15. Olivia
Olivia
The apartment was too quiet.I'd tried filling the silence with dishes clanking in the sink, water running too long, cabinets opening and closing without purpose. But the moment I turned everything off, the stillness crept back in. Pressed against my ears until I heard my own heartbeat.
I sat cross-legged on the couch—secondhand, scratchy fabric that smelled faintly of whoever owned it before me—and stared at my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
That's good, I told myself. Nothing means safe.
The knock shattered the silence like glass breaking. Two sharp raps—firm, deliberate—and my entire body locked.
My phone slipped from my hands. Hit the couch cushion without sound.
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."
The words came out rough. Almost angry.
My chest constricted. "Then why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're furious."
His jaw locked tighter. A muscle jumped near his temple. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped lower—controlled but barely. "I'm not angry at you."
But the tension radiating off him said otherwise. I took an instinctive step back, bumped the wall behind me. My pulse kicked up again, different than before. Not fear exactly. Something else I didn't want to examine.
"Then what?" I whispered.
His eyes found mine. Held. And for the first time since he'd walked in, I saw past the walls he kept so carefully in place. Saw the guilt.
"You need to quit the café."
The words landed flat. No emotion. No explanation.
I went still. My fingers stopped twisting together. My breath caught halfway up my throat and stuck there. "What?"
He didn't repeat himself. Just stood in the middle of my apartment—too tall, too tense, radiating something that felt like barely controlled panic even though his face stayed blank.
Confusion hit first. Then disbelief. Then something sharper that burned behind my ribs.
"Did I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Are you firing me?"
"I can't fire you. I'm not your boss."
The distinction felt meaningless. Heat flooded my face, crawled down my neck. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
"Is this about the rookie? Because I didn't—"
"It's not about him."
"Then what?" The question came out louder than I meant. Desperate. "I need this job. You know I need this job. I can't just—"
"You're not safe there."
The air punched out of my lungs.
He said it so calmly. Like he was stating a fact instead of detonating my entire world. His eyes never left mine—dark, unreadable, but underneath the stone mask something wild lurked. Something I'd never seen before.
Fear.
Not of me. For me.
My throat closed. "What are you talking about?"
"Someone's watching you."
The room tilted. The walls pressed closer. I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself, fingernails scraping cheap laminate.
"You're wrong." But my voice shook. "You have to be wrong."
"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—"
"I can't."
"You can't or you won't?"
His nostrils flared. "It doesn't matter which."