Page 42 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

The words hang heavy between us.

Hayden’s not just angry. He’s drowning. And he’s been fighting so long, I don’t think he knows how to stop without sinking.

“Rhys, I’m at a loss,” he blurts, his voice shaking as the adrenaline wears off and the enormity of it all hits him. “Everything’s too loud in my head. The fear, the pressure—Dad’s voice telling me I’ll never be enough. It’s always there. I thought maybe the fighting would shut it up.”

He swallows hard. “It used to. Now it just makes the silence worse.”

I step closer, but not too close. Hayden’s always needed space when he’s breaking.

“I know what it feels like,” I tell him. “To carry his voice around like a fucking curse. Like it’s stitched into your skin, reminding you every second that you’re not good enough.”

Hayden laughs, but there’s no humour in it. Just bitterness. “Yeah, well, maybe I reallyamlike him.”

“You’renot,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “You feel too much. He felt nothing. You care—about Millie, about the baby. He never cared about anything except closing cases and winning.”

He turns away, fists clenched again like he doesn’t trust what they’ll do next. “Then why do I keep acting like him?”

“Because no one taught us how to be better,” I say. “We had to figure this shit out ourselves. And we’re still figuring it out.”

He exhales shakily. “I fight because it’s the only time I know who I am. I throw a punch, and for half a second, everything else disappears. The fear. The self-hate. The noise. All of it.” He shakes his head, eyes wet now. “But it’s getting worse, Rhys. It’s not going away anymore. I’m about to be a dad, and I can’t even keep myself together.”

I want to tell him it’ll get better. That being a father doesn’t mean being perfect—it just means showing up. But I know that won’t fix what’s inside him. I know what it’s like to wake up with a hundred-pound weight on your chest and still pretend everything’s fine.

“You always looked like you had it together,” he says suddenly, cutting into my thoughts. “Like none of this touched you.”

I scoff. “I was faking it. For you. For both of us.”

He finally looks at me, really looks at me. “You raised me.”

“I tried,” I say softly. “But I was just a kid, too, man. Dad focused on work and left us with silence and expectations. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

He kicks the fridge, not hard enough to damage it, just enough to let the rage out in a safer way. I make a mental note to install a punching bag down here. “I hate him.”

“I do too,” I tell him.

He presses his palms to his eyes like he can block out the world. “Sometimes when I’m out there, fists flying, I feel like it’s the only time I can scream loud enough for anyone to hear me. Like maybe if I bleed enough, someone will finally notice I’m falling apart.”

I reach out then, resting a hand on his shoulder. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“I see you,” I say. “I’ve always seen you, Hayden. Even when you’re trying to disappear into the noise.”

He looks up, a tear finally sliding down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Then what the hell do we do?” he asks, broken and desperate. “How do we stop this from becoming who we are?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But we talk. We stop pretending we’re fine when we’re both wrecked. We lean on each other when the weight gets too heavy.”

He nods once like he’s not convinced, but he’s willing to try.

“We’re not Dad,” I say. “We never will be. You’ve already made a choice he never did. You are trying.”

He stares down at his busted knuckles. “I don’t feel like enough.”

“None of us do. But Millie doesn’t need perfect. She just needsyou.”

He exhales shakily. “I’m so fucking scared.”

“I know.”

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