Rhys
I told myself I was checking on her because the neighborhood was shit.
Because I'd seen someone watching her before—lurking where he shouldn't be, eyes tracking her movements with the kind of focus that set off every alarm I'd spent years learning to trust. Because the locks on her apartment door were flimsy enough a decent kick would punch straight through.
Because she was alone, vulnerable, and if something happened to her while I sat in my sterile apartment pretending I didn't care—
My knuckles went white against the steering wheel.
The lie tasted bitter even as I fed it to myself, swallowing it down like poison I'd chosen to drink. I wasn't driving to her building because she was in danger. Wasn't parking three blocks away and cutting through alleys because I gave a damn about her safety.
I was going because I couldn't not go. Because the thought of her laughing with someone else—someone uncomplicated, someone who didn't carry the weight of too many years and too much damage—carved something jagged and vicious through my chest. Because I'd spent the last three hours trying to convince myself I didn't care where she was or who she was with, and failed so spectacularly I'd ended up here.
Fear dressed itself up as anger, cold and controlled, the only armor I had left.
I pulled up a block from her building and cut the engine.
Darkness greeted me through the windshield. Her apartment windows—third floor, corner unit, too exposed—sat black and empty. No warm glow of lamplight. No flicker of movement behind cheap curtains. Nothing but shadows and the hollow ache that came with knowing she wasn't home.
The rational part of my brain tried to step in.
Tried to remind me she was an adult with her own life, her own choices, her own right to be wherever the hell she wanted without me lurking in parking lots like some obsessed—I shoved the thought away before it could finish forming.
Got out of the car. Pulled my hood up and melted into the shadows between buildings, muscle memory guiding my steps.
Old instincts I'd thought I'd buried clawed their way to the surface—the ones that knew how to move unseen, how to blend into darkness, how to watch without being watched.
I should've left. Should've driven back to my empty apartment and drowned this sick need in a cold shower and the same self-loathing that had become my nightly ritual.
Should've accepted that she was out living her life, probably smiling at that kid from the café who looked at her like she hung the fucking moon.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
I stayed. Found a spot in the alley across from her building where shadows pooled thick enough to hide in. Leaned against brick worn smooth by decades of neglect and let the cold seep through my jacket, grounding me in something other than the chaos ripping through my chest.
My pulse hammered against my ribs—too fast, too hard, the kind of adrenaline spike that used to come before fights. Before I learned to channel violence into something controlled. Something useful.
Nothing about this was controlled. Nothing about this was useful.
I was a grown man hiding in an alley, waiting for a woman who'd told me in every way that mattered she deserved better than whatever broken thing I'd become.
A woman young enough that she should be dating boys who took her to nice restaurants and made her laugh without the shadow of guilt hanging over every touch.
The rational voice tried again. Whispered that this was wrong, obsessive, exactly the kind of behavior that proved I had no business being anywhere near her.
I ignored it. Settled deeper into the shadows and waited, hood pulled low, every sense tuned to the street beyond. Watching for headlights. Listening for footsteps. Tracking every movement in my peripheral vision like my life depended on it.
Like hers did.
The lie was getting thinner. Harder to swallow.
I knew why I was here. Knew it had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the sick, possessive need coiled in my gut that demanded I know where she was. Who she was with. Whether she was thinking about me the way I couldn't stop thinking about her.
My breath misted in the cold air.
I stayed anyway.
Headlights swept across wet pavement, slicing through darkness with surgical precision.
I went still.
The car slowed—deliberate, careful—and pulled to the curb directly in front of her building. Engine idled for a heartbeat before cutting out, leaving only the soft tick of cooling metal and the hollow thud of my pulse in my ears.
The passenger door opened first.
She stepped out, lamplight catching the curve of her profile, the slight mess of her hair where wind had pulled it loose. She was smiling—small, uncertain, but real. The kind of smile that should've warmed something inside me.
It didn't.
Because Ben climbed out of the driver's side half a second later, rounding the car with an easy stride that screamed safe, normal, exactly what she deserved.
His hand found the small of her back as they moved toward the entrance, fingers splayed across fabric with the kind of casual possession that made every muscle in my body lock down hard.
Cold flooded through me. The kind that sharpened edges and narrowed focus until everything else fell away except the singular, brutal clarity of watching another man touch what I'd already claimed in every way that mattered.
She flinched when his palm settled against her waist. Not pulling away—just shy.
Nervous energy that made her duck her head slightly, cheeks flushing pink even in the dim glow of the building's exterior lights.
Ben leaned closer, murmured something I couldn't hear but could read in the tilt of his head, the softness of his expression.
Whatever he said made her blush harder. Made her shoulders relax fractionally.
Made her smile again, wider this time, like maybe she was letting herself believe this could be easy.
Normal. Something that wouldn't leave her standing alone in hallways wondering why the man who kissed her like he was starving couldn't look at her the next day.
I didn't move. Didn't make a sound. Didn't let a single flicker of emotion crack through the stone mask I'd perfected over years of swallowing rage until it became something colder, sharper, infinitely more dangerous.
But inside, everything snapped. Quiet as a blade sliding free of its sheath. Cold as the iron discipline I'd built my entire life around. Focused with the kind of predatory clarity that used to make opponents step back on the ice before the first punch ever landed.
She wasn't his.
The thought carved itself through my chest with brutal simplicity, stripping away every lie I'd told myself about distance and control and doing the right thing.
She could smile at him. Could let him walk her to doors and murmur soft words that made her blush.
Didn't change the fundamental truth lodged so deep in my bones I couldn't dig it out if I tried.
She. Wasn't. His.
Ben's hand stayed on her waist as they reached the entrance.
Mine curled into fists against brick, silent and absolute.
Ben lingered just long enough to say something that made her laugh softly, something I couldn't hear but felt like broken glass dragging through my chest. His fingers brushed her arm once more before he stepped back, that easy smile still plastered across his face like he'd won something.
He turned. Walked back to his car with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from thinking the night went well. From believing he'd made progress. From not knowing I existed in the shadows across the street, watching every movement with the focused intensity of a predator tracking prey.
The engine started. Headlights flared.
I didn't move. Didn't shift my weight or adjust my stance or do anything that might catch his peripheral vision in the rearview mirror. Years of learning how to be invisible when it mattered kept me perfectly still, perfectly silent, a shadow among shadows.
The car pulled away from the curb.
My eyes tracked it—relentless, unwavering—as it glided down the street. Watched the brake lights flare red at the intersection. Watched them turn left and disappear behind a building two blocks down.
Still didn't move. Waited until the sound of the engine faded completely. Until the street fell back into the hollow quiet of late evening punctuated only by distant traffic and the hum of streetlights overhead.
Only then did I breathe. Deep, controlled, pulling oxygen into lungs that felt too tight.
Forcing the cold discipline back into place where it belonged, wrapping it around the violent possessiveness that wanted to chase that car down and make damn sure Ben understood exactly whose door he'd just walked her to.
I pushed off the wall. Crossed the street with measured steps—not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate forward motion that carried me from shadow to lamplight to the building's entrance where she'd disappeared moments ago.
The door clicked shut behind me. Stairs stretched upward, narrow and dimly lit. Third floor. Corner unit. I knew the layout because I'd memorized it the first time I'd walked her home, cataloging exits and vulnerabilities with the same automatic precision I applied to everything else.
My footsteps made no sound against worn carpet. Controlled. Silent. The way I'd moved through arenas before games, conserving energy, focusing intent into something sharp and absolute.
Deadly calm settled over me like a second skin.
She was fumbling with her keys when I reached her floor. Back to the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched, still wearing whatever nervous energy the date had left her with. The soft scrape of metal against metal filled the quiet space as she tried to line up the key with the lock.
The door started to swing open.
My hand shot forward—palm flat, controlled force—and slammed against painted wood. Held it there.