“Ugh, what are you still doing here?” I groaned, turning toward him fully, only to curse myself when the city lights cut across his body, making it impossible to look away.
“Here?” He flicked me a sideways glance, mouth twitching. “As in this room, or my life in general?”
“Ryder…” My voice cracked with exasperation. “I don’t have the USB drive. I never had it.”
“You think my employer will believe me?” A cigarette appeared in Ryder’s hand, the motion practiced, almostsubconscious. “Think they’ll take my word for it, or just hire another meathead to take another shot?”
He glanced down at the crumpled napkin by my feet, the ink from my pen spiralling across it in restless doodles.
“Maybe I could get you to draw one. I’m sure I could convince them this is what they wanted all along.”
I tugged at my hair, untangling the knots with my fingers. “Why do you do what you do?” I asked, not looking away when he met my gaze. “Steal things?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m good at it.”
“Good at it?” I echoed with a frown.
“You’re good at painting,” he said with a careless smile, “and I’m good at taking things that don’t belong to me.”
“Yeah, but my art doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he drawled. “I’ve seen some of your stuff, and I’m still recovering. Pretty sure my eyes bled.”
I gasped and swatted at his shoulder before I even thought about it. Ryder chuckled, a low, rough sound that rolled out of him and, to my surprise, eased something tight inside me. But there was tension beneath it, a faint stiffness in his posture, his eyes darkening by a shade.
Keep your hands against the wall. Or this stops.
It’s so obvious now how Ryder would sometimes tense at a touch, even though he never hesitated to reach for me. Back then, I didn’t notice. My mind was always darting in a dozen directions at once, too caught up in everything else to take notice.
The realisation settled heavy in my chest, laced with frustration.
What could possibly make a man like Ryder flinch at something as simple as touch?
“Did you know… before all this, all I wanted was to make art?” I said, the words tumbling out because the quiet was too loud and my thoughts were starting to spiral. “For people to lose themselves in it, even if only for a moment. It feels silly now.” I gave a small, bitter laugh. “It was the only thing that calmed my mind growing up. Everything was just so…”
“Boring?” Ryder finished for me, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Yes! Exactly. I never understood why my teachers complained about my attention when nothing they said ever held it. But with art… I could disappear into it for hours. It’s still my dream, honestly. For art to be enough. For it to be everything I need.” I cleared my throat, heat creeping up my neck as I realised how long I’d been talking. “Mum always said it was a silly, childish dream I should’ve outgrown. That art wasn’t enough. Maybe she was right.”
“It’s not silly,” Ryder said quietly, “It’s just not reality.” He nudged his shoulder into mine, an almost comforting gesture. “I grew up with nothing. Slept on the floor of a hostel while my mum turned tricks to keep us fed… and to keep her habit alive. Then one day she moved us into this flat by the river. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, and even our own bathroom. I remember standing there thinking… this is it. This is the start. Things are finally going to change.”
“And it didn’t?”
“I should have known.” His voice hardened, almost flat. “A pimp scooped my mum up, kept her working until she could barely stand. She didn’t get a say in who she serviced. My job was to stay in my room, pretend not to hear, and only come out when she knocked three times.”
Ryder’s knuckles tapped the window three times, a hollow echoing against the glass.
“Once, when I was about eight, she knocked. I opened the door, and she was standing there covered in blood.”
His eyes seemed to burn as he spoke, fire flickering in their depths, while my heart ached with every word.
“The guy had broken her nose. Left her with a black eye. And do you know what she did?” His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “She grinned. Because she’d earned double. Enough for thegoodstuff, the kind that left her blissfully numb for the next man while I starved.”
“Ryder…” I whispered softly, trying to think of something, anything to say. As if my words could make a difference.
“Why are you sad?” he asked with a faint frown. “It’s just a story.”
“It’s not just a story. It’syourstory.”
