"I'm not."
"How do you?—"
"Because I've been watching too."
The confession hung between us like smoke. Heavy and suffocating, and impossible to ignore.
I stared at him. My pulse hammered so loud I couldn't hear anything else. Couldn't think past the admission he'd just made, the way it twisted everything I thought I understood about him.
"You've been what?"
Rhys took one step forward. Stopped himself. His hands flexed inside his pockets like he wanted to reach for something he wouldn't let himself touch.
"I need that job."
My voice cracked on the last word. Embarrassment flooded hot behind my eyes, but I refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of him. Not when he was standing in my apartment telling me to throw away the one steady thing I'd managed to build.
"You can't just tell me what to do."
Rhys's jaw worked. His shoulders pulled tighter, if that was even possible. He looked like he wanted to argue—like the words were right there, lined up and ready—but he swallowed them back.
"Why do you even care?" The question ripped out of me before I could stop it. "You don't even know me."
Something dangerous flickered across his face. His hands came out of his pockets—slow, controlled—and I watched his fingers curl into fists at his sides.
"I shouldn't care." The words came out low. Almost to himself. Then, louder, sharper, like he needed me to understand, "You're a distraction."
I flinched. The air punched out of my lungs. Heat crawled up my throat, burned behind my ribs. A distraction. Like I was some inconvenient detail he couldn't shake loose. Like I'd inserted myself into his life on purpose instead of just trying to survive mine.
My throat tightened until I could barely breathe. Shame crashed over me first—hot and suffocating and familiar. The same feeling I'd carried my entire childhood. Too much. Too needy. Too broken. Always something people had to deal with instead of someone they chose.
But underneath the shame, anger rose. Sharp and bright and burning.
"I'm sorry you can't focus." My voice came out steadier than I felt. Cold. "But that's not my problem."
Rhys went absolutely still.
"I'm not quitting my job because you can't control yourself."
The words landed between us like glass shattering. I watched his expression shift—shock first, then something raw that looked almost like pain. Like I'd reached across the space and slapped him.
Good. Let him feel it. Let him understand what it was like to have someone waltz into your barely-held-together life and demand you dismantle it.
My hands shook. I crossed my arms over my chest, tried to hold myself together through sheer force of will. "That café is the only reason I can afford rent. The only reason I'm not—" My voice cracked again. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. "I'm not going back. Not to her. Not to him."
Rhys's eyes widened slightly. The first real crack in that stone mask he wore. "Olivia?—"
"No." I stepped forward without thinking. Put myself between him and the door, even though he could move me aside without effort. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up here and—and?—"
The words tangled in my throat. Everything I wanted to say knotted together—fear and anger and something else I refused to name. Something that made my chest ache every time he looked at me like I mattered.
"I'm scared enough already," I whispered. "I don't need you making it worse."
His fists unclenched slowly. His whole body seemed to deflate, just slightly. Like the fight drained out of him all at once. And underneath everything—the fear, the shame, the burning anger—a different terror lurked.
I wanted him to stay.
"Then tell me why." I stepped closer. Close enough to see the tension carved into his jaw, the shadows under his eyes that never seemed to fade. "Tell me why I'm not safe. Give me something real instead of just showing up and?—"
