Rhys is next. Gym clothes, yeah, but somehow he still looks pressed and sterile. Crisp. His deodorant cost more than my punching bag.
“What are we doing?” he asks, scanning the room.
I don’t answer. I just hit the bag again.
“Can we box?” Benji asks, already eyeing the ring in the corner.
“No,” Rhys says way too sharp and fast.
I turn to him, slow. “Oh? You don’t scrap, doc?”
His jaw ticks. I see it in his eyes. Not just a no. Not an I can’t. A don’t make me.
Last time I asked if he’d ever hit a man, he deflected with his whole this is your therapy, not mine routine. Today, he’s not hiding behind a desk.
“You ever hit someone, Rhys?” I ask.
His mouth opens and then closes. I see the memory flicker, fast and ugly, behind those professional eyes. He’s got that kind of stillness that only comes from barely holding back a beast.
He’s scared of what he’s capable of.
Benji doesn’t catch it. He just bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ll go light. Promise.”
I toss gloves to Benji. “Suit up.”
Then I walk over and hold a pair out to Rhys.
He doesn’t take them. “I don’t fight,” he says.
Not can’t. Not don’t know how.
I step into his space. “No one’s asking you to go full psycho. Just spar. Benji’ll take care of you.”
Rhys glances over at Benji, who’s already taping his wrists. A human tank. Who looks like he bench presses houses for fun.
“I’m not gonna hit hard,” Benji says again, flashing a grin. “Just show me how a therapist throws a punch.”
I see it all.
Rhys isn’t afraid of getting hit. He’s afraid of hitting back. That kind of restraint’s familiar. It’s the same shit I feel in my bones. That itch. That old wiring. That little voice that says fuck it, break something.
Rhys swallows hard. His hand twitches toward the gloves.
“You won’t get a broken rib,” I say. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He looks at me. Really looks. Maybe he sees something mirrored in me, too. Then he nods, once.
I toss him the gloves.
He catches them.
“Ring’s yours,” I say, jerking my chin toward it. “Benji, go easy.”
Benji bounces up the steps. “I’ll make it cuddly.”
Rhys climbs in slower, still all tight control and poker face, but there’s a stiffness in his movements.
I move to the ropes. I’m not refereeing. I’m watching. Studying.
