But it wasn't just weird. It was something else. Something that made my skin prickle and my chest ache and my thoughts spiral in directions I didn't want to follow.
Be careful who you trust.
Why would he say that? What did he mean? Was he talking about Ben? About someone else? About him?
I pressed my palms flat against the counter, forcing myself to breathe. My hands trembled. The cold weight in my chest from this morning rushed back, heavier than before.
Ben moved beside me, concern etched across his features. "You okay?"
"Fine." The lie tasted sour. I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already-clean counter, needing something—anything—to do with my hands. "Just tired."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Just went back to restocking cups in silence.
And I stood there, replaying Rhys's words on loop, trying to understand what I'd missed. Trying to understand why his warning felt less like advice and more like a threat. Trying to understand why the look in his eyes when he studied me had felt like being seen—really seen—for the first time in years.
And why that terrified me almost as much as the dark sedan idling outside my apartment.
Chapter 14
Rhys
The door slammed harder than I meant it to. The sound echoed down the hallway—sharp, final, drawing attention I didn't want.
I didn't care.
I crossed to the desk in three strides, hands braced against the edge, head down, breathing through the burn in my chest that had nothing to do with exertion.
Ben's laugh still rang in my ears. Easy. Warm. The kind of uncomplicated joy I'd stopped being capable of years ago.
And she'd laughed back. Smiled at him like he was safe. Like he was normal. Like he was someone worth leaning into.
My jaw ached from clenching. The image burned behind my eyelids—her elbow brushing his, the flush in her cheeks when he teased her, the way her whole body relaxed in his presence.
She's not yours.
I knew that. Of course, I knew that.
She's allowed to talk to anyone.
She should talk to guys like Ben. Clean-cut. Kind. Age-appropriate. Someone who didn't carry the weight of a thousand mistakes and a past soaked in violence. Someone who wouldn't ruin her.
She's a kid compared to you.
The thought twisted like a blade between my ribs. She wasn't a kid—not anymore—but the gap between us yawned wide and unforgiving. Too many years. Too much damage on my side. Too much innocence left on hers, however buried.
Get your shit together.
But the anger didn't fade. It sat heavy in my gut, primal and irrational and completely beyond my control.
Because beneath it—beneath the jealousy and the territorial instinct I had no right to—was something worse.
Fear.
Fear that she'd trust the wrong person. That someone would hurt her. That I wouldn't be there to stop it. That the shadows I'd seen gathering around her would close in before I could do a damn thing about it. Fear that she'd never look at me the way she looked at Ben—open, unguarded, without the weight of our shared history pressing down between us.
And beneath even that, a truth I didn't want to face: I wanted her to look at me that way. Wanted her to smile like that for me. Wanted to be the one who made her laugh, who eased the tension from her shoulders, who she leaned toward instead of away from.
I wanted what I had no business wanting.
