But where was the life?
Ryker moved past me without comment, tossing his keys on the desk with a metallic clink. He crossed to a filing cabinet and started rifling through folders, clearly on a mission.
I drifted toward the bookshelf, scanning the spines. Legal textbooks, case law, statutes. Row after row of dense, imposing volumes.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled one out at random and flipped it open.
Pursuant to the aforesaid provisions under subsection 12(b)(6), the court shall consider whether the pleading states a claim upon which relief can be granted, notwithstanding the defendant’s assertion of qualified immunity as articulated in Harlow v. Fitzgerald …
I blinked. Read it again. Still gibberish.
“You actually understand this stuff?” I called over my shoulder.
Ryker glanced up from the filing cabinet. “Wouldn’t be a very good lawyer if I didn’t.”
“This reads like an instruction manual for assembling a spaceship.” I squinted at the page. “Written backward. In Latin. With extra parts included just for fun.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “That’s actually a pretty accurate description of most legal briefs.”
I slid the book back onto the shelf and turned to face him fully. Okay, I had to admit, the whole lawyer thing was sexy as hell. Ryker had the brains to navigate this kind of complexity, the dedication to master it, and somehow, he still managed to look like he could throw someone through a wall if the situation called for it. Tattooed, muscular, brilliant.
How was that fair?
“You find what you need?” I asked, turning back to him.
“Almost.” He didn’t look up. “Need Knox’s file. Visiting him later today.”
Right. Knox. The reason we made this pit stop on the way to the group home.
I wandered closer to his desk, noting the complete absence of anything personal again. No photos. No knickknacks. No coffee mug with a stupid slogan. Nothing that said,Ryker exists here as an actual human being with interests and memories and people he loves.
It bothered me. More than it should have.
“It’s very bare in here,” I mused.
He glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “It’s an office.”
“It’s a cell with better lighting.”
That earned me a ghost of a smile. He pulled a folder free and straightened. “Yeah, I guess it could use some life.”
“You guess?”
He shrugged, tucking the folder under his arm. “I don’t have the time.”
And there it was. That casual admission that landed like a punch to the sternum.
I don’t have the time.
Of course he didn’t. Because Ryker spent every waking hour grinding through someone else’s crisis. Researching. Filing motions. Showing up in court. Visiting clients. Helping friends. Saving people.
Meanwhile, his own space looked like a storage unit for legal knowledge. No warmth. No personality. No evidence of him.
Where was the proof that Ryker mattered? That he wasn’t just a machine built to dispense justice and ask for nothing in return?
Something sharp twisted beneath my ribs with something uncomfortably close to anger. Not at him. Never at him. At the world that took and took from people like Ryker and never thought to give anything back.
“Well,” I said lightly, “that’s depressing.”
