Because something in Rhys is coiled, waiting. And I wanna know what happens when it snaps.
Benji’s bouncing on his toes when Rhys finally steps into the ring. I have to give it to the doc, he moves like someone who knows what a fist feels like.
He lifts his hands. Doesn’t raise ‘em to his chin like a fighter. Just halfway up, like maybe if he doesn’t fully square off, he won’t become whoever he’s scared of being.
Benji grins at him, easy. “You sure about this?”
“No,” Rhys says.
Benji just nods. “Cool. I’ll keep it playful.”
First few moves are all Benji. Light jabs. Just tapping gloves. Testing the water.
Rhys doesn’t swing. He dodges. Slips. Weaves. Knows how to pivot and duck just enough to not get hit, but never enough to answer back.
Benji goes soft with him. But he’s still Benji. He’s big, he’s fast, and when he moves, the air hums.
“Come on,” Benji says, throwing another soft jab. “You’re dancing but not hitting.”
“I told you, I don’t fight.”
“That’s not true,” I say from the ropes. “You don’t fight now.”
Rhys glances at me. That’s the crack. Just a flick of attention.
Benji tags him on the side.
Not hard. Not really. But enough.
Rhys stumbles. Regains. And suddenly he’s there.
I see it in his shoulders.
He throws one punch. A right cross, clean as hell. Snaps Benji’s head to the side.
And then Rhys just stops. He jerks back like he touched fire. Drops his hands. Breath ragged. Not from exertion. From memory.
I’ve felt that before, when the rage goes out and all you’re left with is the echo of your own violence. It fucks you up.
Benji straightens, blinks once, then immediately pulls his gloves off. “Hey,” he says, stepping forward.
Rhys backs up. Hands shaking.
Benji grabs his shoulder. “Hey. You’re alright. You didn’t hurt me. You pulled it. You stopped.”
Rhys shakes his head. “I don’t, fuck. I shouldn’t have.”
“You should’ve,” Benji says, voice low. “It’s okay.”
Rhys looks at him like he’s not sure he believes it. As if that one punch cost him more than decades of being good.
Benji steps in closer. Not aggressive. Just there. Fucking safe.
“Let me take the gloves off,” Benji says. “We’ll grab water. Cool down. You did good.”
And Rhys, Mr. Control, Mr. Distance, lets him. Just stands there while Benji peels the gloves off like he’s dismantling a weapon.
I look away. Because fuck. I pushed too hard. Too fucking far.
