“You know, Indy. Ryan doesn’t strike me as the type of man to be loud. He might not say it, might not scream it from the rooftops, but I could bet good money that he says it without words every single day.” Cold coffee waiting for me in the fridge. Fresh flowers, though sometimes dead because he tried too hard to keep them alive, sitting on the kitchen island for me at home after every road trip. Making sure I have food I can eat. Even giving me time to process my conversation with Alex.
