When we return to the warmth and chaos and love, Yara pats the seat next to her and starts asking about my grandmother’s recipes. The evening stretches into night with games and laughter and the easy comfort of belonging.
This is family—the kind I’ve been missing my whole life. I finally found where I belong.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryder
March arrives with the kind of clear, sunny mornings that make the Zone feel new again. Three months since Christmas—since I drove back to her through snow and fear, since she chose to stay. And almost that long since I started carrying the ring in my pocket, waiting for the right moment.
The problem is, every moment with Laney feels right. Coffee together before her classes. Video calls during my overnight shifts. Weekends at the cabin, sanding walls, and dreaming about the sanctuary we’ll build. Quiet nights in our tiny Zone apartment, her curled against me while we talk about everything and nothing.
How do you pick one “perfect” moment when your whole life already feels like one?
“You’re going to rub a hole through that uniform,” Kam says, watching me check the ring box for the hundredth time.
“You’re not helping.”
“You know what would help? Actually asking her.”
“I’m waiting for the right time.”
“It’s been three months, brother. At this rate you’ll be proposing in a nursing home.”
Thrall glances up from an equipment check. “She already said yes to your life, man. What are you waiting for?”
He’s right, and I know it. Still, a stubborn part of me remembers almost losing her—the fear, the silence, the way I swore I’d never take her trust for granted again.
“I just… want it to be special.”
Thrall grins. “Then make it special. But soon, please. The whole station’s losing bets over how long you’ll stall.”
When I realize I need to make itabout us, I know exactly what to do.
Two weeks later, I tell her as I slide a mug of coffee her way. “I have something planned for us Saturday.”
She looks up from her laptop, eyes bright. “What kind of something?”
“The surprise kind.”
“You’ve been plotting.”
“Maybe a little. Can you be ready by eight in the morning?”
“For a surprise that mysterious? Absolutely.”
Saturday morning dawns bright and sharp, sunlight spilling between the high-rises at the Zone’s edge. I lead her through quiet streets that still glisten from last night’s mist. The ocean smell drifts in—salt, metal, city grit, and the faint hum of waking life.
“Where are we going?” she asks, half laughing.
“You’ll see.”
We stop before an old brick warehouse scarred by graffiti and time. The paint is faded, the windows long gone. I push open a side door I repaired weeks ago, the hinges oiled so they don’t squeal.
“Ryder,” she whispers as we step inside. The empty warehouse smells like decades of disuse, the walls tagged with old graffiti. “This place looks ready to fall down. You sure it’s safe?”
“The structure is sound.” I grin over my shoulder. “Don’t judge yet. The good part’s upstairs.”
We climb narrow stairs that smell of rust and sea air. At the top, the door opens to sky.
