2️⃣ Chapter 2
This is Not a Sequel: Chapter 2
Ryder had left a note on the counter, a yellow Post-it stuck beside the sink like a small flag of surrender.
Lady put her reading glasses on out of habit. Black cat-eye frames, sharp at the corners. Ryder had called them cute and quirky once. She wore them anyway, and the loopy handwriting sharpened into something personal.
Getting lattes. Back soon.
Lady stared at it.
She peeled it off the counter and held it between two fingers, as if it might be damp. As if it might leave something behind.
The frames pinched at the bridge of her nose, and she adjusted them once, annoyed at herself for needing them just to read a stupid note.
The apartment was quiet. Not the “Sunday morning, we’re safe” kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that made her aware of her own breathing, like she’d become the loudest thing in the room.
Lady crumpled the Post-it and dropped it into the trash.
She waited for the moment where she would feel better.
It didn’t come.
Her toes nudged the bowl by the pantry door as she reached for the kettle, and the little tag on it gave a single, soft clink.
Her hand stopped.
She didn’t want tea.
Tea was a ritual. Measure. Pour. Steep. Pretend the world would follow instructions if you followed them first.
Lady wanted coffee. She wanted a latte. She wanted the dense, hot weight of it. She wanted the foam like a soft lie.
She opened the fridge.
The Brita pitcher was empty again.
Of course it was.
In the middle shelf sat a single container of Greek yogurt, centered like it had been staged for a photo. The foil lid was unbroken. The label faced outward.
Plain. Nonfat. Zero sugar.
Lady stared at it until her eyes started searching the shelf for the missing shape.
The dark bottle.
The red label.
The thing she’d seen last night, like a dare.
Her throat tightened.
She leaned closer, as if the wine might be hiding behind the yogurt like a joke.
Nothing.
The fridge light made everything look clinical. Overexposed.
She shut the door harder than she meant to.
On the counter, her phone buzzed.
Slack.
She didn’t pick it up. She watched it vibrate itself into silence like a trapped insect.
Then it buzzed again. A second message. Then a third.
Lady swallowed. Her brain started drafting the reply before her thumb moved.
Sure, I can take that.
No problem.
She flipped the phone over. A green dot next to Ronda’s name. Awake meant waiting. Waiting meant responsibility.
Lady turned the phone face-down again.
That was when the front door clicked.
The lock turned with a heavy, mechanical thud.
Ryder stepped into the kitchen carrying two lattes, his keys clenched between his teeth. He wore a pressed blue button-down. Too pressed for “getting lattes.” Too early for that kind of effort. The collar sat sharp against his throat like he’d been ironed into a version of himself.
He set the drinks on the counter with a careful little thud, like he was placing down proof.
“Morning,” he said.
His eyes flicked to her phone on the counter, face-down. Then back to her. He smiled, quick and controlled, like he’d remembered how.
Lady didn’t answer.
Ryder lifted one latte an inch, a toast to domestic normalcy. “Working hard or hardly working,” he asked.
It was their old line, but in his mouth it sounded like a performance review.
Lady stared at him.
Ryder’s smile held a second longer, then thinned. He didn’t look away. He just stopped looking at her, as if she’d become part of the kitchen.
He went straight to the fridge.
Opened it. Scanned. Found the yogurt.
He picked it up, peeled the foil lid back, and stuck two fingers in. A bite. Casual.
Lady’s skin crawled.
He chewed with the same expression he wore watching sports highlights he didn’t care about. Mildly present. Unmoved.
Lady clocked the yogurt-fingers.
White on his index finger. A smear. He licked it off without thinking. Fast. Efficient. Like he was cleaning evidence.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Where’s the wine,” Lady said.
Ryder paused.
Not the guilty kind of pause. The confused kind. Like she’d asked him what day it was and he didn’t trust the answer.
“The wine,” Lady repeated, because her voice had gone too small. “The Malbec. The bottle.”
Ryder blinked once. He looked past her, at the counter, like the bottle might be sitting there and he’d just missed it. Then he looked back at her.
“What wine?” he said.
Lady’s stomach dropped.
“The bottle in the fridge,” she said. “Bottom shelf. I saw it last night.”
Ryder frowned, and for a second she saw him actually try. His eyes went back to the fridge again, like his brain was replaying the shelves.
He opened it.
Then he looked at Lady, and his expression softened in a way that didn’t feel like kindness.
It felt like assessment.
“Lady,” he said carefully. “We don’t have wine.”
“Yes we do,” she said, and hated the way her voice rose on the last word. “We did.”
Ryder set the yogurt down beside the lattes like it belonged there. His hands stayed clean. He wiped his fingers on a paper towel anyway. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was buying time.
“Are you sure you’re not mixing it up with…something else?” he asked.
Lady felt heat crawl up her neck again, hotter than last night. Shame heat. The kind that made you want to start explaining your own brain like you were making a case to HR.
“No,” she said. “I saw it.”
Ryder nodded once, too quick. A nod that meant nothing. A nod that meant he was already moving around her answer.
He slid one of the lattes toward her like it solved something.
“Got you your usual,” he said.
Lady looked at the cup.
The lid was on tight. The cardboard sleeve was warm. The brand logo stared up at her like a grin.
She could smell it. Espresso. Milk. Sugar.
It was exactly what she wanted.
That was the problem.
Because it meant Ryder knew. He paid attention in certain ways. He could remember her order, the café’s hours, the small choreography of bringing two lattes so it looked like care.
But he couldn’t remember the shape of a conversation. He couldn’t remember what mattered.
Ryder picked up his latte and took a sip. Foam clung to his upper lip for a second, then vanished. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Lady’s stomach flipped.
“You’re dressed up,” she said.
Ryder looked down at his shirt like he’d forgotten he was wearing it.
“Big day,” he said.
“What’s big about it,” Lady asked.
Ryder hesitated. Tiny. A fraction of a second where his brain decided what she got to know. Then he shrugged.
“Meeting,” he said. “Client thing.”
Lady waited for a name, a detail, a hook.
None came.
“You didn’t tell me,” she said.
Ryder’s smile appeared, quick and controlled.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said.
Lady stared at him long enough that the smile went stale.
The Slack notification buzzed again on the counter. Lady didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Ryder glanced at it anyway.
“Work,” he said, like an accusation.
Lady’s fingers tightened on the cup.
“Yeah,” she said. “Work. The thing that pays our rent.”
Ryder’s eyes narrowed. Not angry. Assessing. Like she’d said something he might use later.
He let out a short breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh.
“You’re doing that thing,” Ryder said.
“What thing,” Lady asked.
“The thing where you start a problem,” he said, “and then you want me to fix it.”
Lady stared at him. She could feel her heartbeat in her teeth.
“I’m not starting anything,” she said.
Ryder took another sip. Swallowed slowly. Tilted his head like he was humoring a child.
Lady lifted her latte and drank, because she needed something in her mouth that wasn’t words.
The coffee hit her tongue like comfort.
It tasted like surrender.
Ryder watched her drink. His shoulders loosened. Like the argument had been handled. Like the latte was a tranquilizer that worked.
Lady put the cup down.
Ryder’s eyes flicked to her phone again. Then back.
He glanced at the clock. Not long enough to actually check it. Just long enough to invoke it.
“Meeting at nine,” he said.
“Do you want me to be late?”
There it was. A trap shaped like responsibility.
Lady felt herself start to fold. She hated how predictable her body was, how it still wanted to preserve the relationship the way it preserved her job. Make it smooth. Make it calm. Be the person who didn’t make things difficult. Be the person who didn’t ask the wrong questions.
Lady nodded once.
“No,” she said. “Go.”
Ryder’s shoulders loosened.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
Lady didn’t answer.
His gaze lingered. Something in her chest went still. Then he smiled and picked up his bag.
“Try not to stress,” he said.
He lifted his latte and took the last sip like he was finishing a task. Then he walked to the trash can and dropped the cup in.
It hit the bagged trash with a soft, wet thunk. He didn’t look to see where it landed.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and headed for the door.
At the threshold he paused, just long enough to feel intentional. Not long enough to be kind.
“Seriously,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t do the spiral thing.”
Then he was gone, shoulder first, work bag bumping the doorframe as he squeezed out into the hall.
The lock turned. The door clicked shut.
Lady stood there in the kitchen with a latte and the container of yogurt.
She went to the sink and washed her hands too long. Too hard. Until the skin felt thin.
When she turned off the water, she caught something in the metal of the faucet.
A smudge of movement.
Her eyes went to the living room.
To the hallway that led to the bedroom.
Her phone buzzed again.
Slack. Of course.
Lady picked it up this time. Not to answer. To silence it.
The screen lit her face in the same ugly way it lit Ryder’s.
Her name glowed at the top of the thread. Her profile photo. Her little professional smile. Her hair neat. Her eyes bright.
A version of her that always looked fine.
Ronda’s message sat there:
Hey, are you up? Need you to take a quick look at something.
Lady stared at the words.
Somewhere down the hall, in the bedroom, wood creaked.
Then, a softer sound. A faint tap-tap. Nails on wood.
She set her phone down very carefully on the counter, face-up, like an offering.
Then she walked toward the bedroom. Barefoot.
Like the floor remembered her weight.
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