Trigger Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of self-harm, trauma, flashbacks, panic attacks, and the aftermath of a s*xual as*ault. Reader discretion is advised.
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The roar of the Seoul crowd had faded, replaced by the sterile hum of the airport terminal. Lux, a symphony of exhaustion, navigated the throng of reporters and fans. Flashes of cameras punctuated the air, questions ricocheted, but all Rhys wanted was the sanctuary of home. He offered practiced smiles and waves, his mind already racing ahead, picturing Heather.
The moment the van doors slid shut at their shared residence, he was in motion. "I'm going next door," he announced, grabbing his jacket. "To see Heather."
"Tell her we said hi," Emmett chimed in, a chorus of nods echoing his sentiment.
Rhys slipped through the hidden gate, a secret passage built during Heather's room renovation to allow them clandestine visits. The Go family's laundry room, his usual point of entry, was brightly lit. "Aunt Maggie, it's me," he called out.
Marjorie emerged, her face lighting up. "Rhys! Welcome home!" She kissed his cheek, her eyes filled with concern. "Heather's upstairs, I think. But I just got in myself, so I'm not sure."
"I'll check," he said, pausing. "Oh, I have souvenirs for you, Uncle Tony, and Dave. I'll bring them over later."
"Go on, darling," she smiled, "Heather's waiting."
He bounded up the stairs, his heart pounding. Heather's door was closed, the room shrouded in darkness. He knocked, waited, then knocked again, listening intently. Silence. "Heather? It's me. I'm coming in."
He turned the knob, the door swinging open to reveal a darkened room, the blackout curtains drawn tight. He flicked on the light, the sudden brightness revealing an empty space. A wave of unease washed over him. He checked the bathroom, knocking first, then opening the door to find it equally deserted.
"Aunt Maggie!" he called, his voice laced with urgency. "Heather's not upstairs!"
"Not there?" Marjorie frowned, then checked her phone. No messages. "She might be at the condominium. The contract's still active. Here," she scribbled an address, unit number, passcode, and parking spot on a notepad. "Take my car."
"Thanks, Auntie." He hugged her quickly, grabbing the keys.
The drive was a blur, the GPS guiding him through the city streets. He dialed Heather's number repeatedly, each unanswered ring amplifying his anxiety. At the condominium, he rushed to the elevator, pressing the 21st-floor button with frantic impatience.
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Heather had sought refuge in the condominium, a familiar space that offered a semblance of peace. The nightmares, relentless and terrifying, had become unbearable. She couldn't bear to disturb her aunt and uncle, especially after baby Dave's distress.
She'd fallen asleep around six, but the darkness had quickly morphed into a familiar torment. The dreams always began with Chris, idyllic moments from their past, but then Yuna would appear, shattering the illusion, leaving her abandoned. The setting would shift, the warmth replaced by a chilling darkness, her cries for help echoing unanswered.
Tonight, the nightmare was a suffocating dread. She stood in a vast, empty room, her voice lost in the echoing silence. Then, a creak behind her, the slow, deliberate opening of a door. She turned, her heart pounding, and saw a silhouette, faceless, menacing.
Terror seized her, her body frozen. She stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them, the figure was gone. But then, it was above her, its weight pressing her down.
The dim light illuminated the figure's face as it leaned in, its features twisted in a cruel parody of humanity. She recognized the man, the memory a raw, visceral wound. His hands, tearing at her clothes, the feeling of helplessness, the trapped screams.
"N-noooo!" Heather groaned, the sound escaping her lips in a strangled cry. Her body writhed, her head shaking, her limbs flailing in a desperate attempt to escape the phantom grip.
The struggle intensified, her body jerking violently, until she tumbled off the bed, landing with a muffled thud. "Noooo!" she screamed, the sound raw and broken.
The realization crashed over her, a tidal wave of truth. It wasn't just Chris, it was the memory, the assault, the violation. The trauma, buried deep within her subconscious, had resurfaced, triggered by the recent betrayal.
Nausea gripped her, and she stumbled to the bathroom, her hand clamped over her mouth. Dry heaves wracked her body, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. When the spasms subsided, she sat on the cold tile floor, her body trembling, her eyes wide with terror.
She stripped off her clothes, the fabric feeling tainted, and turned on the shower, the scalding water a desperate attempt to cleanse herself. She scrubbed her skin raw, the loofah a weapon against the phantom touch, her voice a broken whisper: "Dirty, dirty, dirty."
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Rhys arrived at unit 21B, his heart pounding. Inside, he heard a crash, then a muffled scream. "Heather! Are you alright?"
No response. He frantically searched his pockets for the passcode, cursing when he realized he'd left it in the car. "Shit!"
Then, another muffled cry, footsteps. Rhys's panic escalated. "Heather!" He pounded on the door, his voice strained. "What's happening?"
He fished out his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed Marjorie. "Auntie, the passcode! I left the paper in the car!"
"818604!" she answered immediately, sensing his urgency. "What's wrong?"
"I'll explain later," he said, punching in the code and bursting into the apartment.
The only light came from the bathroom, the door slightly ajar. He moved cautiously, scanning the apartment for any sign of an intruder. Hearing sobs, he approached the bathroom.
"Heather?" he said softly. "I'm coming in."
He pushed the door open, his breath catching in his throat. Heather stood under the shower, her back to him. She was scrubbing her arm raw, her body shaking, her voice a broken mantra: "Dirty, dirty, dirty."
His heart clenched, a wave of protectiveness and anguish washing over him. He took a step towards her, his voice a gentle whisper, "Heather..."
Rhys's voice, a soft tremor in the rushing water's roar, seemed to pierce the fog of Heather's terror. She flinched, her shoulders tightening, but didn't turn. He saw the raw, bleeding patches on her skin, the frantic, almost violent motion of her hand. The sight sent a jolt of ice through him, a sickening understanding of the depth of her pain.
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. "Heather, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with compassion. He reached out, his hand hovering over her trembling shoulder, hesitant to touch, afraid to trigger a deeper panic.
"Heather, it's me, Rhys." He spoke softly, his voice a soothing balm. "You're safe. I'm here."
She finally turned, her eyes wide and haunted, the pupils dilated. Her face was streaked with tears, her lips trembling. She looked at him, a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of raw, unadulterated fear. She recoiled, "Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice a broken rasp. She recoiled, her body shaking violently. "I'm dirty."
Rhys's heart clenched. He understood. The phantom touch, the lingering violation, had tainted her in her own mind. He had to tread carefully, to show her that she was safe, that he was here to protect her, not to harm her.
"You're not dirty, Heather," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're beautiful, you're strong, and you're safe. I promise."
He stepped back, giving her space, showing her that he wasn't a threat. "Let's get you out of the shower, okay? The water's too hot, and you're hurting yourself."
He reached for the shower knob, his hand trembling slightly, turning it off. The sudden silence amplified the sound of Heather's ragged breathing. He grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the rack and held it out to her, but she didn't move, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Here," he said softly, holding the towel closer. "Let me help you dry off."
She hesitated, her eyes darting between him and the towel, her body still trembling. She curled her arms tightly around herself, as if trying to shield herself from an unseen threat. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can do it myself."
"Okay," Rhys said, his voice calm and reassuring. "That's fine. Just… please, let's get you out of here. You're going to get sick."
He stepped back again, giving her even more space, showing her that he wasn't going to force her. He kept his gaze soft, his expression gentle, trying to convey his unwavering support.
Heather took a shaky breath, her eyes still filled with fear, but she seemed to be calming down slightly. She finally reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she took the towel. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a surge of warmth through him, a flicker of hope in the midst of despair.
She wrapped the towel around herself, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes still darting around the room, as if expecting the phantom figure to reappear. Rhys turned away, giving her privacy, his gaze fixed on the tiled wall, but he kept his voice low and soothing.
"I'm going to get you some clothes," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just give me a minute."
He stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him, giving her a moment to compose herself. He found a soft, oversized shirt and a pair of comfortable sweatpants in the bedroom closet, choosing the most comforting clothes he could find. He returned to the bathroom, knocking softly before entering, his heart pounding in his chest.
When he opened the door, Heather was still huddled on the edge of the bathtub, her head bowed, her body still trembling, but she wasn't scrubbing herself anymore. He held out the clothes, his hands steady.
"Here," he said gently. "These should be comfortable."
She looked at the clothes, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and gratitude. She reached out and took them, her fingers brushing against his again, the contact sending a shiver through both of them. He stepped back, giving her space to change, his gaze fixed on the floor, respecting her need for privacy.
Seeing the bleeding patches on Heather's arm and legs, Rhys's heart sank. He knew he needed to clean and dress the wounds before anything else. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, searching for a first aid kit. He found it and opened it, pulling out antiseptic solution, cotton swabs, and bandages.
He approached Heather, who was still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her body curled into a ball. "Heather," he said softly, "let me help you with those wounds."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "No," she whispered. "I can do it myself."
"I know you can, baby," he said gently, "but it's easier if I help you. I don't want you to get an infection."
He sat down next to her, gently taking her hand in his. "Let me clean your wounds first," he said. "Then I'll get you some food and water."
Heather hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. He gently lifted her arm, revealing the deep scratches. He poured some antiseptic solution onto a cotton swab and began to clean the wounds, wiping away the blood and debris.
Heather flinched as the antiseptic stung, but she held back her cries. Rhys noticed her discomfort and gently applied pressure to the wounds with a clean cloth.
"I'm so sorry, Heather," he said softly. "This must be terrible."
She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "It hurts."
"I know," he said, his voice filled with empathy. "But it'll be okay. I'm here for you."
When he finished cleaning the wounds, applying bandages and then helped her stand up. He wrapped his arm around her waist, providing support as she stumbled towards the bed. He helped her sit down and pulled the covers over her.
"I'm going to get you some food and water," he said. "Just rest for a while."
He left the room, closing the door behind him. He went to the kitchen and found a bottle of water and a granola bar. He brought them back to the bedroom and placed them on the nightstand.
"Here you go," he said, sitting down next to Heather. "I know you're probably not hungry, but you need to eat something."
Heather took the granola bar and the bottle of water, her hands trembling slightly. She took a few bites of the granola bar and sipped the water.
"Thanks," she said, her voice barely audible.
Rhys smiled gently. "You're welcome. Anything you need, just let me know."
Heather nodded, her eyes still filled with fear and vulnerability. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I'm here, Heather," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
He stayed with her, his presence a silent promise of protection. He watched as her breathing slowly evened out, as the tension gradually eased from her body. He stayed until she finally drifted off to sleep, her face peaceful, her nightmares momentarily banished.
He knew this was just the beginning, that the road to recovery would be long and arduous. But he was determined to be there for her, to guide her through the darkness, to help her reclaim her strength. He wouldn't let her face her demons alone.
He stood up, his gaze lingering on her sleeping form. He pulled the covers up to her chin, tucking her in like a child. He turned off the light, leaving only the soft glow of the hallway lamp. He closed the door quietly, his heart heavy with a mixture of pain and determination. He went to the living room and dialed Marjorie. "Aunt Maggie, I'm here at the condominium. Heather fell asleep, but..." he paused, struggling to find the right words. "She's not doing well." He told her what he saw in the bathroom.
Marjorie was silent for a moment, then she spoke, her voice laced with sadness and resolve. "Thank you for being there for her, Rhys. I'll come over in the morning. We'll figure this out together."
He hung up, his mind racing. He knew he couldn't shield Heather from her past, but he could offer her a safe haven, a place where she could heal. He would be her anchor, her protector, her unwavering support. He would help her find her way back to herself.