"She's mine." The words came out low, possessive, absolute. "And if you ever show up here again, if you even think about her, I will make sure you regret every second of the rest of your miserable life."
The silence that followed felt like held breath.
My father's eyes darted between us—calculating, furious, searching for an angle. Finding none. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for one terrifying moment I thought he might lunge forward.
But Rhys didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just stood there like a wall of immovable force, daring him to try.
My father took a step back instead. Then another.
"This isn't finished," he said, but the conviction had drained from his voice.
Rhys said nothing. Just watched him retreat down the hallway with cold, unblinking focus until he disappeared around the corner.
Only then did Rhys move—pulling me back inside, shutting the door, locking it with shaking hands.
I stood frozen against the door, heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might crack. The silence pressed down like a physical weight. Rhys hadn't moved since locking the deadbolt—just stood there, back to me, shoulders rigid, hands braced against the doorframe.
"I—I'm sorry."
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, small and broken.
He turned on me so fast I flinched. His eyes blazed with something dark and furious, and for a split second my body remembered fear—old, instinctive, bone-deep.
"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "This isn't your fault."
I swallowed hard, but the guilt kept churning in my stomach. My father had stood in this hallway because of me. Had threatened Rhys because of me. Had said those cruel, cutting things?—
The tension between us stretched taut, suffocating. Rhys looked at me like he was barely holding himself together, like one wrong word would shatter whatever fragile control he'd managed to maintain. I'd never seen him like this—not distant, not withdrawn, but burning with something too volatile to name.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of his shirt still clinging to my skin.
"He's wrong." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "About what he said. About you."
Rhys went absolutely still. The kind of stillness that made me afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid that any small sound might break whatever held him in place.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw.
"No." He looked at me then—really looked—and what I saw in his eyes made my chest ache. "He's not."
The words hit like a physical blow. I shook my head, denial automatic and desperate.
"Rhys—"
"He's right." He cut me off, jaw tight, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint. "I am too old for you. I did wait. I did prey on your vulnerability." His hands clenched at his sides. "I told myself I was protecting you, but all I've done is take advantage of the fact that you don't know any better."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Something broke in his expression—pain mixing with self-loathing so sharp it made my throat close. "You came to me because you had nowhere else to go. Because you needed safety, and I gave you this instead."
"I wanted this." The words burst out fierce and trembling. "I wanted you."
He flinched like I'd struck him.
"You don't know what you want," he said quietly. "You're too young to understand?—"
"Stop." My voice cracked. "Stop saying that. Stop acting like I'm a child who can't make her own choices."
"You deserve better." His voice came out rough, scraped raw. "Especially since I can't let you go."
