14. Rhys #2
Fury crashed through me—white-hot, irrational, all-consuming.
At the world that put her in that situation.
At whatever circumstances forced her into a place where she had to choose between rent she could afford and basic safety.
At myself for not checking sooner, for not noticing, for letting her walk out of this building every night without knowing where she was going.
At whoever should've protected her and didn't.
My hands clenched around the paper hard enough to crumple the edges.
She can't stay there.
The thought settled cold and absolute in my mind.
She couldn't. I wouldn't allow it.
I was in the car before I made the conscious decision to move.
Keys in the ignition. Engine rumbling to life. Hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
The address burned behind my eyes like I'd stared at the sun too long.
2847 Lexington Avenue.
I pulled out of the parking garage, merging into evening traffic without thinking. The route mapped itself automatically—west on Fifth, south toward the industrial district where rent dropped and danger climbed.
This was a mistake. I knew that.
Going to her neighborhood—checking on her neighborhood—crossed every line I'd sworn not to cross.
But I couldn't stop.
The logic unwound itself with cold, clinical precision as stoplights blurred past.
She couldn't keep working at the rink. Not anymore.
Every shift put her in my line of sight. Every interaction pulled me closer to something I couldn't allow myself to become. Every smile she gave someone else carved deeper into the restraint I'd spent years building.
She was a distraction I couldn't afford. Vulnerable in ways that made my protective instincts override every rational thought. The danger wasn't just external—it was me. What I wanted. What I was capable of wanting.
What I might do if I didn't get myself under control.
She needs to leave.
The thought settled with brutal finality.
I'd help her. Write a recommendation strong enough to get her hired anywhere in the city. Talk to management about severance, about making the transition smooth. Find her something better—safer hours, better pay, farther from temptation.
Farther from me.
It was the right call. The smart call. The only way to protect her from threats she couldn't see coming. Including the one driving toward her apartment right now.
The neighborhood shifted as I crossed into her district. Streetlights flickered or stayed dark. Buildings hunched closer together, paint peeling, windows barred. A group of men clustered on a corner, tracking my car with predatory interest.
My jaw locked.
She walks through this every night.
Alone. Small. Defenseless.
The fury came back, sharper now. Colder.
I slowed as Lexington Avenue appeared ahead, scanning building numbers with practiced efficiency.
This wasn't about wanting her. This was about survival. Hers and mine. Distance would fix it. Had to. Before I became exactly what she should be running from.
The words formed on autopilot as I parked across from her building. Practiced. Clinical. The same tone I used to cut players who weren't working out.
"This isn't about performance. The commute isn't safe. I've found you a better opportunity closer to campus."
Professional. Impersonal. Final.
I ran through it again, adjusting emphasis, stripping emotion from each syllable.
"Management agrees it's in everyone's best interest."
A lie. Management didn't know I was here. Wouldn't know until I made it true tomorrow.
My fingers tapped the steering wheel—once, twice—before I forced them still.
This was the right call. Had to be. Distance solved problems. Created boundaries. Removed temptation before it became something neither of us could walk back from.
She can't work here anymore. I won't allow it.
The thought settled with cold finality, even as something deeper twisted against it.
I hated that I was rehearsing this conversation like a teenager working up courage to ask someone to prom.
Hated the way my pulse kicked up at the thought of seeing her face when I said the words.
Hated how badly I wanted to protect her from a danger she didn't even know existed.
Hated that the biggest threat to her safety was probably me.
She'd argue. Of course she would. Pride wouldn't let her accept help without a fight, especially not from someone who made her nervous.
She'd insist she was fine, that she could handle it, that she didn't need anyone's charity.
All the things I would've said at her age.
All the things that would've been just as untrue.
I cut the engine and stepped out into the cooling evening air.
The neighborhood looked worse up close. Graffiti sprawled across brick facades in angry slashes of color.
Broken glass glittered in gutters under flickering streetlights.
A dog barked somewhere—sharp, aggressive, chained too close to the street.
The building itself sagged like something exhausted, paint peeling in long strips, security door propped open with a cinder block.
No cameras. No lighting over the entrance.
No intercom system. Just rust and neglect and the kind of vulnerability that made my skin crawl.
A man leaned against the corner bodega, watching me with the flat, assessing stare of someone deciding whether I was worth the trouble. I held his gaze until he looked away first.
My jaw ached from clenching.
She walks through this. Every night. Alone.
The fury came back—not hot this time, but ice-cold and surgical. The kind that made decisions without consulting emotion.
I crossed the cracked sidewalk and pulled open the security door that wasn't securing anything. The hallway inside reeked of mildew and old cigarettes. Stairs creaked under my weight as I climbed to the third floor.
Apartment 3B sat at the end of a dim corridor.
I stopped in front of her door, hand raised to knock. And hesitated.
This would hurt her. I knew that. She'd just gotten stable, just started building something on her own terms. And I was about to take it away.
For her own good, I told myself. For both our sakes.
I knocked twice. Firm. Deliberate. Waited for the sound of footsteps that would change everything.