"It's my fault that they showed up to your door with fucking sledgehammers. Because I drove you back in my nice cars or I sent you home with designer shopping bags. They saw you and you became a target because of me. Fuck, I knew I should have fucking moved you the second I met you!" Suddenly he's back to angry, but I don't feel that it's directed at me entirely. His hands grip the counter tightly as he speaks, his voice slowly becoming louder the longer he speaks.
"Rhodes..." I once again make an attempt to ease his mind.
"Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? If something had happened to you?" he asks sincerely, his forehead slightly creased. It causes the breath to catch in my throat, he truly does believe this is his fault. I move slowly around the counter towards him as I speak.
"But nothing did. I'm fine, look, I'm right here, I'm okay." I say with half a smile on my face. He turns his body towards me as I speak, but he doesn't move. I place a hand tentatively on his arm and rub it over the material of his t-shirt.
"All those times that you have gone back to your apartment to get things changed, something could have happened to you because I didn't know that men came to your door with fucking sledgehammers, what the fuck, Amelia." His body stiffens as he talks, still slowly shaking his head. I can't lie and say that the same thought didn't cross my mind when I went back to collect things from my apartment. But nothing ever happened, it was an isolated incident, I'm okay.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Rhodes." I keep trying to comfort him. It doesn't work, he doesn't even look at me while he's talking. He just stares ahead at the wall on the other side of the room. I move my body in between the small space between him and the countertop, the smell of his cologne filling my senses. He still hasn't completely shaved his face, leaving behind a little bit of stubble. I know he thinks it makes him look scruffy and unprofessional, but I know he keeps it around because I talked about how much I liked it. I'm itching to run my fingers across it, but now is not the time for that.
"It would have destroyed me. Absolutely destroyed me." He finally looks down at me as my breath hitches in my throat. It hits me all at once, the realization of why I really should have told him about what happened. Because he's now scared of what could have happened to me. The thought of me getting hurt would destroy him? Destroyed is a strong word, and it makes me think that if something happened to him, would I be destroyed too?
Yeah, destroyed seems like an appropriate word.