The walls of my apartment had begun to feel like they were breathing, each silent moment punctuated by the echo of a voice saying a name that wasn't his to know. It had been two days since the rain, the fall, and Ryker. Two days of jumping at shadows and replaying that moment in the storm-slicked street until the memory felt worn and frayed. Josh's relentless optimism and junk food barricades had only held for so long; this morning, the need for a distraction, for open air and the illusion of normalcy, was a physical ache.
I dressed with deliberate care, as if donning armour. My favourite sage-green top, the colour of quiet forests and calm seas, has its soft fabric and flattering square neckline as a small assertion of control. The black leggings were worn but reliable, a second skin for a world that suddenly felt unpredictable. I pushed the sleeves up to my wrists, slipping my thumbs through the familiar holes—a small, comforting gesture from simpler times.
Stepping outside was like crossing a threshold into a different world. The oppressive grey had lifted, replaced by a sky the colour of a faded bruise, tinged with gold where the sun fought to break through. The air was sharp and clean, washed with the petrichor of damp earth and wet concrete, a scent that promised new beginnings. The park near my apartment was glistening, every leaf and blade of grass jewelled with leftover rain. I took a deep breath, the crispness filling my lungs, and tried to convince my pulse to settle.
For a while, it worked. I followed the winding path, my sneakers making soft, squelching sounds on the damp gravel. I focused on the mundane: a squirrel chattering on a fence, the distant squeal of children on the playground swings, the way the weak sunlight caught in the droplets clinging to a spiderweb. It was a fragile peace, but it was peace.
I had just passed the empty, rain-darkened benches near the deserted playground when the sound of male laughter cut through the quiet. It wasn't loud or threatening, but it was there—a low, rumbling current of camaraderie that felt out of place in my solitary bubble. A group of four or five guys were clustered at the far end of the park, near the old wooden picnic tables. They were just silhouettes from this distance, a collection of tall, broad-shouldered forms moving with a lazy, inherent confidence that suggested they owned the space around them.
My steps slowed. A prickle of unease, the one that had been my constant companion lately, skittered up my spine. I was about to turn, to take the long way back and preserve my hard-won calm, when my gaze, almost against my will, snagged on one figure leaning slightly apart from the others.
Ryker.
He was propped against the thick trunk of an oak tree, arms crossed over his chest, his posture the picture of casual indifference, yet everything about him screamed intensity. The morning light carved out the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark sweep of his hair, which was less wind-tossed than before but still held that untamed edge. He looked like he'd been carved from the shadows the tree cast, a part of the landscape that was inherently wild and watchful. He wasn't laughing with his friends; he was observing them, a quiet king surveying his court.
My feet rooted themselves to the path. A war erupted inside me—the primal instinct to flee, to avoid the source of all my recent turmoil, versus the gnawing, insatiable curiosity that had kept me awake for two nights. Who are you? The silent question screamed in my head.
Before I could decide, the choice was taken from me. One of the guys, the one with sun-streaked, light brown hair and a build that spoke of gym-honed strength, turned his head. His eyes, a bright, assessing blue, landed on me. A slow, cocky grin spread across his face, a grin that promised trouble wrapped in charm.
"Well, hello there," he called out, his voice a playful, carrying baritone that instantly put my every sense on high alert. It was the kind of voice used to getting a response. "Haven't seen you around before." His gaze was a physical touch, sweeping from my face down to my sneakers and back up again, lingering in a way that made me want to cross my arms over my chest.
I froze, a deer in the sudden glare of headlights. My mind went blank, all rehearsed lines of polite dismissal forgotten. My instinct was to whirl around and walk away, but my feet felt leaden.
He took my hesitation as an invitation, his grin widening as he started to saunter toward me. Each step was fluid, predatory.
"Don't be shy," he crooned, the charm in his tone now feeling thin and practised. "A girl who looks like you shouldn't be walking alone. It's a shame. What's your name, sweetheart?"
The endearment grated. I found my voice, though it came out tighter than I intended. "Evangeline," I said, the name feeling like a concession.
"Evangeline," he repeated, drawing out the syllables, tasting them. "Pretty name for a pretty girl." His eyes crinkled at the corners, and I felt a hot flush of irritation mix with my anxiety.
"Thanks," I said, my tone flat. "But I was just—"
"Derek."
The name wasn't spoken; it was a command, a low, sharp crack of sound that sliced through the morning air and severed Derek's advance as cleanly as a guillotine. I turned my head.
Ryker had pushed himself off the tree. He wasn't looking at me; his entire focus was locked on Derek, his expression so dark, so dangerously still, that the air around us seemed to grow cold. His eyes, those storm-grey pools, were blazing with a cold fire.
"Leave her alone." Ryker's voice was deceptively calm, but it was layered with an undercurrent of pure, unadulterated threat that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
Derek raised his hands in a theatrical gesture of mock surrender, though the smirk never quite left his face. It was a mask, and a thin one at that. "Relax, Ryker. Can't a guy be friendly? Just saying hi to the neighbourhood."
Ryker didn't bother with a verbal reply. The sheer force of his silence, the tension coiling in his broad shoulders, was answer enough. His eyes flicked to me for a fraction of a second, and in that fleeting glance, the storm in them softened into something else—concern, recognition—before hardening again as they settled back on Derek.
"She's not interested," Ryker stated, his voice a low, resonant command that brooked no argument.
Derek let out a short, sharp chuckle, the sound lacking any real humour. He took a deliberate step back, conceding the physical space but not the psychological ground. "Alright, alright. Message received. Didn't mean to step on your toes, man." His gaze slid back to me, and he had the audacity to wink, a final, playful jab before he retreated.
A hot flush crept up my neck and into my cheeks, a confusing cocktail of embarrassment, relief, and residual fear. Then Ryker was moving, closing the distance between us with a few purposeful strides. He didn't touch me, but he positioned his body squarely between me and the retreating forms of his friends, a living, breathing shield. His proximity was overwhelming, a wave of warmth and that faint, clean scent of ozone and autumn air. It wasn't smothering; it was protective, and a treacherous part of me leaned into it.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice dropping now, becoming something quieter, more intimate. His gaze searched my face, tracing the line of my brow, the part of my lips, as if reading a story written there.
My heart was a frantic bird beating against my ribs. "Yeah," I managed, the word breathless. "I'm fine." It was a lie, and we both knew it.
His eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer, a silent conversation happening in the space between us. He seemed to be weighing something, deciding. Then, without another word to me, he turned his head slightly toward the group. "Go."
The single syllable was absolute. It wasn't a suggestion. His friends, who had been watching the exchange with keen interest, exchanged a few loaded glances but didn't hesitate. They turned as one and moved off down the path, Derek throwing one last, unreadable look over his shoulder before they disappeared behind a curtain of weeping willow branches.
And then we were alone. The sounds of the park rushed back in—the birds, the distant traffic, the thrumming of my own blood in my ears. Ryker turned his full attention back to me, his expression an unreadable mask, though his eyes still held that unsettling intensity.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, his voice low.
A spark of defiance, fueled by all the confusion he'd caused, flared within me. "I can handle myself," I replied, lifting my chin a fraction. The words felt flimsy, childlike, under the weight of his steady, knowing gaze.
One dark eyebrow lifted infinitesimally, a silent testament to his disbelief. "Still," he repeated, the word laced with a finality that felt ancient. "Be careful."
And then, as suddenly as he had appeared in my life two days ago, he was gone. He turned and walked away, his movements fluid and silent, merging with the shadows of the path until he was simply… absent.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, the crisp morning air suddenly feeling cold and sharp. The encounter had lasted only minutes, but it had tilted my world on its axis once more. The questions were no longer just whispers in the back of my mind; they were a roaring chorus. Who was he? What was he? And why, amidst the fear and the confusion, did the memory of his protective stance feel like a brand, searing itself into my very soul? The walk had failed. My head was more cluttered, more chaotic than ever.