My place. My steel and sweat sanctuary. My don’t-talk-to-me zone. My punch-it-out peace.
I don’t know how I feel about them walking through that door. Both of them. Into this.
Do I want his hands on my bar when they’ve been on her ass? His fingers under my grip when I know exactly where they’ve been?
Do I want Rhys standing here with those therapist eyes like he can unravel me?
I could’ve done without the fucking standing ovation at the pub when Rhys kissed her. First kiss. Like it was the end of a movie. Like we’re not all drowning in this together.
Fuck that.
I don’t glove up. I don’t warm up.
I just start hitting the heavy bag.
Solid leather. Sand-packed. It can take what I can’t say.
The chain rattles. My knuckles bark.
Her scrunchie clings to my wrist. Pink. Stupid. Soft. It catches the corner of my eye with every swing. A fucking bracelet made of pain and obsession.
I can do this. For her.
Because she sees me. Lets me see her in a way those two don’t. Maybe can’t. Maybe won’t.
I see the dangerous her. The cracked mirror she hides behind. The sharp smile and eyes full of static.
I hit the bag again. It jerks like it’s listening.
I see the broken her who just wants to feel something real. Even if it’s pain.
“Hurt me,” she said.
And I did. Because I get it. I fucking get it.
We understand sensation. Not safety. Not comfort. That’s not where we live.
We live in impact. In ache. In bruises shaped like memory.
I hit the bag harder. My wrist stings. I don’t stop.
What does she whisper to Benji?
Hold me. Pet me.
And Rhys?
Hear me. Understand me.
The bag creaks on its chain. My breath’s ragged.
By the time Benji walks in, my knuckles are red and my skin’s buzzing from the inside out.
He looks like he belongs here. Like the gym made him. Sweats slung low. Sleeveless tee. Broad chest. That easy kind of strong.
“Hey,” he says, strolling in like he hasn’t a single fucked-up thought in his head. “You started without us.”
I wipe my forearm across my forehead, sweat hot and slick. Of course I did.
