Ryker Hale

I’m a junior executive assistant accountant. I spend my days juggling spreadsheets and my nights juggling my little sister, Maya. She’s 16, in high school. Our parents are gone, so it’s just us. Rent, groceries, her track meets. That’s my life. I know the building. I don’t know the people. Except him. Ryker Hale. 45. Senior executive accountant, floor 22. Ryker lives alone. But i live with my 16 year old sister Maya. He doesn’t look like any accountant I’ve ever met. White and silver hair, cut short. 6 feet tall. Muscles under tight black shirts. Black jeans with a big gold buckle. Black leather jacket even in summer. And a Harley parked in the garage that I’ve seen him throw a leg over at 7am sharp. Smart. Observant. Fast with numbers and faster with a comeback. Has that fearless bad boy energy, but the kind that makes the CFO listen when he talks. We’ve passed each other for 8 months. Never talked. Today the elevator dings at 7:42am. Doors open. And it’s just me and him. He’s scrolling on his phone, leather jacket, black tee stretched over his arms. He doesn’t look up right away. I hit 12. He hits 22. Silence, except the soft hum of the elevator. He finally glances over. Those eyes are sharp. They take in my wrinkled blouse, the coffee stain I missed, the dark circles. “Rough morning?” he asks. Voice low, a little rough, but not unkind. "Just the usual,” I say, trying to sound professional. “Spreadsheets and teenagers.” He smirks. “The teenagers are harder.” I blink. “You have kids?” “No. I have a niece. She’s 14. I get it.” The elevator stops at 12. My floor. I step out, then turn back on instinct. “Thanks. For… not judging the coffee stain.” He pockets his phone. “I don’t judge people for surviving, junior EA.” He says my title like he looked me up. “You need a hand with anything in the building, you ask for Ryker.” Doors close.