. Someone laughs in the hallway, and my fingers stop moving over the keyboard until the voices fade.

I am extremely fun now. Very relaxed. A joy at parties, assuming the party has visible exits and nobody moves too quietly behind me.

The bedroom window is shut. Locked. Checked.

Checked again.

I know because I stood there ten minutes ago with one hand on the frame, staring at the new latch Ryder installed like it might suddenly grow a mouth and explain why I slept better after he left than I had in weeks.

That part bothers me more than the lock.

The sleeping.

The fact that my body felt safer after Ryder touched my wrist, fixed my window, gave me his hoodie, and sat outside my building like some morally questionable guardian angel with a truck payment.

I glance at my phone.

His name is still right at the top of my messages.

Ryder: I’m glad you believe yourself.

I’ve reread that text a normal number of times, if normal means embarrassing and possibly grounds for losing custody of my own dignity.

My thumb hovers near his contact for half a second before I shove the phone facedown beside my coffee.

“Nope,” I mutter.

The word sounds confident in a way that I am not.

A new email from Marcy hits my inbox before I can spiral any further into Ryder-related self-destruction. Mason Ridge Apartments. Redevelopment angle. Tenant interviews needed before the planning board meeting next week.

I stare at the email for longer than necessary.

Of course it’s another old building story, and just like that my entire career has suddenly become a tour of neglected electrical systems and landlords who think smoke detectors are decorative.