Ryan... at my door, in my doorway. existing... there. He stood like a goddamn plot device in a three-piece suit, holding a black bag with the kind of unbothered grace that made me want to hurl a throw pillow and a romantic threat at him. His hair was that perfect disorder again, like a storm had passed through and left only charm behind, and his face... that face. No glasses tonight. Just raw definition and calm disaster energy. I blinked twice. “What... are you doing here?”
He raised the bag. “This was left on the jet. I recognized it.”
My eyes flicked to the item in his hand.
My planner.
Of course. Of course it had to be that. The one with my scribbled grocery lists, obsessive to-do breakdowns, and a poorly hidden sketch of me stabbing Camille with a glitter pen.
He could’ve had it
