Page 67 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

We’re home.

And this time, she’s staying.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

ALLY

Being home should feel normal, right?

It should be like slipping into your favourite pair of worn jeans—comfortable, familiar, and a little snug in all the right places. I imagined lazy mornings spent with steaming cups of coffee and nights bursting with laughter echoing through the house.

Instead, everything feels... off.

And it’s not just the house—it’s me. I feel different.

I had expected awkwardness after my abrupt departure, after running away and leaving everyone behind.

Yet, no one mentions it. They treat me like I never really left, as though nothing significant happened. And somehow, that silence makes the dissonance all the more painful.

I sit at the kitchen counter, absentmindedly swirling my spoon around in a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

My focus drifts from the swirling milk to the to the worry I’m hiding. Across from me, Chase is deep in his phone world. He laughs at something on the screen, then proudly shows it to Yasmin, who rolls her eyes so hard I’m sure I can hear them.

Ella and Arden are in the middle of a heated—but entirely predictable—debate about the proper method of stacking dishes in the dishwasher, a battle that has been a cornerstone of our household routines since the moment we all moved in.

Meanwhile, Ashley, ever the expert in partial commitments, lounges on the couch, watching a cooking show with half an eye.

It’s all so normal, so painfully normal.

But in my mind, nothing feels normal.

“Eat your cereal before it turns into mush.” Rhys’s rich, deep voice startles me from my thoughts.

I glance up, meeting his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, scrutinising me as if I were a malfunctioning appliance that needed a reboot.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter through a cloud of reluctance.

“You barely ate anything at dinner last night,” he chides softly, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation.

I sigh, letting my spoon clatter into the bowl as I drop it. “I’m fine,” I insist, though the emptiness in my tone gives me away.

He doesn’t let it slide. I recognise that in the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly, acknowledging my discontent without saying it outright.

Then, just as if leaning in closer might magically untangle the knots in my stomach, Rhys lowers his voice, adding an element of quiet urgency. “You’re acting like you don’t belong here, but you do. No one’s mad at you, Ally.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I never said they were,” I respond defensively, not fully trusting my own words.

His dark eyes search mine, probing deeper than I feel ready for. “Then why are you acting like you’re waiting for us to kick you out?” The question hangs in the air, raw and unanticipated.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice in return. “I don’t know,” I sigh, staring down at my chipped nails that betray my inner turmoil. “I just…I feel guilty.”

“For what?” he presses gently, his tone softening as if he cares more than he lets on.

“For running... for making you come after me.” My voice is barely audible, full of unspoken regrets and self-reproach.

Rhys lets out a sharp exhalation, stepping back from the counter like a man who needs space to think. “You didn’t make me do anything, Ally. I came because I wanted to. Because I wasn’t going to let you push me away.” His words, though comforting, feel like small bandages on a deep wound.

I nod, feeling the lump in my throat grow heavier. He watches me for a long moment, his eyes softening with equal parts concern and weariness. “You're still avoiding everything,” he states, a hint of frustration mingling with his care.

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