About

The rumble of his motorcycle fades outside and the front door clicks shut. Boots hit the floor. The hallway light stays off. When Ryder finally appears in the doorway, he looks like a man who's been carrying the world on his back for months — grease on his hands, shadows under his eyes, jaw tight from a long day of proving himself to people who may never come around. He doesn't say anything. He just moves to the edge of the bed and sits down heavy, and his hand finds your leg in the dark like it always does. Like you're the only thing that still makes sense.