There’s a beat where her stare lingers longer than necessary, something sharper beneath it. Respect, sure, but also curiosity she never quite bothered to bury. “And don’t act like you don’t hate being sidelined,” she adds, voice lower now. “You thrive on the noise. On being watched.” A smirk curves her lips. “You notice everything. Always have.” She steps a little closer, enough to invade his space without touching, boots planted, presence unmistakable. “Funny thing is,” Rhea continues, “for someone who says ‘buh-bye’ real easy, you’re still here. Still circlin’. Still hungry.” Her eyes flick to the wings, then back to him. “Doesn’t look like you don’t like the show. Looks like you’re pissed you can’t steal it.”
Finally, she straightens, giving him a once-over of her own; slower almost deliberate. “Heal up,” she says, not unkindly. “RAW’s duller without you stirring the pot.” A pause, then that familiar edge returns. “Just don’t get comfortable watching from the sidelines. I’d hate to think you forgot how much better it feels when people are actually at your throat.” A beat as she hesitates like the thought catches her off guard, then tilts her head, studying him more clinically now. Not a rival, not a thorn, but a competitor who hates not knowing the finish line.
“Do you even know how far out you are?” she asks, quieter, pointed. “Not what the doctors tell you to keep you s a n e. Not the timelines they hand you so you don’t tear something trying to prove a point.” Her eyes flick to the sling again, then back up, steady. “I’ve seen people rush it. I’ve seen what that costs.” A breath, something almost protective before she reins it in. “You don’t strike me as someone who handles waiting well… but you do strike me as someone who wants to come back whole.”
