Chapter 26
Rhys
She moved through the apartment like someone used to running.
Not panicked—worse. Practiced.
I stood near the door, watching her gather clothes from the small dresser, toiletries from the bathroom, a worn paperback from the nightstand. Her hands shook when she tried to fold a shirt. She dropped it twice before managing to get it into the duffel bag at her feet.
I crossed the room without thinking, picked up the fallen shirt, handed it to her. Her fingers brushed mine. The contact lasted half a second, but I felt it down to his bones. She whispered something that might have been thanks and turned back to packing.
I stayed close—not crowding her, just near enough to catch anything else she dropped. Near enough to be a wall between her and the door. Near enough to feel the tension radiating off her in waves.
She folded things with meticulous care. Each item creased perfectly, stacked with precision that spoke of muscle memory rather than preference. Like she'd done this a hundred times before. Like she knew exactly how to fit her entire life into one bag in under ten minutes.
The realization hit me with devastating clarity.
She'd packed like this before. Fled in the middle of the night. Learned to survive with nothing but what she could carry.
My chest tightened painfully.
She glanced at the door every few seconds—quick, nervous flicks of her eyes. Checking. Always checking. Even with me standing right there, even knowing her father had left, she couldn't stop scanning for threats.
I recognized that instinct. Knew it intimately. The hypervigilance that never quite faded, the constant low-grade terror that became background noise until you forgot what peace felt like.
She shouldn't have to live like this. She shouldn't have to be this afraid.
The rational part of my brain whispered that I wasn't responsible for her trauma. That I couldn't fix what her father had broken. That taking her home with me blurred every professional boundary I'd ever maintained and crossed lines I'd sworn never to approach.
But watching her fold another shirt with trembling hands, watching her check the door again, watching her pack her life into a bag like she'd done it too many times to count?—
Responsibility didn't matter. Right and wrong didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping her safe. Even if it destroyed us both.
Her phone lit up on the dresser.
She grabbed it mid-fold, fingers flying across the screen. I didn't mean to look—kept my gaze deliberately forward—but the movement caught my periphery.
The angle was wrong for me to see much. Just enough to catch a fragment of text before she tilted the screen away.
I'm okay. I promise. Staying somewhere safe.
Something in my chest loosened.
She had people. Someone who cared enough to check on her. Someone she trusted enough to reach out to when things went wrong.
Relief hit first—sharp and immediate.
Then jealousy twisted right behind it. Irrational. Possessive. Wrong.
I had no claim on her. No right to care who she messaged or who worried about her safety. She deserved a support system that didn't include a man twice her age who couldn't keep his hands off her.
But the jealousy burned anyway.
She finished typing, set the phone down, went back to packing.
The silence stretched between us—not uncomfortable, but weighted. Charged with everything neither of us was saying.
I cleared my throat. Kept my voice low, neutral. "Friend?"
