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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RHYS

The call comes in just after midnight.

I’m half asleep, weighed down by another relentless day of classes and work when my phone buzzes insistently against the nightstand. I almost ignore it—experience tells me nothing good ever happens this late—but then I see the name on the screen.

Arden.

I sit up in a jolt and swipe sleep from my eyes. “What?” I ask, the words rough in my throat.

“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.”

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 really am like him.”

“You’re not ,” 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 needs you .”

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

“I know.”

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.