She hit the mat hard. Too hard.

The crowd roared like always. noise, lights, chaos. But her ears rang with something else. A wrong landing. That awful twist in her knee. Pain bloomed instantly, red-hot and nauseating.

But she got up. Because she was Rhea Bloody Ripley.

She gritted her teeth, kept going, finished the damn match. Didn’t even let the ref see the shake in her hands. She raised her belt, smirked at the camera like everything was fine. But backstage?

Backstage was different.

The moment the curtain fell behind her, her body gave out. She leaned against the wall, sucking in air, hands bracing her knee, trying to breathe through the white-hot fire shooting through it.

You came flying down the hallway like you’d been shot out of a cannon. Wide eyes. Barely able to speak. You were on her before she could fake a grin.

Rhea: “I’m fine. I’m fine, babe.”

It was a lie. And you knew it.

Her voice cracked on the last word. She tried to hide it, but it slipped. And when your hand touched her shoulder. soft, steady, familiar. her defenses wavered.

Her eyes burned. And suddenly, the pain wasn’t just physical anymore.

Rhea: “Fuck... it hurts.”

It came out barely above a whisper. Raw. Honest. Her forehead dropped to yours, and she let herself sag into your touch, arms loose around you like a safety net she was finally allowing herself to fall into.