<b>Chapter </b><b>221 </b>
He offered <b>a </b>slightly sheepish grin. <b>“</b>Call it a borderlinepulsion. That floor was… genuinely distressing to my sensibilities.
“Then I entrust it to your capable hands,” I conceded, rising and stepping out to grant him space.
Ryan worked with surprising efficiency, swiftly restoring the floor’s shine and even giving my desk a thorough polish.
“What are your ns for getting home?” I inquired as he finished.
“Undecided. Likely brave the rush–hour bus gauntlet,” he replied with a wry twist of his lips.
“Ride back with me, then,” I offered.
Ryan’s face brightened perceptibly. “Thanks, Ms. Murphy. That’s incredibly kind.”
At seven, I navigated the evening traffic towards home, Ryan a quiet presence in the passenger seat.
A nce in the rearview mirror unexpectedly snagged on his reflection. His gaze held mine, and in that dim light, I saw a sudden, unfamiliar <b>depth</b>–aplexity absent in his usual sunlit rity.
Seeking to diffuse the sudden charge, I ventured lightly, “Someone with your looks must surely have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Ryan answered simply. “Family rules are strict. Dating’s off the table.”
A soft, surprisedugh escaped me. “The model of obedient kid, then?”
“Hardly,” he countered, a low undercurrent in his voice. “If anything, I lean towards rebellion.”
I managed a dry chuckle. “That face must buy considerable leeway, I imagine. A touch of rebellion probably doesn’t diminish their affection much.<b>” </b>
“Not really,” Ryan said, a shadow momentarily darkening his features. “Aside from my grandfather, there’s not much genuine care directed my way.”
“And your parents?” The question escaped before I could cage it, and I instantly regretted it, sensing I’d stumbled onto painful ground.
“My father died when I was seven,” Ryan said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “My mother… work consumes her. No time for me. It’s always been just Grandfather and me. We’re each other’s anchor.”
“Ryan, I’m so sorry,” I murmured, the words feeling inadequate as I mentally kicked myself for probing the wound.
“It’s alright,” he said, the brief vulnerability shuttering behind a mask of resolute calm. “I’ll be graduating soon. I can hold my own in whateveres next.”
“Your grandfather must be getting on in years,” I said gently. “Make sure you earn enough to look after him properly.”
“Yeah, I will,” he affirmed.
As he spoke, my eyes flicked back to the mirror, meeting his gaze again. The depth I saw–that unsettling amalgam of solitude and <b>a </b>shadowed weight- felt jarringly incongruous with his youth. A shiver traced my spine. The invisible burdens children carry when families fracture.
The thought instantly summoned an image of Yvonne. Post–divorce, she too would inevitably fade from my daily life. A knot of g tightened in my chest.
Iresignation
We soon reached theplex’s underground garage. As I popped the trunk to retrieve my things, Ryan lingered nearby, his <b>gaze </b><b>resting on </b><b>me</b>.
Suddenly, something small, dark, and unnervingly quick skittered over my foot, apanied by high–pitched, frantic <b>squeaks</b><b>. </b><b>In </b><b>that </b><b>instant</b>, <b>primal </b>fear shot through me–every hair stood on end–and pure instinct screamed to find higher ground.
Ryan froze momentarily, stunned by my sudden<b>, </b>undignified scramble onto him. Instinctively, his anime shot out<b>, </b><b>wrapping </b>rakursy contror me clear off the ground<b>. </b>
Two panicked mice squealed, darting erratically along the wall. The cramped garage offered no easy exit, trapping them lit a frantie, <b>channe </b>tank
Lifelong. paralyzing terror of rodents seized me. Trembling violently, I clung to Ryan with desperate, octopus like fanacity
A low chuckle vibrated in Ryan’s chest. With a swift, almost nonchnt nudge of his foot, he sent one panicked mouse skittering further away 15 Murphy,” he said, clear amusement warming his voice, “I confess, I didn’t picture you being frightened of mice”
Silence descended, broken only by my ragged breathing. Slowly, my hammering heart began to steady. The mortifying reality crashed <b>over </b>me I was mped onto Ryan like some terrified marsupial.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “My apologies for that spectacle,” I stammered, hastily disentangling myself, smoothing my hair, and snatching my bags before fleeing towards the elevator.
Ryan followed at a discreet distance, a trace of lingering amusement on his lips. “Seems theplex pest control is somewhatcking. ‘ registerint with management.”
“Yes, thank you,” 1 mumbled, keeping my gaze firmly fixed ahead.
Around hine–thirty, a notification buzzed: a message in the residents‘ group chat from <i>the </i>property manager. The culprit had been identified: an elderly resident covertly keeping chickens in her garage, the unsanitary conditions predictably attracting rodents. She’d been issued an immediate cease and desist order.
Reading the update, my suspicion solidified: Ryan had clearly followed through on his promise to management.
Later that evening, around nine, my phone buzzed with another message from Yvonne: [Mom, if I delete the photos from my phone, will they vanish from yours too?]
13