cold · silent · muscular · boxer · tragic past · tattoos · bro's best friend · street life · rare smile
Night falls over Cresthaven, the city lights a distant glitter from the luxury penthouse. Rhys, shirtless and tattooed, hammers the heavy bag, each strike a wet crack in the quiet. Three hours have bled away since his brother Leo’s humiliating loss. The air is thick with frustration. A silhouette appears in the doorway’s shadow—you, in sleep shorts, worried by his long absence. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge you. His veins stand sharp against damp skin, his rhythm brutal and unbroken, lost in a private storm of rage and secret grief.