Page 43 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

Silence settles again. But this time, it’s not crushing.

It’s honest.

And maybe that’s a start.

I find solace in the kitchen as I get a glass of water, trying desperately to wash off the weight of it all. That’s when I hear soft footsteps behind me.

“Rhys?”

I turn to see Ally standing in the dim light, her hair tousled, making her look both vulnerable and unguarded. Despite everything—a bruised night, a conversation full of raw emotion—her presence eases something deep within me. We are still on shaky grounds, not yet figuring out how to be together.

“You look like hell,” she observes, half-teasing, half-concerned.

I let out a humourless laugh. “Feel like it too.”

She steps closer, her fingers brushing mine before finding the warmth of my wrist. “What happened?”

There’s nothing simple to say about fighting and failing, about the anger that consumes you. But as I look into her eyes, I can’t help but feel that she understands too well. “Hayden got into a fight,” I confess, my voice softening with reluctant honesty.

Her gaze softens immediately. “Is he okay?”

“He will be,” I reply more to myself than to her.

Ally gently squeezes my wrist. “And you? What about you?”

I exhale, shaking my head slowly. “I’m tired, Ally. Tired of trying to put us back together while Dad’s been off in his world, acting like his own miserable empire matters more than we ever did.”

Her eyes search mine with fierce empathy. “You don’t have to fix everything on your own, Rhys. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Funny, I’ve been telling her the same thing.

Something within me snaps—an impulse born not of anger this time but of a deep-seated vulnerability. Without a word, I pull her close. Our kiss is slower, deeper than it’s been before as if we’re both clutching on to a lifeline in a storm we never expected to weather.

In that moment, the events of the night, the unresolved anger, and the scars of an indifferent father’s legacy fade into the background.

When we finally break apart, breathless and intertwined, Ally looks up at me with eyes full of unspoken understanding. “Come to bed,” she asks.

I hesitate, caught between words and raw emotion. “Ally?—”

“Not like that,” she murmurs. “Just… stay with me tonight.”

And for once, as I nod silently in agreement, I allow myself to admit that I need her—more than I need to pretend that I’ve got everything figured out.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

ALLY

Grumpy’s is alive tonight.

Not just busy—but buzzing.

There’s music humming from the speakers, the low din of conversation blending with clinking glasses and occasional bursts of laughter.

It’s the kind of night that invites trouble; the kind that lets your guard drop just far enough to make stupid choices look romantic.

Or reckless.

Or both.

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