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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

RHYS

Hayden is crashing. And this time, I don’t think he even realises it.

He’s standing in the kitchen like gravity’s too much effort. Slumped against the counter, one hand braced against it while the other clutches his phone like maybe it’ll tell him how to keep his life from falling apart.

His hair is a mess of curls flattened in odd directions like he didn’t bother showering again today. His eyes—normally sharp, cocky, annoyingly smug—are dull.

Hollowed out.

He looks like a ghost in a house full of life.

And maybe the scariest part? No one else is game to say anything to him.

Millie’s on the couch, cradling Linkin to her chest, gently rocking side to side as if the motion might soothe her frustration along with the infant. Yasmin’s beside her, quiet, but watching. Chase is unusually still, his jaw tight as he fiddles with the TV remote, pretending to be invested in a show none of us are watching.

I think we’re all waiting for Hayden to snap out of it .

To reappear.

But every second that passes, it feels like we’re losing him to some invisible current he doesn’t know how to swim against.

Millie tries. She really tries. She gives him space, she gives him silence, she gives him every damn ounce of patience she has. But even patience runs out eventually.

“Hayden, can you hold him for a second?” Millie’s voice is tight like she’s forcing calm, even though I can see the storm behind her eyes.

Hayden doesn’t look up right away. He just keeps staring at his screen, thumbs unmoving like her voice didn’t even reach him.

Then, finally, “What?”

Millie exhales. Loud. Sharp. I feel it deep in my bones. “I just need to grab something.”

He hesitates. Long enough that the silence stretches too far.

It breaks something in her. She doesn’t snap. Doesn’t yell. But she shifts the baby in her arms and turns to Yasmin instead, handing him over gently.

“Never mind,” she says with a sigh.

Yasmin takes the baby with a nod, eyes flicking between them with quiet concern.

The air is thick. Not just awkward—but weighted. Like everyone’s afraid to breathe too loud, afraid the wrong word will send Hayden spiralling. Even Chase, usually our class clown and mayhem instigator, doesn’t speak.

But I’m done watching him drown.

I stand. “We need to talk.”

Hayden scoffs, still not looking at me. “Not in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” It’s time to have this conversation because I’m not going to allow him to keep on his downward spiral. He needs help, and he needs to talk about it.

I grab his arm, and he tenses immediately. For a second, I think he’ll swing. But instead, I yank him towards the back door, past the stares, and into the night.

The door clicks shut behind us, and the cool air slams into my skin. It smells like cut grass and the faint smoke from someone’s fireplace down the street.

The second we hit the lawn, he rips his arm from my grip.

“What the hell, Rhys?” he snaps, voice low and seething.

I cross my arms, planting my feet. I’m not backing down. Not tonight.

“You’re screwing this up.”

His jaw flexes like he’s chewing on all the things he won’t let himself say. “I know that, okay? You think I don’t know that?”

“Then do something about it.”

“Like what?” His voice cracks under the pressure, louder now. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Rhys. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t know how to be a father.”

There it is. Raw and real.

His words hit me like a punch—not because I didn’t expect them, but because they carry weight. Fear. Shame. Guilt. All jumbled together, clinging to every syllable.

“Then figure it out!” I fire back, stepping closer. “Because you are one. Whether you like it or not.”

Hayden turns away, pacing. He runs both hands through his hair, frustration spilling out of every movement. “You don’t get it?—”

“No, you don’t get it,” I cut in, sharper than intended. “You’re scared? Fine. You’re overwhelmed? I get that. But you don’t get to check out , Hayden. You don’t get to stand in the same room and act like none of this matters.”

I pause, swallowing down the lump building in my throat.

“That kid in there? He’s yours. And if you keep pulling this disappearing act, if you keep pushing Millie away, you’re gonna lose the people who actually give a damn about you.”

Silence.

The only sound is the wind in the trees and the faint echo of the baby’s soft cries through the window.

Hayden turns slowly. He’s not yelling anymore. His voice is quiet. Cracked open. “You don’t understand, Rhys.”

His eyes shine with something close to panic. Or maybe shame. “What if I’m like Dad? What if I screw him up the way he screwed us up?”

The breath leaves my lungs in one clean blow.

Fuck.

That’s it.

That’s what’s eating him alive from the inside out.

I step forward until I’m directly in front of him. He’s taller than me now—has been for a while—but right now, he feels small. Like a boy. My little brother.

“You’re not him,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head like the words are too good to be true. “How do you know that?”

“Because you care . You’re standing here freaking out because you’re scared you’re not good enough. You think Dad ever lost sleep wondering if he was screwing us up?”

Hayden doesn’t answer.

“Dad didn’t care,” I say. “You do. That’s the difference.”

His fists clench at his sides, and his mouth opens like he wants to argue—but nothing comes out. I watch as the wall he’s built up around himself flickers, wavers, then starts to crumble. Slowly.

And for a second—I swear—I see the real him again. The one buried beneath all that fear.

But then…

He scoffs. A bitter sound that slices right through me.

“Whatever.”

He turns, already walking off. I step forward.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Out,” he calls over his shoulder.

“To do what? Hide? Drink? Pretend none of this matters?”

He doesn’t answer.

The gate creaks open and slams shut behind him.

Suddenly, he was gone again.

I stand there for a long time, the air cool against my skin, my heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And I swear to God, I’m not letting him go down the same road Dad did.

Not if I can help it.