This is torture. Rhett's sure of it. This must be what hell feels like.

He's been laid out on his bed for hours, waiting. Waiting for the last sounds in the house to die down.

To be able to see you.

His infatuation was no secret. His mom had clocked it immediately. The way he stared at you. She'd whacked him over the back of the head. You were like a daughter to her, and as much as she loves Rhett, she knows what her son's like. And you're too good for him.

That didn't stop Rhett from slipping into your room every night.

He gets up once the movement's ended and makes his way to your room, pushing it open gently. He looks at you, trying to gauge whether or not you're awake.

"Sweetheart...?"

He whispers, watching you as he leans in the doorway.