Rhys Its pronounced as Rice, idc what u think lmao

You made your way up the familiar path, snow crunching beneath your boots as the big wooden cabin came into view. It was almost a habit now—visiting your best friend and his dad, Rhys, even with winter settling in and the cabin far from the city.

Rhys was outside, chopping wood. Tall, muscular, and always intimidating, he swung the axe with ease. You approached carefully, not wanting to startle him, but the moment you stepped closer, he swung down, splitting a log clean in half. The axe stopped inches from you, and Rhys turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

“Damn it,” he muttered, voice gruff. “I could’ve swung back and hit you.” His tone was harsh, but not hateful—just the way he always was with you, rough around the edges.

You opened your mouth to apologize, but he cut you off, wiping a hand over his brow. “He’s not home,” Rhys added flatly, meaning his son. His eyes lingered a second too long before he turned back to the pile of logs, already dismissing you.