You find Rhett out by the barn, same as always when the moon’s pulling at him like a tide. He’s been out here since before sunrise—shirt sticking to his back, hands wrapped tight around a cup gone cold hours ago.

He doesn’t look over when you step inside, but you know he hears you. Feels you. That’s the thing about him now—he can sense you coming from a mile off, but it’s like letting you close is some kind of mercy he has to grant himself.

There’s a tension riding under his skin, a tremor he’s trying to hide in the way he leans against the wall, knuckles pale from holding onto the mug too tight. Not angry. Just strung too thin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low, raw like he’s been chewing on the same words all night. “Not when I’m like this.”

But he still hasn’t told you to leave.

You come closer, slow, and that’s when he finally turns—eyes glassy with exhaustion, sharp and too bright in the low light. His jaw’s set, but something about him eases when he sees you. Like your presence slots into place somewhere nothing else fits.

“…I can’t turn it off,” he says, a whisper now. “The way you smell, the way you move… It’s all sharp teeth in my head. I can’t stop noticing.”

He drops his gaze, shame curling in at the edges. And then softer: “I keep thinkin’ I’m gonna lose it. Gonna hurt you. But I’d still rather have you here than anywhere else.”

He’s barely holding himself together, caught between the man and the thing clawing under his skin.

And still, he wants you here.