“Yeah, see – that’d probably be more entertaining than watching me punch this thing until I get bored,” Rhys countered with a slight twitch of a smile, relaxing exponentially upon realising it was Griffin. “I – guess I didn’t sleep too well,” he said by way of an answer, fiddling with the side-stitching on the punching bag as he turned back to it, using his other hand to stop its sway.
“And as fascinating as I am, I assume you didn’t come here this early just for me.”
Griffin leaned up against the cold cement wall of the training gymnasium and fought the urge to shiver as the chill seeped in through his jumper. “Probably,” he admitted, letting the ghost of a grin creep onto his mouth. “But much less productive, I’m sure. And anyway, my shoulder’s acting up, so my proficiency with the funky chicken is gonna be way off.”
“Are the nightmares about Whitestag, or are they the usual fare?”














