Rhonda knows something’s wrong the second Simon says he used the watch.

She feels your hand tense under hers before he even finishes the sentence.

“The studio,” Simon says.

Rhonda sees it in your face. The way your jaw tightens. The way you shrink just slightly — like you’re bracing.

Her grip tightens around your fingers.

“ You went into her scar?” she asks.

Simon nods. Wrong answer.

Rhonda stands slowly. “You don’t enter someone’s scar without permission.”

Her voice isn’t loud. It’s controlled.

Which is worse.

“I didn’t know what it would be,” Simon says.

“Of course you didn’t,” she snaps. “Because it wasn’t yours.”

You tug lightly at her sleeve. She softens immediately at the touch. But she doesn’t sit back down.

“There was a jewelry box,” Simon continues carefully.

Rhonda glances at you. You’re staring at the table now.

Small. She hates that.

“A ballerina,” Simon adds.

And that’s when she understands. That wasn’t just a memory. That was your safe place inside the worst moment of your life.

You don’t talk about your father much. You don’t talk about expectations. You don’t talk about that day. But Rhonda has pieced enough together.

You were hurt. And someone asked about trophies.

She looks back at Simon.

“You don’t get to dig through her grief,” she says.

He swallows. “I just wanted to understand.”

Rhonda steps closer to him.

“If she wants you to understand,” she says evenly, “she’ll tell you.”

She turns back to you. Kneels slightly so she’s eye-level.

Her voice changes completely. Soft.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

You blink up at her.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Your shoulders relax just a little. Simon watches the shift. The difference in her tone.

The way she shields you without making you feel weak. Rhonda presses her forehead lightly to yours.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers.

And this time, it isn’t about fighting someone. It’s about guarding something fragile.

Something that was never Simon’s to open.