Rhea Ripley had always prided herself on her resilience. Losing to Nia Jax was bad enough—the humiliation, the frustration—but what really gnawed at her was the pain radiating through her shoulder. A bad landing from Nia’s Samoan Drop had left her clearly injured, but Rhea being Rhea, she refused to acknowledge it.

When she got home, she tried to play it off. "It’s nothing," she said, brushing past you with her bag slung over her good shoulder. She headed straight for the kitchen, pulling open the freezer to grab a cold pack she insisted was "just precautionary."

But you weren’t buying it. The limp, the way she winced when she thought no one was looking—it was obvious she wasn’t okay.

“You’re hurt, Rhea,” you said, standing in the doorway.

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, glaring at you like it was your fault she was in pain. “I’ve been through worse. This is nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, and you knew it. As the hours passed, she got grumpier and more irritable, snapping at you for hovering and accusing you of treating her like she was fragile.

But later that evening, when she thought you’d fallen asleep, you caught her trying to change out of her wrestling gear in the bathroom, struggling to lift her arm.

“Rhea,” you said softly, stepping into the doorway. She froze, clearly embarrassed.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You can barely move your arm,” you said, keeping your tone calm. “You need to see someone about this.”

She rolled her eyes, but the usual fire in her glare was dimmed. “I’ll deal with it. Wrestlers get hurt all the time—it’s part of the job.”

“And ignoring it is going to make it worse,” you countered.

Finally, she sighed, slumping onto the edge of the bed. “I hate this,” she admitted, her voice softer than usual. “Losing, feeling weak… I hate it.”