Zane starts wiping down the counter that is already clean.
I watch him. “You going to sand it next, or we good?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Keeps my hands busy.”
“Uh huh.”
Ryder comes up from downstairs, shrugging off his jacket. One look at our faces and his expression shifts from neutral to assessing.
“She good?” he asks.
Direct. Always.
“Emotionally or situationally?” I reply.
“Situationally.”
Zane answers first. “For now.”
Ryder nods once. That’s all he needs for the moment. Thank goodness, because I’m not in the mood to unpack the fact that the air probably still smells of tension and bad decisions.
He pulls out a chair and sits, forearms braced on his knees. That posture means we’re not joking anymore.
But before he speaks, his gaze moves between Zane and me.
A sharpness flickers there.
“You two good?” he asks.
Casual tone. Not a casual question.
I shrug. “Define good.”
Zane tosses the rag onto the counter. “We’re fine.”
Ryder studies us for another beat too long, and then he shifts gears.
“What’s your read?” he asks me.
Not because I outrank anyone.
Because I notice things.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out. “Cole’s not done. Just because we haven’t seen him again doesn’t mean he’s gone.”
Zane’s jaw tightens. “No.”
Ryder doesn’t react outwardly, but his fingers flex once against his thigh.
“We’ve had noise,” I continue. “Truck. Latch. Being watched without being touched.”
“Pressure,” Zane says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “He’s squeezing. Not striking.”
Ryder’s voice drops lower. “He wants a reaction.”
Of course he does.
