Rhys
She moved through the apartment like someone used to running.
Not panicked—worse. Practiced.
I stood near the door, watching her gather clothes from the small dresser, toiletries from the bathroom, a worn paperback from the nightstand. Her hands shook when she tried to fold a shirt. She dropped it twice before managing to get it into the duffel bag at her feet.
I crossed the room without thinking, picked up the fallen shirt, handed it to her. Her fingers brushed mine. The contact lasted half a second, but I felt it down to his bones. She whispered something that might have been thanks and turned back to packing.
I stayed close—not crowding her, just near enough to catch anything else she dropped. Near enough to be a wall between her and the door. Near enough to feel the tension radiating off her in waves.
She folded things with meticulous care. Each item creased perfectly, stacked with precision that spoke of muscle memory rather than preference. Like she'd done this a hundred times before. Like she knew exactly how to fit her entire life into one bag in under ten minutes.
The realization hit me with devastating clarity.
She'd packed like this before. Fled in the middle of the night. Learned to survive with nothing but what she could carry.
My chest tightened painfully.
She glanced at the door every few seconds—quick, nervous flicks of her eyes. Checking. Always checking. Even with me standing right there, even knowing her father had left, she couldn't stop scanning for threats.
I recognized that instinct. Knew it intimately. The hypervigilance that never quite faded, the constant low-grade terror that became background noise until you forgot what peace felt like.
She shouldn't have to live like this. She shouldn't have to be this afraid.
The rational part of my brain whispered that I wasn't responsible for her trauma. That I couldn't fix what her father had broken. That taking her home with me blurred every professional boundary I'd ever maintained and crossed lines I'd sworn never to approach.
But watching her fold another shirt with trembling hands, watching her check the door again, watching her pack her life into a bag like she'd done it too many times to count—
Responsibility didn't matter. Right and wrong didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping her safe. Even if it destroyed us both.
Her phone lit up on the dresser.
She grabbed it mid-fold, fingers flying across the screen. I didn't mean to look—kept my gaze deliberately forward—but the movement caught my periphery.
The angle was wrong for me to see much. Just enough to catch a fragment of text before she tilted the screen away.
I'm okay. I promise. Staying somewhere safe.
Something in my chest loosened.
She had people. Someone who cared enough to check on her. Someone she trusted enough to reach out to when things went wrong.
Relief hit first—sharp and immediate.
Then jealousy twisted right behind it. Irrational. Possessive. Wrong.
I had no claim on her. No right to care who she messaged or who worried about her safety. She deserved a support system that didn't include a man twice her age who couldn't keep his hands off her.
But the jealousy burned anyway.
She finished typing, set the phone down, went back to packing.
The silence stretched between us—not uncomfortable, but weighted. Charged with everything neither of us was saying.
I cleared my throat. Kept my voice low, neutral. "Friend?"
She paused mid-reach for a sweater. Nodded without looking at me.
"Marsha. She was my caseworker when..." She trailed off. Swallowed. "When I was younger. She still checks in sometimes."
The words came out carefully. Like admitting vulnerability cost her something.
I nodded once. Didn't push for details I already knew too well.
The woman who'd pulled her from that apartment after I'd called it in. Who'd made sure she had somewhere safe to go when the police finished taking statements. Who'd kept her out of her father's reach for years.
Someone who'd actually helped her.
Unlike me—who'd walked away that night and tried to forget her face.
My jaw tightened. "Good," I managed. "She should know you're safe."
I grabbed her duffel before she could. Slung it over my shoulder with one smooth motion.
"Leave your car at the arena."
She blinked. Opened her mouth to argue—I watched the impulse cross her face—then closed it again.
"Why?"
"Because if someone's watching, they know your plates." I kept my voice even. Matter-of-fact. Not negotiable. "Safer if they don't know where you're staying."
Her throat worked. She nodded once, quick and tight. "Okay."
Smart girl. She understood threat assessment better than most people twice her age. Understood it because she'd lived it, because survival had taught her to read danger signs most people never noticed.
I hated that she had to be this smart.
We walked to my truck in silence. I stayed between her and the parking lot—muscle memory, tactical positioning, instinct I couldn't suppress even if I wanted to. Her footsteps stayed close. Not touching, but near enough I could feel her presence like heat against my shoulder.
I opened the passenger door. She climbed in without a word.
The drive started quiet. Engine noise. Tires on pavement. The low hum of the heater cutting through November cold.
Her breathing filled the spaces between sounds—small, controlled, trying too hard to seem normal. I tracked each inhale without meaning to. Counted the rhythm. Noted when it stuttered or caught.
My knuckles went white against the steering wheel. Every red light felt like punishment.
I wanted her behind locked doors. Wanted walls between her and the world. Wanted her somewhere no one could touch her, somewhere I could stand between her and every threat that had ever made her pack a bag in ten minutes flat.
The rational part of my brain whispered warnings about control, about boundaries, about the difference between protection and possession.
I ignored it.
A light turned red ahead. I eased to a stop, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
She shifted in the passenger seat. Just a small movement—adjusting her seatbelt, maybe, or pulling her jacket tighter—but I registered it with the same hyper-awareness that made me a good coach.
The kind of focus that noticed everything, catalogued every detail, tracked movement like my life depended on it.
Because right now, hers might.
The apartment swallowed her whole.
I unlocked the door, and she stepped through, duffel still clutched in both hands like she might need to run at any second.
Her footsteps echoed against dark hardwood—the kind that cost more than most people's cars.
Engineered for durability, maintained with obsessive precision. Not a scuff mark anywhere.
She stopped three feet inside and just stared.
I followed her gaze across the open space.
Saw it the way she must be seeing it—vast and sterile and utterly soulless.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, city lights bleeding through glass in cold geometric patterns.
The kitchen occupied the left side, all steel and granite and sharp edges.
Black leather furniture sat arranged in the living area with military precision.
Not a cushion out of place. Not a magazine on the coffee table.
Not a single indication that anyone actually lived here.
The walls stretched bare and white. No art. No photographs. No personality. Just expensive emptiness.
I'd designed it this way deliberately. Wanted nothing soft, nothing warm, nothing that invited anyone to stay. Wanted a space that reflected exactly what I was—functional, isolated, stripped of anything that might suggest I deserved comfort.
It looked exactly like what it was. A prison I'd built myself. Too big for one man. Too quiet. Too cold.
I'd never brought anyone here. Not teammates who invited themselves over for drinks. Not women who hinted they'd like to see where I lived. Not even the cleaning service—I handled that myself, kept every surface gleaming, maintained control over the only space that belonged entirely to me.
Until her.
She set her duffel down slowly. The soft thud against hardwood felt obscenely loud in all that silence.
I watched her scan the apartment with those too-careful eyes. Watched her catalog exits, note the locks on the windows, measure distances between furniture like she was already planning escape routes.
My chest tightened. She belonged here even less than I did. This place would swallow her alive—turn her into another piece of expensive emptiness, another controlled surface, another thing I kept at arm's length because getting close meant losing control.
But the alternative was worse.
The alternative was leaving her vulnerable. Alone. Unprotected.
I'd bring her into my sterile prison before I let that happen.
I picked up her duffel before she could reach for it. Her lips parted—protest forming—but I was already moving down the hallway. She followed without arguing, footsteps soft against hardwood.
The master bedroom door stood half-open. I pushed through and set the bag on the bed without thinking. Just moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me to the only logical place.
The only bedroom with an en suite bathroom. The only one with blackout curtains. The only one that locked from the inside.
The safest room in the apartment.
She stood in the doorway, frozen.
I turned back and caught her expression—wide eyes, parted lips, confusion mixing with something that might have been panic.
"This is your room," she said quietly.
Statement, not question.
I didn't answer. Just gestured vaguely at the space like it explained itself.
King bed dominated the far wall. Charcoal sheets pulled military-tight. Two pillows. Nightstand with a single lamp and nothing else. Dresser against the opposite wall, every drawer closed. Blackout curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.
No photographs. No clutter. No personality. Just like the rest of the apartment.