Page 86 of No Good Fight

“I wasn’t defending myself.” He reaches past me for a mug, careful not to crowd even though crowding is exactly what my body would like him to do. “I’m explaining the shelf.”

“There are enough protein bars down there to survive a very boring apocalypse.”

“Protein is useful.”

“Joy is also useful, but I notice you didn’t prepare for that.”

His mouth curves as he pours fresh coffee. His hair is still damp from the shower he was taking when I came downstairs, and he’s wearing gray sweatpants with a black T-shirt, which is honestly rude. Men like Ryder should have to wear warning labels when walking around barefoot and sleepy after spending the night wrapped around a woman without doing anything but actually sleeping.

He holds out the mug. “Vanilla creamer. Oat milk. Ridiculous amount of both. I mean, is this even coffee at this point?”

I take it from him and try not to think about his hand under mine in bed or the way his body fit perfectly against me. “Your obsession continues to have excellent customer service. And it’s coffee as long as it has caffeine and hot bean water in it. Don’t judge me or I’ll make sure to stab you with a spork in your sleep.”

His smile fades just enough to make me regret the word.

Not because it isn’t true. Because it is.

That’s the whole damn problem.

I turn back to the pantry and tap one finger against the crank radio box. “How long have you had all this?”

“Some of it since I was in school. Some of it since I bought the house.”

I need to ask the important question. “Have you had some of it since me?”

Ryder sets his own mug on the counter instead of answering right away. He reaches around me to close the pantry, then stops with his hand on the door when he realizes that would be deciding the conversation is over.

I close it myself.

His eyes come to mine. “Some of it since you.”

At least he doesn’t lie.

The honesty should make me feel better. It does, in the same way a smoke alarm makes me feel better by screaming that something is on fire.

I carry my coffee into the dining room because standing in the kitchen with him is becoming dangerous again. I just want to walk into his chest and see if he’ll hug me when I do it. The table is covered with my laptop, Marcy’s notes from the redevelopment story, printed articles from the paper’s archive, and three pages of police-report follow-up questions I’m pretending not to hate the idea of answering. I had intended to spend an hour sorting research. Instead, I slept late because Ryder’s arm around me works better than medication, locks, and denial.

Ryder follows with his coffee and stays on the opposite side of the table. “You don’t have to work today.”

“I do, actually.”

“Alex.”

I pick up a printed article and hold it between us. “This is from the fire in Chapter One of my increasingly terrible life. Older building where the fire started in a utility area. Faulty wiring got blamed before anyone could even suggest a hint of accelerant was used.”

He looks at the page, then at the others spread across the table. His body goes still in that way I’m starting to recognize better than my own bad habits, the one where he turns every emotional reaction into a practical assessment so no one notices how he’s actually feeling.

I point to the next stack of articles. “It’s not just Birch that’s having issues. Mason Ridge has inspection failures, faulty detectors, tenant complaints, electrical issues, and redevelopment pressure. My apartment had the breaker flipped, the motion light broken, and Preston has possible access to tools that would make all of that easier.”

Ryder rests one hand on the back of a chair but does not sit. “You think he’s using your work to pick targets so that it makes you more vulnerable.”

“I think he’s smart enough to use what already looks broken.” I move another page into place, lining up dates because the visual helps. “If an old building burns after years of ignored complaints, people blame negligence first. If a reporter covering redevelopment gets scared during the same window of time, people call that a separate problem that’s related by circumstance. But Preston likes overlap. He always has. He makes everything look like coincidence until I’m the only common denominator, and then he’ll make everyone around him feel crazy for questioning the grossly serendipitous situation.”

Ryder’s fingers tighten on the chair. “That’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

The answer comes out fast enough that he notices.