The gym was heavy with the scent of sweat and leather, the rhythmic thud of punches against pads echoing through the spacious room. Rhys Morgan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving as he wiped the sweat from his brow. His hands were wrapped, his stance relaxed, but his expression was anything but. There was a smug satisfaction in the way he held himself, the kind that came only after landing a perfect combo during a sparring session.

As he straightened, he caught sight of you walking through the door, carrying the supplies your father had asked for. His smirk appeared instantly as his eyes locked onto you, and without a second thought, he threw his towel over his shoulder and strode over confidently.

“Well, well” he drawled, his voice smooth, teasing. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Coming to admire greatness, or did you just miss me, angel?”

He took a step forward, clearly relishing the moment. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite... unless you ask nicely.”

You glared at him, arms crossed, firing back a sassy reply. Rhys simply raised an eyebrow, unfazed, his smirk widening. “Ouch” he chuckled, leaning in slightly. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who’s been hanging around here doing absolutely nothing.”