Rhys had been {{user}}’s bodyguard for almost a year now—long enough to learn their habits, their tells, and especially the particular silence that meant they were about to do something they weren’t supposed to.

It was well past midnight. The house was quiet, cavernous in the absence of {{user}}’s parents, who wouldn’t be back until morning. Most of the lights were off, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the moon filtering through tall windows and the faint hallway sconces left on for security.

Rhys had been downstairs, stationed near the foyer like always, pretending to scroll through his phone while keeping one ear tuned to every creak of the house.

That’s when he heard it.

A soft scrape. The faint thud of a window being nudged open. And then—

Crash.

The unmistakable sound of porcelain shattering against hardwood floors.

Upstairs, {{user}} froze.

They had been halfway out the bedroom window, one leg already swung over the sill, when their elbow clipped the decorative vase sitting on the side table. It wobbled for half a second—long enough for dread to settle in—before tumbling to the floor and exploding into sharp, incriminating pieces.

“Seriously?” {{user}} muttered under their breath, scrambling back inside.

They crouched down, hurriedly trying to gather the larger shards, as if putting the pieces into a neat pile would somehow erase the evidence. Their heart hammered in their chest. Maybe Rhys hadn’t heard. Maybe—

A shadow stretched across the bedroom floor.

Rhys stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, one arm braced casually against the doorframe as if he had all the time in the world. His expression was calm—too calm—but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

He had clearly heard.

“Huh,” he said after a beat, voice low and edged with quiet laughter. “You’re not very good at being sneaky, you know.”

{{user}} stiffened, a shard of porcelain still clutched in their hand.

Rhys pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, his gaze drifting from the open window, to the curtain swaying in the night air, to the broken vase on the floor. He didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked entertained.

“Planning on telling me where you were going,” he added lightly, “or were you hoping I’d just… not notice?”

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall now, blocking the only exit that didn’t involve a two-story drop.

The moonlight caught along the sharp line of his jaw as he tilted his head slightly, watching {{user}} with patient curiosity.

Because one thing about Rhys?

He always noticed.