Page 41 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

“You need to go get Hayden,” Arden says, his voice edged with exasperation.

I push off the covers, anxiety tightening my chest. “Where is he?”

“Some house party. I’ll text you the address. I don’t know whose place it is, but I got a call from Pace saying Hayden got into a fight.”

“Is he hurt?” I ask, already grabbing my keys.

Arden exhales heavily. “Not sure. Just get there before he does something else.”

No more talk. I’m already out the door, hurrying through the quiet streets with a dread I can’t shake.

The party’s buzzing when I arrive. Deafening music and a pulsing bass vibrate through the room as I navigate through clusters of bodies under harsh, flickering lights. The air reeks of alcohol and sweat—a familiar scent from nights filled with regret and too many mistakes.

But I’m not here for party tricks; I’m here to pull Hayden out of yet another mess.

I find him near the back of the house. He stands apart from the crowd, his rumpled shirt and raw, split knuckles a testament to the latest scuffle. His breathing is ragged. His eyes inflamed with a familiar anger.

“Hayden!” I snap.

He barely turns around, his glare fixed on the guy he just brutalised—a guy who now sways unsteadily, nursing a cut along his cheekbone and a bloody nose. The confrontation is yet another to add to the list. Hayden fights because it’s the only way he knows to channel his inner storm.

I step between them, gripping Hayden’s shoulder firmly. “We’re leaving now.”

“Not done,” he mutters, his voice low and aching with raw, unfiltered emotion.

“The hell you aren’t,” I retort, shoving him towards the door. He stumbles slightly but doesn’t resist long enough to let me lose control; I know he might just turn back and reignite the fight if given the chance.

Outside, I force him towards my car. “Get in.”

Hayden wipes blood from his knuckles onto his jeans and climbs into the car. Silence fills the space initially, broken only by the low hum of the engine. His restless tapping on his legs and the dark intensity in his eyes betray deeper struggles.

The drive home is silent; I leave Hayden with his thoughts.

Once we get home, I pull into the garage, and we exit the car. The garage is quiet, except for Hayden’s uneven breathing. He leans against the wall, knuckles split and bruised, shirt damp with sweat and blood. I toss him a towel. He doesn’t catch it—it hits the ground at his feet.

“Another fight,” I say, not bothering to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like fists to faces are just part of the routine now.

“You wanna tell me why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He drags a hand down his face, smearing blood across his cheekbone like war paint. His jaw is tight, teeth grinding. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw. “Some guy said I was gonna be a shit dad.”

And there it is.

That one sentence, the match to the fuse.

“I lost it,” he mutters. “Didn’t even think. Just snapped.”

I nod, jaw tight. “And that helped?”

He looks at me then. Eyes glassy, burning with something that’s not just anger.

It’s deeper.

Messier.

“No,” he says, voice cracking. “But at least I felt something.”

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