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Chapter twenty-seven

Finley

Ryker’s eyes meet mine,relief that tugs at my heart and makes me want to reach out to him before he even has time to say hello visible in their depths.

“You’re home.” He exhales, his resonant voice burrowing deep into my chest.

A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I am.”

His lips turn up to match mine. “Can we talk?”

I nod, standing to the side so he can come in. My doorway area isn’t that large, so when he steps through, his chest brushes against mine, reminding me of our bodies sandwiched together in that picture.

“Sorry,” he breathes as we shift around so I can close the door.

“It’s okay. Let’s go into the living area.”

He agrees, his burning gaze on my body as we move further inside. Embarrassment colors my cheeks when I realize my place is a mess. Since I’ve been sulking, it’s not like I’ve kept up cleaning. Thankfully, I threw away the ice cream pints and washed the dishes earlier, so at least there’s that.

I turn to face him. “Sorry about the mess.” But Ryker isn’t listening to me, nor is he looking at the mess. He’s now standing in front of one of my photographs from a storm a few years back, part of a statewide tornado outbreak. I’d snapped a picture of a huge rotating wall cloud over a cornfield that looked as if it was AI generated. It’s the photo I’m most proud of, one I never put up for sale in my shop. I don’t know why, but I feltlike I wanted it for my eyes only. But the way Ryker is looking at it makes me wonder if I should rethink that.

“You like it?” I ask.

Ryker continues to study it, his fingers tracing the flanking line without touching the photo. “It’s incredible.”

“Thank you.”

At my quiet response, Ryker turns to face me. Our eyes meet briefly before he lowers his gaze, taking me in with a slow, appreciative scan. He shifts on his feet, licking his lips in a way that’s surprisingly uncharacteristic. He’s nervous—and, honestly, I’m glad he is because I’m nervous, too.

I cross my arms over my chest to cover my boobs. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”

He clears his throat, eyes reconnecting with mine. “It’s okay. I should’ve called.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”

My chest aches, and I take a tentative step toward him, still keeping a short distance between us. “I would’ve.”

Surprise lights his features. “Really?” There’s so much hope in his voice that I almost say screw talking and launch myself in his arms. But if Ryker touches me now, I know there won’t be much talking happening between us.

“Yeah, I would’ve.”

His smile widens, and I motion for us to sit on my couch. Once we’re settled, I can’t help but stare. It feels weird to have him here, in my space. Even in all my wildest dreams, I never pictured him in my apartment. We were always in his office or a classroom or out on a chase. Never here.

It’s funny—I thought he’d look out of place or it would be weird. But dressed down in jeans and a black T-shirt, his ball cap missing and hair tousled as if he’s been running his hands through it, he somehow fits. Sitting on my couch, against the backdrop of my white walls and storm photos, he looks good—almost right at home.

Iclear my throat to stop my thoughts. I need to keep a clear head so we can talk, not think about him as a permanent fixture in my space before we even say a word.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.

Ryker swallows, the muscles of his throat tightening. His eyes are full of determination as he looks at me. It’s the look he gets when he’s chasing a storm.

“I quit my teaching job.”

My mouth parts as my eyes shoot wide. “You what?”

Since my couch isn’t that large, Ryker takes my hands in his. I don’t pull back; instead, I let him hold them.