Chapter Nine Emergency Beard Protocol
Rhys
RHYS DID NOT consider himself dramatic. He was, by all accounts, a chill guy. He drank his coffee black, folded his laundry on time, and once finished an entire book on boundary-setting.
But right now? He was panicking.
And texting his sisters like a man on fire.
The Room of Requirement
Rhys: Emergency meeting. I think I accidentally made Linda think I’m gay. And she offered to be my beard. AND I AGREED.
Liv: …I need context. Immediately. And snacks. Mostly context.
Darcy: YOU WHAT No. No no no. Please tell me this is a metaphor. Like. A tragic brunch metaphor.
Rhys: Nope. Literal. Brunch. I said, “I think I need a beard.” She laughed . Said she’d be it . I thought she was flirting. I THINK SHE WASN’T.
Darcy: You sweet, emotionally repressed idiot.
Liv: You golden-retriever-turned-accountant disaster. She thinks you’re gay. So now you're her honorary brunch boyfriend. Who she thinks is gay .
Rhys: I DON’T KNOW I panicked. She smiled like it was a joke. I said “if that’s what it takes.” WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? Seriously. Did I just speak in riddles? Am I the romantic Sphinx now?
Darcy: Rhys. That’s how romantic comedies start.
Liv: Or end. Badly. With montages of misunderstanding and crying in Ikea.
Darcy: How do you fix this?
Rhys: I DON’T KNOW I thought maybe today I’d clarify right then, but then she was just… looking like war and brunch and eyeliner vengeance, and then she called it a revenge date and slapped me with a spoon and I...
Liv: are into her.
Darcy: Oh, he’s so gone .
Rhys: I need a script. I need backup. I need someone to tell me how to undo this without sounding like “Hey I’m not gay I’m just emotionally stunted and you’re hot, brunch?”
Darcy: Honestly? That but with pie.
Liv: And maybe a puppy.
Darcy: No, you already have the dog. That’s what got you into this.
Rhys: Stumps is not the problem. Stumps is the glue holding this entire emotional sitcom together.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed pointedly from the couch like he knew damn well he’d brokered this mess and now expected payment in bacon and emotional clarity.
Rhys sighed and flopped backward into his pillows.
Rhys: I like her. I like her so much it makes my brain short-circuit .
He stared at the ceiling, heart thudding, fingers twitching against his phone like maybe it could type the right words for him.
Rhys: How do I say that without sounding like a creep?
Liv: Okay. Deep breath.
Darcy: Alright, baby brother. Strategy time.
Liv: Option A: You blurt it out. Right now. Full honesty. High risk, high reward.
Darcy: Option B: You… don’t. You lean in.
Rhys: Lean… into what???
Liv: The beard thing.
Rhys: THE BEARD THING???
Darcy: Listen. She probably likes you. But she’s nervous. She’s on defense. And if she thinks you’re gay—or mostly harmless—she’ll let her guard down.
Liv: Which means you get to be your actual self. No pressure. No posturing. No “he’s probably trying to hit on me” filters. Just… Rhys. Soft, helpful, competent chaos Rhys.
Darcy: You’re way less awkward when you’re not trying to impress someone.
Liv: Let her get to know you. Like… actually you. If she starts falling for you as her fake-beard brunch buddy? You win. Because it’s real. Not just stubble and vibes.
Rhys: So you’re saying… accidentally Slow-Burn my way into her heart by pretending to be gay? Is this… is this a reverse Hallmark movie?
Darcy: More like Gay Not Gay : The Long Game Tagline: “He wasn’t gay, just emotionally illiterate. ”
Liv: Starring you. With supporting corgi.
Rhys: This feels like sabotage.
Darcy: It’s not sabotage if it works.
Liv: We’re giving you low-stakes proximity. You want her? Be near her. Be decent. Be funny. Be you. No pressure. No big declarations. Trust us. Let her like you without the pressure. Give her time to be the first one to see it. To want it. Because when she does?
Darcy: You’ll be right there. Stubble and all.
Rhys: …I’m going to need more pup cups.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot barked from the couch like a furry general approving the war plan.
“Okay,” Rhys muttered, pulling out his phone calendar. “Phase One: brunch proximity. Phase Two: organic emotional revelation. Phase Three… survive.”
He looked at Sir Stumps. “Think I’ve got a shot? ”
The dog barked once.
Rhys smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”