Chapter 5: Crossing the Line

The bullet comments painted me as some villain—just a plot device to make the leads fall in love. But I wasn’t buying it. I still had free will. I still had a choice.

I decided: if I was going to let go, I needed to hear it from Ryan himself. No more guessing, no more humiliation.

I didn’t mention the bullet comments to Kayla—how could I? Instead, I played it cool. "Don’t worry about me. There are billions of guys out there. Maybe I’ll find someone at your club—bring out those new young guys next time. I need some eye candy. Twenty-somethings with abs and zero emotional baggage."

I rambled, voice getting louder, not realizing Ryan was standing at the door until Hunter piped up, "Daddy!"

I froze, panic rising. Had he heard everything? How much?

I ducked my head, pretending to study the carpet, missing the way Ryan’s knuckles whitened on the doorframe, his jaw clenching tight. I misread the silence—thought he was just tired, not realizing he’d overheard my whole speech about appreciating young bodies.

He gave a delayed, "mm," and picked up Hunter, movements stiff and mechanical.

I tried to lighten the mood. "Hunter was really good today, didn’t fuss at all."

Hunter grinned, echoing me: "Auntie was really good today too, didn’t fuss."

I laughed, but Ryan’s eyes did that crinkle thing, but the smile never made it past his lips. He praised us both, but his voice was too soft—like he was handling something fragile. He paused on my nickname, "Nikki," so gentle I almost didn’t hear it.

When I didn’t react—why would I?—he seemed to sigh in relief, but then his gaze caught on something. He stilled.

"You... don’t like today’s snacks?" His voice was suddenly rough, like it hurt to get the words out.

I was distracted and blurted, "I like them." Truth was, I loved everything he made—he’d memorized all my weird snack preferences over months.

But I followed his gaze to the plate—barely touched. I’d forgotten to eat, too busy venting to Kayla. The guilt hit hard.

"I was dealing with something just now."

Any chef would be annoyed, especially Ryan, who hated wasting food. To make up for it, I grabbed a snack and stuffed it in my mouth.

"Really, I’m not lying, I actually like—"

"Don’t eat it." He stopped me, careful to only touch my sleeve. "It’s not good cold. If you want, I’ll make a fresh batch later."

Even when hurt, he was considerate. The guilt stung. I apologized, "I’m sorry, I really was busy. I didn’t forget on purpose."

"Don’t make more either, it’s too hot."

But as soon as I said it, Ryan stiffened, staring at me blankly. "Don’t need to make it?"

"Mm-hmm. You’ve been busy, take a break. You look tired."

His lashes trembled, eyes suddenly red. He turned away, voice barely above a whisper: "So now I don’t even have this last bit of usefulness?"

I didn’t catch it. "What?"

"Nothing." He forced a smile, face pale. "Thank you for taking care of Hunter today."

He sounded formal, like he was talking to a stranger. My heart clenched.

I tried to fix it. "It’s almost fall—let’s go to Target or Old Navy, get Hunter some warm clothes. And you could use a few new things too—maybe get you out of those Dad jeans once and for all."

Thinking of Ryan in that suit from the photos, I blurted, "How about a suit?"

He’d looked incredible—broad shoulders, narrow waist, all business but somehow still heartbreakingly soft. After that, maybe we’d pick out ties or cufflinks, maybe even a new watch—

"No!"

His voice was sharp—too sharp. For the first time, I wondered if I’d finally crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.