The rain had finally stopped its frantic drumming against my window, leaving behind a hollow, dripping silence that was somehow worse. The initial shock of the encounter had worn off, leaving a cold, heavy knot of confusion in the pit of my stomach. My fingers still felt icy, even tucked into the soft sleeves of my sweatshirt. I'd changed out of my soaked, muddy clothes the moment I'd stumbled through the door, but a phantom dampness seemed to cling to my skin. The memory of the fall played on a loop behind my eyes: the slick cobblestones, the dizzying lurch, the jarring impact, and then… him.
He was the kind of friend who could sense a shift in your universe through the phone line. I hadn't even needed to ask. My call, shaky-voiced and brief, was met with instant, unwavering certainty.
"Be there in ten, bitch."
True to his word, the familiar rumble of his beat-up Civic cut through the quiet street exactly nine minutes later. A wave of profound relief washed over me so strongly it left me weak. By the time his key—because of course he had a key—turned in the lock, I was curled into a tight ball on the corner of the sofa, a worn chenille throw pulled up to my chin.
Josh shouldered the door open, a whirlwind of comforting chaos against the stagnant anxiety of my apartment. He dumped a stuffed tote bag near the entryway with a soft thud and shrugged out of his jacket, his eyes finding me instantly in the dim lamplight.
"Whoa," he said, his usual boisterous tone dialed down to a soft murmur. He crossed the room in a few strides, his gaze performing a quick, thorough assessment. "Eva. You look like you've seen a ghost and then it followed you home and critiqued your life choices. Spill. Now."
I managed a weak smile at his specific brand of hyperbole. "It's nothing," I started, the automatic deflection feeling flimsy and transparent even to my own ears. It was the kind of 'nothing' that felt heavy enough to sink a ship.
He didn't buy it for a second. He never did. Josh settled onto the couch beside me, the cushions dipping familiarly under his weight. He didn't just sit; he orchestrated his presence, pulling a fluffy, fleece throw blanket from his bag and draping it over my legs before handing me his favorite oversized hoodie. It was soft from countless washes and smelled faintly, comfortingly, of his signature lavender laundry detergent.
"Evangeline," he said, his voice laced with a gentle firmness that brooked no argument. He fixed me with a look that had been peeling back my layers since we were sixteen. "When, in the entire history of our epic friendship, have I ever let you get away with 'it's nothing'? Your 'nothings' are usually my 'holy-crap-we-need-pizza-and-a-powerpoint' somethings."
I let out a long, shuddering sigh, the sound loud in the quiet room. Burying my fingers in the plush pile of the throw blanket, I focused on the tactile sensation to ground myself.
"Fine. It's just… something inexplicable happened on my way home."
His eyebrows, perfectly shaped as always, shot up toward his hairline. He rummaged in his snack bag, the crinkling of packaging a welcome, normal sound. He emerged victorious with a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips, popping it open with a satisfying tear. "Inexplicable," he repeated, savoring the word. "Okay, I'm listening. Scale of one to ten: is this 'weird-creepy-man-in-a-trench-coat' weird or 'mysteriously-hot-stranger-with-a-tragic-past' weird? My vote, for the record, is heavily on the second one. My life has been terminally devoid of drama lately. I'm relying on you for my supply."
A faint, traitorous heat crept up my neck, blooming across my cheeks. I looked away, focusing on a crack in the plaster on the far wall. "It wasn't sexy," I insisted, though the memory of Ryker's sharp jawline and intense, storm-grey eyes belied my words. "At least, I don't think it was. It was just… profoundly unsettling. Like the universe skipped a track."
Josh leaned in, his entire body thrumming with rapt attention. He propped his chin in his hand, the bag of chips forgotten in his lap. "Oh, this is gonna be good. Details, Eva. Don't you dare leave anything out."
So, I told him. I started with the rain, not as a backdrop, but as a character—a relentless, cold curtain that blinded and isolated. I described the treacherous slide of my boot on the wet cobblestone, the sickening feeling of weightlessness, and the jarring, humiliating thud as I met the ground. The cold seeping through my clothes, the sting in my palms.
And then, the silence. The emptiness of the street.
Until it wasn't empty.
"He was just… there, Josh. I didn't hear footsteps. I didn't see him approach. One second I was alone in a puddle of my own misery, and the next, this… shadow was blocking the streetlight."
I described his hands, strong and sure, as they helped me up. The unnatural warmth that seemed to radiate from them, cutting straight through the chill. The low, calm timbre of his voice that somehow both soothed and set every nerve on edge.
"And then he said it," I whispered, the words feeling dangerous. "He looked right at me, and he said, 'You're bleeding.' And I wasn't. Not until he said it. It was like his words made it true."
Josh's eyes widened, a chip frozen midway to his parted lips. "What the actual hell?"
"And then," I continued, the story now tumbling out of me, a torrent I couldn't stop, "as I'm standing there, holding my suddenly bleeding hand, feeling like I'd stepped into the Twilight Zone, he just… he said my name. Not 'hey you,' or 'miss.' He said, 'You should be more careful, Evangeline.'"
Josh dropped the chip back into the bag. "Hold the phone. Back up. Your name? Like, full-government-name, 'Evangeline'? Not Eva, or Angel, or 'hey, clumsy girl'?"
"Exactly," I confirmed, my voice tight. "I never told him. I've never seen him before in my life. I would remember a face like that."
Josh's playful demeanor evaporated, replaced by a sharp, protective focus. He set the chips aside entirely and turned his whole body toward me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Okay, that's either mega-stalker, 'I-have-a-shrine-in-my-basement' vibes, or…" He trailed off, tapping a finger against his chin, his gaze turning inward.
"Or what?" I prompted, the flicker of unease in my chest fanning into a cold flame.
"Or he's one of those guys," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The kind you're always sighing over in those dog-eared paperbacks of yours. The mysterious, brooding type who just knows things. The one who shows up in a gust of wind and rain, all dark secrets and smoldering looks, destined to sweep the heroine into some ancient, supernatural conflict."
I groaned, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars. "You are literally the most unhelpful person on the planet. This isn't one of my books, Josh. This is my life. A strange man knew my name."
He laughed then, the sound warm and familiar, and threw a comforting arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. The lavender scent of his hoodie enveloped me. "Relax, babe. I'm just running scenarios. It's probably the most boring explanation possible. Maybe you dropped your ID. Maybe you muttered your name under your breath when you fell. Or maybe you mentioned it to the barista this morning and he's friends with the barista who told his cousin who… you get the idea. You're memorable, Eva. In the best way."
"Yeah, memorable for falling on my ass in public," I muttered into his shoulder, my voice thick.
Josh gave me a gentle, playful shake. "Stop that. Right now. You are a freaking catch, and if this Ryker dude is a weirdo, I'll personally introduce him to the business end of my pepper spray keychain. But," he added, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, "if he happens to be a devastatingly handsome, tragically misunderstood book boyfriend come to life… you have to give me all the details. I'll need to vet him thoroughly, of course."
I elbowed him lightly in the ribs, but a real smile finally touched my lips. "You're impossible."
"And you love me for it," he retorted, reaching for the remote. "Now, we are going to watch terrible reality TV, eat our body weight in processed snacks, and you are going to forget about Mr. Mysterious for a few hours."
He was a master of distraction, and for a while, it worked. We fell into our easy, ancient rhythm of trading gossip and laughing at the absurdly dramatic people on screen. The knot in my stomach loosened its grip, soothed by junk food and the unwavering fortress of his friendship. He stayed long after I began to doze off, the flickering light of the television painting his familiar features in soft blues and whites.
As I finally drifted into a fitful sleep, lulled by the steady sound of his breathing, I almost managed to forget.
Almost.
Because even in my dreams, I couldn't escape it. The image of Ryker's face, sharp and pale in the rainy gloom. The low, resonant sound of his voice, a vibration I felt in my bones. And the way he'd said my name—not as a simple identifier, but as a statement, a key turning in a lock I never knew existed. Like it was a secret he'd been waiting his whole life to whisper.