12. Rhys
Rhys
I power-walked across the parking lot like something was chasing me.
Jaw clenched so hard my molars ached. Hands shoved deep in my pockets because if I didn't lock them down, I'd turn around. Go back. Touch her again.
And I couldn't do that.
Stupid.
The word pounded through my skull with every step.
Stupid, reckless, selfish.
I could still feel her. The softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. The warmth of her temple where that strand of hair had caught. The way her breath had hitched when I'd reached for her—sharp and surprised and something else I refused to name.
I'd crossed a line. Knew it the second my hand lifted. Knew it when my fingers grazed her cheek. Knew it in the electric charge that shot through my chest when our eyes locked and she didn't pull away.
I'd done it, anyway.
My chest tightened. Panic I didn't want to acknowledge, clawing its way up my throat. Not the sharp, immediate kind that came with danger. The slow, suffocating kind that came with wanting something I had no right to want.
She was too young. Not legally—she was an adult, I knew that. But in every way that mattered, she was too young for the kind of damage I carried. Too fragile for the wreckage I'd make of anything good.
I'd promised myself I wouldn't get involved.
Promised myself I'd keep my distance. Stay professional.
Ignore the pull I felt every time she walked into a room.
And I'd lasted less than two weeks before touching her face in a dark parking lot like I had any claim to gentleness.
Like I deserved to be the one who made her feel safe.
I reached my truck and gripped the door handle hard enough to hurt.
The worst part?
I'd wanted to linger. Wanted to cup her face properly. Brush my thumb across that soft curve of her cheek. Lean in close enough to hear her breathing and figure out if the hitch meant fear or something else entirely. Wanted to stay until she stopped looking at me like I might disappear.
I yanked the door open. Climbed inside. Slammed it shut. Sat in the dark cab with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel and my hands white-knuckled on the dash.
I could still feel her. And I hated myself for it.
I drove in silence. No music. No radio. Nothing but the hum of tires on asphalt and the ragged rhythm of my own breathing. White-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Jaw locked. Eyes fixed on the road like it might offer salvation if I stared hard enough.
It didn't.
Red light.
I stopped. Waited. Stared at the glowing signal and felt everything I'd been shoving down claw its way back up.
Her soft breath when my fingers brushed her temple. The way she'd looked up at me—wide-eyed, startled, but not afraid. The tremble in her fingers when they'd met mine over the keys. How she'd leaned into my touch without thinking. Just a fraction. Just enough to wreck me.
Desire slammed through my chest—hot, sharp, unwanted.
I wanted her. Not the vague, distant pull I'd been pretending didn't exist. Not the protective instinct I could justify as professional concern.
I wanted her mouth. Her hands. Her trust. Her laughter. The sound she'd make if I kissed her throat and whispered her name against her skin.
Guilt followed immediately, vicious and cutting.
She trusts you.
The light turned green. I drove.
You shouldn't touch what you can't protect.
My fingers tightened until the leather groaned.
I'd saved her once. Pulled her out of hell when she was a kid who couldn't save herself. She didn't owe me anything for that—not gratitude, not affection, certainly not whatever softness I'd seen in her eyes tonight.
And I sure as hell didn't get to take advantage of it.
Another red light.
I almost pulled over. Almost yanked the truck to the curb and sat there until I could breathe normally again.
Almost.
But stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant feeling the ghost of her skin beneath my fingertips and the way my pulse had kicked when she hadn't pulled away.
You're not that man. Not anymore. Don't become him.
I wasn't my father. Wasn't the kind of man who took what he wanted without caring about consequences. Who used power to control. Who twisted protection into possession.
I wouldn't do that to her. Couldn't.
The road blurred. I blinked hard, forcing focus.
Green light.
I drove faster than I should have, chasing distance I knew wouldn't help.
Because no matter how far I ran, I'd still feel her. And that terrified me more than anything.
I shoved the door open and stepped into silence.
Cold. Empty. Exactly how I kept it.
The keys hit the counter harder than I meant—metal clattering against granite in the dark. I didn't bother with lights. Didn't need them. I knew every corner of this place by heart. Every bare wall. Every sharp edge.
I'd built it this way on purpose.
No soft surfaces. No distractions. Nothing that invited anyone to stay.
And yet tonight it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.
I paced to the window. Stared at the city lights bleeding through the glass. Turned around. Paced back.
My hands dragged through my hair, yanking hard enough to sting.
Get it together.
But I couldn't.
She was everywhere. In the silence. In the cold air. In the ghost of sensation that refused to fade—her warmth beneath my fingertips, the softness of her skin, the quiet catch of her breath. Static under my skin. Crawling. Relentless.
I pressed my palms flat against the counter and leaned forward, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.
I hadn't felt this in years. Not since I'd learned to shut it down. Lock it away. Choose discipline over desire because desire only led to wreckage.
I'd been good at it. Damn good. Until her.
I exhaled slowly, forcing air through the tightness in my chest.
I didn't want this. Didn't want to feel the pull. Didn't want to notice the way her eyes had softened when I'd touched her face or how she'd looked at me like I wasn't dangerous. Didn't want to lie awake at night remembering what she felt like.
But I would.
And that was the problem.
I stripped mechanically. Hoodie. Shirt. Jeans.
Socks. All of it hit the floor in a pile I didn't bother folding.
The bathroom mirror caught my reflection for half a second—dark eyes, clenched jaw, exhaustion carved into every line—and I turned away before I could see more.
Didn't want to look at myself. Didn't want to see what I'd become tonight.
I twisted the shower knob hard left. All the way. No hesitation.
The pipes groaned. Water exploded from the showerhead in a brutal rush, freezing cold before the spray even hit my skin.
Good.
I stepped under it.
The cold slammed into me like a fist—sharp, vicious, stealing breath. Ice needles stabbing every nerve. My shoulders locked. Muscles seized. Lungs stuttered on the shock.
I didn't move. Braced one hand flat against the tile and forced myself to stay there. Forced my breathing to slow. In through the nose. Out through clenched teeth. Counting seconds I didn't feel.
The cold was supposed to help. Reset. Snap me out of whatever spiral I'd fallen into. Supposed to wash it away. Her warmth. Her softness. The way she'd looked at me like I wasn't a mistake waiting to happen.
I ducked my head under the spray and let the water pummel the back of my neck. Frigid torrents running down my spine, my chest, pooling at my feet in icy streams.
Wash it away.
But I could still feel her. The ghost of her skin beneath my fingertips. The quiet hitch of her breath. The way she'd frozen when I'd touched her—not in fear, but in something softer. Something that made my chest ache.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. Water cascaded through my fingers, blurring vision I didn't trust, anyway.
Wash yourself clean.
But the cold couldn't touch what lived under my skin. Couldn't freeze out the want. Couldn't numb the guilt twisting through my ribs like barbed wire.
I stayed there until my hands shook. Until my breathing evened out into something that almost felt controlled. Until I stopped hoping the water would make me forget.
It didn't. It never would.
The cold should’ve killed it. Should’ve frozen the heat out of my veins, the want out of my bones. Should’ve made me numb enough to forget the way her breath hitched when I touched her.
It didn’t.
My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. Fingers wrapping around my cock, gripping hard enough to hurt. A punishment. A test.
Don’t think of her.
The water pounded against my shoulders, icy needles driving into my skin. My breath came sharp, ragged. I stroked once—twice—hating myself for it.
Don’t do this.
Her face flashed behind my eyes. Wide, startled, soft. The way she’d looked up at me in the parking lot, like she trusted me. Like I was something good.
My grip tightened.
You’re supposed to protect her, not want her.
I groaned, low and rough, the sound swallowed by the rush of water. My thumb pressed against the head, imagining her lips there instead. Her hands. The way she’d tremble if I pushed her against the wall and took what I wanted.
The thought made me sick. Made me harder. I worked myself faster, angry now. Not pleasure—release. Something to burn the tension out of my muscles, the guilt out of my chest. My free hand slammed against the tile, bracing myself as my hips jerked forward.
She’d be soft. Warm. Would make those quiet little sounds when I touched her, the ones that would wreck me completely.
I came with a broken noise, my forehead pressed against the cold wall. The orgasm hit like a blade—sharp, brutal, leaving me hollowed out. My breath came in harsh bursts, my fingers still clenched around myself like I could strangle the want out of my body.
The water ran red-hot now, steam curling around me. I didn’t remember turning the knob.
I didn’t care.
I stood there, trembling, as the guilt settled back in. Heavy. Suffocating.
I’d just used her to get myself off. And I’d do it again.
I sat on the shower floor, spine pressed against cold tile, water beating down on my shoulders. Breathing uneven. Ragged.
The release hadn't helped. If anything, it made everything worse.
Shame hit in a wave—hot, suffocating, crawling under my skin like something alive. My chest tightened. Throat closed. I dragged a hand over my face, fingers shaking.
You're pathetic.
The words echoed in my skull, vicious and true.
I'd stood in a parking lot and touched her face like I had any right.
Like crossing that line wouldn't shatter whatever fragile trust she'd started to build.
And then I'd come home and jerked off to the memory of her soft skin and startled eyes.
Used her. Without permission. Without her even knowing.
My stomach turned. I hated that my mind went to her. Hated that I couldn't think of anyone else. Hated that when I'd tried—when I'd deliberately forced myself to picture someone safer, older, someone who wouldn't make me feel like a predator—my body had gone cold and unresponsive.
Only her.
Only Olivia.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids.
You're too old for her.
Fifteen years. A lifetime of damage she hadn't lived through yet. Scars she didn't carry. I'd seen things, done things, survived things that would break someone like her.
She was still learning how to feel safe in her own skin.
And I wanted to touch it.
She's vulnerable. You should stay away.
I knew that. God, I knew that.
She needed stability. Protection. Someone steady who wouldn't blur lines or make her question what safety meant. Someone who wouldn't look at her and feel desire twisting up with protectiveness until he couldn't tell them apart.
I was the worst possible person for her.
The water ran lukewarm now, losing heat. I didn't move.
You will stay away.
I said it out loud. Quiet. Firm. A vow I needed to hear in my own voice.
"You will stay away."
The words echoed in the tiled space, bouncing back at me like an accusation.
I wanted them to be true. Wanted to believe I had enough control left to do the right thing.
To keep my distance. To stop noticing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous or how her shoulders relaxed when I spoke to her in that low, careful tone.
Wanted to believe I wouldn't find excuses to be near her.
But deep down—in the part of myself I couldn't lie to—I knew better.
I'd go back to that café. I'd look for her in the halls, in the stands, in every corner of that arena until I found her. I'd invent reasons. Justify it. Tell myself I was just checking in, just making sure she was safe, just being professional.
And I'd hate myself for every single one.
Because the truth was simpler and uglier than any excuse I could build. I didn't want to stay away.
I wanted her to look at me the way she had tonight—soft and trusting and unafraid—and I wanted to be the kind of man who deserved it.
But I wasn't.
And that wouldn't stop me.
I forced myself out of the shower before the water turned cold again. Grabbed a towel. Dried off mechanically—arms, chest, legs. Didn't look at the mirror. Couldn't stomach my own reflection right now.
The pajama pants were where I'd left them, folded on the edge of the sink. Black. Soft from too many washes. I pulled them on and left the bathroom, flicking the light off behind me.
The bedroom waited. Dark. Silent. Empty.
I should've felt relief stepping into it. This was my space. Controlled. Safe. Nothing here that could hurt me or make me feel things I didn't want to feel.
But tonight it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too cold.
I crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on my knees, head hanging. My hair dripped onto the hardwood—small dark spots spreading in the dim light from the window.
Just lie down.
Sleep.
Forget.
I swung my legs onto the mattress and stretched out flat, arms at my sides. Stared at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
It didn't.
The silence pressed in. No hum of traffic. No distant voices. Just the faint creak of the building settling and my own breathing—too loud, too uneven.
I closed my eyes.
Olivia's face appeared immediately. Soft. Startled. Looking up at me in that parking lot like I was someone worth trusting.
My jaw clenched.
Stop.
But I couldn't. Her warmth beneath my fingertips. The strand of hair I'd brushed away. The way she hadn't pulled back when I'd touched her—just frozen there, breath catching, eyes wide and unguarded.
She'd let me. And I'd wanted more.
I rolled onto my side, dragging the pillow over my head like I could smother the thoughts. The apartment felt colder than usual. Empty in a way that scraped against my ribs.
I'd built this life to be alone. Chose it. Needed it.
So why did it suddenly feel unbearable?
My breathing slowed. Exhaustion dragged at the edges of my mind, pulling me under despite the guilt still twisting in my chest.
One last thought surfaced before sleep claimed me, clear and damning.
I'd crossed a line tonight. And I wanted to cross it again.