He found me.
The thought slammed into my chest before logic could catch up. Cold flooded my veins, turned my fingers numb. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Just sat frozen while my pulse hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.
Another knock. Same rhythm. Patient but insistent.
Move. Do something. Check the door.
I forced myself to stand on legs that didn't feel steady. Crossed the tiny living room in four quiet steps. The floor creaked under my weight, and I flinched at the sound.
My hand trembled as I leaned toward the peephole. Squinted through the fish-eye lens at the hallway beyond.
Dark hoodie. Tall frame. Hands shoved in pockets.
Rhys.
The air rushed out of me in one sharp exhale.
Relief hit first—so overwhelming my knees almost buckled. Then confusion flooded in behind it. Why is he here? Embarrassment followed fast on its heels as I glanced down at myself—old leggings with a hole near the knee, oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy knot, no makeup, bare feet on cold linoleum.
And underneath all of it, something else stirred. Something warm and terrifying and impossible to name.
Hope.
I fumbled with the chain lock. Twisted the deadbolt with fingers that still shook. Pulled the door open and stared up at him.
He looked exactly like he had in the parking lot—controlled, unreadable, dangerous in a way that should've scared me.
It didn't.
"Coach Ackerman," I managed, voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"
"Olivia."
Just my name. Quiet, careful—but underneath it something sharp and raw that made my stomach twist.
"I need to talk to you."
Not a question. Not a demand either. Somewhere in between, like he'd already decided but needed me to agree, anyway.
I stepped back without thinking. Held the door wider.
He hesitated—one second where his jaw worked like he might turn around and leave—then crossed the threshold.
The apartment shrank the moment he entered. I'd never noticed how small the space was until Rhys stood in the middle of it. Six feet of controlled tension and dark eyes that swept the room in one efficient pass. The sagging couch. Mismatched curtains. Water stain spreading across the ceiling corner I pretended not to see. His gaze lingered on the door—the single flimsy chain, the cheap deadbolt that probably wouldn't stop anyone determined.
Something dangerous flickered across his expression. Rage, maybe. Or something worse.
My throat tightened. "If this is about work?—"
"It's not." Clipped. Final.
But he didn't elaborate. Just stood there, shoulders rigid, hands still buried in his pockets like he didn't trust what they'd do if he let them free.
The silence stretched too long. I twisted my fingers together, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed I felt. No shoes. No bra under the sweatshirt. Hair a disaster. The apartment showing every crack and corner of the life I'd scraped together.
Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm sorry if I did something wrong. At work, I mean. I didn't realize?—"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
