Ryder looks back out over town.
“He took a shot at her because she matters. Because he knew it would get under your skin and Finn’s and mine.” I pause. “That blame doesn’t belong to one man.”
His hand tightens on the railing.
Maybe he hears me.
Maybe he doesn’t.
So I say the part I know he won’t say for himself. “She’s breathing because you went through that door.”
Still nothing.
Then, quieter, because the truth usually lands better when you don’t dress it up:
“She came home because of all of us. But you still went through first.”
Ryder exhales through his nose.
“I looked at her in there,” he says, “and all I could think was that I should’ve kept her farther away from us.”
That tracks. It also tells me exactly where the crack is.
I nod toward the door behind us, toward the muffled noise inside. “You think she’d thank you for that?”
A humorless breath almost leaves him. “She’d be safer.”
“Maybe.”
He cuts me a look.
I let that sit for a second before continuing.
“She’d also be alone.”
Inside, Finn’s laugh breaks loudly through the door, followed by Aurora telling him he’s banned from naming cocktails for at least a week. There’s life in it. Real life. Annoyed. Warm. Hers.
Ryder hears it too.
His shoulders shift by a fraction.
I straighten off the railing.
“You can carry guilt,” I say. “That’s your hobby.” He gives me a flat look, and I continue before he can waste it. “But don’t confuse it with devotion.”
That one lands deeper.
Good.
Because someone has to say it.
“You want to protect her?” I ask. “Then protect her. Don’t turn yourself into a ghost standing five feet outside your own life.”
Ryder’s voice, when it comes, is quieter. “I don’t know how to do this without hurting her.”
“Then learn.”
He doesn’t answer.
