would you mind

the camera lights burned a little hotter than usual as you stood backstage with cathy kelley, mic in hand, still catching your breath from your win earlier that night. the roar of the crowd echoed faintly through the arena walls, but your focus stayed sharp.

"you’ve built serious momentum these past few weeks, y/n" cathy said with a smile. "how are you feeling heading into what could be a title opportunity soon?"

you adjusted the wrist tape on your arm and smiled, breathing confidence into every word. "i feel ready, cathy. i’ve never needed shortcuts or backup. i earn everything i get, and i do it the right way, for the fans, for myself. that’s how champions are made."

cheers erupted from the crowd watching on the titantron in the arena, but before cathy could ask her next question, a slow, mocking clap echoed down the hallway.

you turned, jaw already tightening.

seth rollins strolled into frame with that signature grin, the kind that said he’d been listening the whole time just to ruin your moment. bronson reed loomed behind him, arms crossed. and flanking seth’s other side was bron breakker, stone-faced, arms tense, eyes fixed on you like you were prey he hadn’t decided whether to chase or spare.

"well, well, well", seth cooed, taking a step into camera range. "isn’t this heartwarming? monday night raw’s little hero, telling bedtime stories about honor and hard work."

you rolled your eyes, lifting your mic. "i’d rather tell bedtime stories than run a circus act that needs paul heyman to hold the leash."

seth’s smirk twitched, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he glanced toward bron and motioned for him to step up.

bron’s boots hit the floor like warning shots as he moved into your space, close, too close. his gaze bore into yours, sharp and unreadable. you didn’t flinch.

"you talk like you’re above us" bron said lowly, voice rough and cold. "but that smile of yours? it’s gonna fade real fast when you realize how this place really works."

you tilted your chin up. "if you have to destroy everything good in yourself just to get ahead, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand how this place works."

there it was, a flicker. a shadow in his eyes. a moment’s hesitation, just for a second.

seth stepped between you both with a grin that felt too wide. "careful, y/n. keep poking the dog, and it’ll bite eventually."

you didn’t move. "let’s hope it remembers who it used to be before it got chained up."

that did it. bron’s jaw twitched. but instead of snapping, he turned without a word and walked off. reed followed. seth gave one last smirk before trailing after them, the echo of his boots fading into the corridor.

you stood there, pulse racing, not from fear. from something else.

something dangerous.

something you weren’t sure you wanted to stop.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you had just left the locker room after toweling off and getting changed into sweats. the interview with cathy, the face off with rollins, and especially the tension with bron breakker, it all replayed in your head like a loop you couldn’t stop. something about the way he looked at you. not with malice. not exactly. something deeper. conflicted.

a call of your name pulled you out of your thoughts and you turned on your heel.

adam pearce, clipboard in hand and a tight expression on his face.

"y/n" he greeted with a small nod. "just a heads up before it goes live on social. i wanted you to hear it from me."

you raised a brow, tossing the towel over your shoulder. "what’s going on?"

pearce sighed. "management wants to capitalize on the buzz from earlier. you and bron had the fans talking."

you folded your arms. "okay"

"there’s going to be a mixed tag match announced for next week’s raw" he said. "you’ll team with punk. you’re going up against bron and becky"

your heart skipped a beat.

"are you serious?"

pearce gave a weary shrug. "hey, it’s a ratings move. your win streak, their dominance. the crowd loves the face off. they want more."

you let out a slow breath. "so i’m stepping into the ring with the monster and the man"

"pretty much", pearce said with a grim smile. "i know you can handle yourself, but be careful with bron. he’s not the same guy he was a year ago."

you stared at the floor for a second, your mind racing. "no. he’s not."

pearce gave you a nod. "announcement goes live in ten. good luck next week."

as he left, you sat down slowly on a crate, heart thudding in your chest, not from fear, but from the questions that were already creeping in.

would bron actually try to hurt you?

would he follow orders?

or would that flicker you saw in his eyes, whatever was left of the real him, be enough to stop him?

somehow, you weren’t sure which answer scared you more.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

bron sat on the edge of a production crate backstage, fists loosely clenched, elbows on his knees. the faint hum of the arena filtered in from down the hall, but his mind wasn’t on the crowd. It was on you.

he hadn’t meant to hesitate earlier. it just happened.

the words you’d thrown at him in that interview had cut deeper than they should have. "let’s hope it remembers who it used to be before it got chained up."

you didn’t know him. not really. but somehow, that one sentence dug into places he thought were long buried.

he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

"bron" came heyman’s voice from behind, sharp and deliberate. he turned, finding paul standing there, phone in hand, flanked by bronson reed and seth rollins smiling like he already knew something bron didn’t, becky at his side.

"you’re in a match next week" seth said with a sing-song lilt. "you and becky"

bron raised an eyebrow. "against who?"

seth’s grin widened.

"punk... and y/n"

something shifted in bron’s chest, tight, uncomfortable. he didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. just stared at the floor for a beat too long.

"it’s perfect, isn’t it?" heyman added, stepping forward with that low, calculating tone. "after that little moment earlier, the fans want blood. they want to see you break her in half. you won’t disappoint them, will you?"

bron didn’t answer.

rollins clapped him on the shoulder. "this is your chance to remind everyone who you are. what you’re made of. you don’t hesitate in our faction. you execute."

bron’s jaw tightened. the words echoed louder than they should have. you don’t hesitate.

but he already had. back there with you, for a split second, he’d frozen.

not because he couldn’t hurt you.

nut because he didn’t want to.

and now they wanted to put you in the ring with him again? expect him to run through you like a wrecking ball?

he stood abruptly, nodding once, too quickly.

"yeah" he muttered. "i’ll handle it."

he walked off before they could say more, trying to shake the twisting in his gut. but no matter how many corners he turned, no matter how many deep breaths he took, your voice stayed with him.

"you’re not them, bron."

he wished he believed that.

because next week, he was either going to prove them wrong

or lose whatever piece of himself was still left.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the energy inside the arena was electric as the crowd chanted your name, the thunder of cm punk’s entrance music still echoing through the rafters. you stood on the apron beside him, watching as he paced in the ring, tapping his fists together, ready for a fight.

across from you stood a different kind of team.

becky lynch, cocky and venomous in her heel era, leaned into the ropes with a wicked grin, taunting the crowd. beside her, silent and still, was bron breakker. his expression was unreadable, jaw locked, eyes fixed ahead, every muscle wound tight like he was holding something back.

you.

the ref rang the bell, and punk started the match against bron. the two men collided like titans, the ring shaking under the force of every hit, every slam. bron wrestled stiff, sharp, brutal, but not reckless. He wasn’t trying to send a message. he was just surviving the moment.

and his eyes flicked to you.

every. damn. time.

eventually, both men tagged out.

you and becky rushed in like fire and gasoline. her strikes came fast and dirty, hair pulls, eye rakes behind the ref’s back, a cheap knee to your gut that knocked the wind from your lungs. but you fought back harder. rope rebound. dropkick. flying elbow. you had the crowd roaring with every comeback.

she tagged out first.

and so did you.

bron stepped into the ring.

and you stood across from him.

the crowd exploded.

technically, you weren’t legal anymore. but there you were, both standing at centre ring, staring each other down while Punk and becky fought on the outside. the tag rule blurred in that moment. no one tried to stop it. not the ref. not the fans.

not bron.

"you gonna hit me this time?" you asked, voice barely loud enough for the cameras to catch.

his jaw clenched. "i don’t want to."

"you’re supposed to."

he stepped closer. "i don’t care."

the crowd lost it.

you could hear rollins somewhere backstage losing his mind.

bron didn’t move. not to hit you. not to leave.

you could see it in his face, the weight. the war. the part of him that wanted to fight this, and the part of him that was already falling.

"then walk away" you said quietly.

but before he could speak, or do anything, becky flew into the ring and cheap-shotted you from behind, smashing your face into the turnbuckle.

cm punk dove in to even the odds, tackling bron in retaliation even though bron hadn’t touched you. the whole match dissolved into chaos. fists flying. ref struggling. fans screaming.

in the middle of it all, bron stood frozen.

and when he looked down at you, dazed on your knees in the corner, he saw it, the bruise blooming on your cheek from becky’s shot. the crowd yelling for someone, anyone, to help you.

and that’s when he moved.

bron grabbed Becky’s arm and ripped her away from you, flinging her back with enough force to knock her down. she stared up at him, shocked.

"you don’t touch her" he growled, loud enough for the mics.

the ref called for the bell.

disqualification.

chaos.

boos and cheers tangled into one noise as bron stood over you protectively, eyes wild, chest heaving.

you looked up at him, stunned, confused, but not afraid.

and bron breakker?

for the first time in a long time

he looked afraid.

of himself.

of what he just did.

and of how much he wanted to do it again, if it meant keeping you safe.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hallway outside gorilla was chaos. crew members shouted over headsets, officials scrambled to manage the fallout, and seth rollins’ voice echoed somewhere down the corridor, furious and wild.

but none of it touched you.

you sat on a production crate, ice pack pressed to your cheek, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. the bruise from becky’s cheap shot throbbed dully, but that wasn’t what had you rattled.

it was him.

the moment bron breakker had grabbed becky, thrown away the match, and stood between you and the wreckage like some kind of shield, like someone who cared.

and now, you could hear his boots again.

you didn’t look up right away.

"y/n" he said, voice low and rough.

you raised your eyes slowly, finding him standing a few feet away, tense, uncertain, like he was ready to run but forcing himself to stay.

"you didn’t walk away" you said.

his brows furrowed. "what?"

"in the ring", you said, voice soft but steady. "you said you didn’t want to hit me. i told you to walk away. but you didn’t."

"i couldn’t."

you stood, ice pack falling to your side. "why?"

bron looked down, shaking his head, fists clenched like he didn’t know what to do with them. "i don’t know anymore" he muttered. "everything they taught me, the way seth, paul, all of them drilled it into my head you follow orders. you don’t hesitate. you don’t feel anything."

"and yet you did" you said, taking a cautious step toward him. "you hesitated. you felt something."

he looked at you then. really looked at you. and it wasn’t the cold stare he wore in the ring. it was open. raw.

"because it’s you" he admitted. "i don’t know when it started. i don’t know how. but when i’m around you, i feel like i’m losing control and it’s the only time i don’t hate it."

silence stretched between you.

he took a breath, like it hurt to say what came next.

"i wasn’t supposed to care. you’re everything i was told to crush. and instead all i want to do is protect you."

you stepped in closer, until only inches separated you. his breath caught.

"you don’t have to be what they made you, bron" you said quietly. "you can be something better. you already are."

he looked down at your cheek again, at the bruise he didn’t cause but still felt responsible for.

"i shouldn’t have let her touch you."

you reached up, gently brushing your fingers against his forearm. "but you didn’t let it happen twice."

for a long beat, neither of you moved.

then someone shouted his name down the hall, rollins again, livid and closing in.

bron didn’t move.

you stepped back first, voice low. "you have to decide, bron. who you are when it’s just you. not what seth tells you. not what heyman wants."

he nodded once, jaw tight.

"i’ll be watching" you added, before turning and walking away.

and behind you, bron stood motionless, still trapped in the middle of a war he was no longer sure he wanted to win.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

bron barely had time to turn away from where you disappeared down the hallway before the storm hit.

“BRON!”

seth rollins’ voice cracked through gorilla like a thunderclap, sharp and venomous. bron didn’t flinch, he stood still, shoulders squared, as rollins stormed toward him in full on fury mode, black leather coat billowing behind him like a warning flare. behind him trailed paul heyman, slower, silent, more dangerous in his restraint.

"what the hell was that?"seth snapped, jabbing a finger into bron’s chest. "we had that match. we owned that crowd. and you just threw it all away because of her?!"

bron didn’t respond.

that only made seth angrier.

"you disobeyed. you hesitated. you let your emotions, your little puppy dog eyes for some sparkle eyed babyface, ruin everything!"

heyman stepped in then, his hand raised calmly, voice low but cutting. "gentlemen. let’s not do this in front of production staff."

rollins backed off by a step, but his glare stayed locked on bron like a blade pressed to skin. heyman turned to bron, folding his hands like he was about to deliver legal sentencing.

"we brought you into this faction for one reason", paul began. "because you were a weapon. efficient. controlled. ruthless. unstoppable."

bron’s jaw tensed.

"and now?" heyman continued. "you’re hesitating. you’re showing mercy. you're protecting y/n in front of millions of people like you're her knight in shining armor."

seth scoffed from the side. "more like her lapdog."

bron’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and dangerous, but he didn’t take the bait. not yet.

"you’re getting soft" rollins sneered. "and soft doesn’t survive in this business. soft gets chewed up. soft gets left behind."

heyman lowered his voice, more surgical than savage. "whatever feelings you’re entertaining, bron, they are a liability. you want to fall in love? go to catering and write a hallmark special. but in this faction, you follow orders. you obey."

bron stared at them both, the storm inside him only just contained beneath his surface.

"you want me to be a machine" he said finally, voice like stone. "no hesitation. no thought. just swing the hammer and never ask why."

seth smirked. "exactly."

"and if the hammer turns around?" bron asked, voice lower now, dangerous. "if the weapon you created starts pointing back at you?"

the silence hit like a slap.

heyman’s expression flickered just slightly. "is that a threat, mr. breakker?"

bron stepped forward, close enough that seth’s cocky mask twitched with just a hint of unease.

"it’s a reminder" bron growled. "even weapons break. especially when they’re used for the wrong war."

then he walked past them both.

didn’t wait for permission.

didn’t ask for forgiveness.

and somewhere deep in seth’s laughter, forced and hollow now, and the flicker in heyman’s eyes, that subtle calculation shifting, you could feel it:

bron breakker wasn’t theirs anymore.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the backstage hallway was quieter than usual after the chaos of raw. the energy had settled into something colder. tense. like the air before a storm.

you sat on a steel bench outside the trainer’s room, lacing up your boots after a quick checkup. the bruise on your cheek was already turning a deep violet, but you didn’t care. you’d had worse.

what stuck with you, what kept sticking with you, was the way bron had looked at you before he’d stepped in.

not like a monster.

like someone trying not to fall apart.

"hey" a voice murmured nearby.

you looked up.

cm punk stood beside you, towel draped around his neck. he glanced at your cheek, then let out a sharp exhale.

"you good?"

you nodded once. "yeah. just annoyed."

"with the match?"

"with becky" you muttered. "and the fact that bron didn’t make the move until after she hit me."

punk gave you a look. "but he did move."

you didn’t respond. because that part? that was the problem. he had moved, for you. against his own team. In front of millions.

punk caught your silence and tilted his head. "careful, y/n. i’ve seen that look before."

"what look?"

"the one you’ve got right now." he smirked faintly. "it’s the look you give someone when you think they’re worth saving."

you rolled your eyes, but the smirk almost made you smile. almost.

before you could respond, movement at the far end of the hallway caught your attention. bron.

he was walking alone, hoodie half-zipped, jaw clenched, tension in every step. his usual swagger was gone. he wasn’t looking for a camera. he was just moving. like a man without a direction.

no seth. no paul. no reed. just him.

your breath caught.

he glanced up.

and for just a moment, your eyes met.

it wasn’t a glare. not a challenge.

just something quiet. raw. and gone in an instant.

bron kept walking, disappearing into the shadows near the weight room without saying a word.

punk followed your gaze. "you gonna talk to him?"

"i don’t know", you said honestly.

he nodded. "when you do be ready. that kind of guy? he’s not just fighting other people. he’s fighting himself."

you didn’t say anything.

but you knew punk was right.

and you also knew this wasn’t over.

not by a long shot.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t expect to find him there.

the small training ring tucked away in the back corner of the performance centre’s private wing was usually empty after hours, especially after raw. most wrestlers were out, celebrating, cooling down, or flying to the next town.

but when you pushed the door open, there he was.

bron breakker.

sitting on the bottom turnbuckle, hoodie off, black training shirt clinging to him with sweat. his forearms rested on his knees, head down like he was waiting for the silence to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

you froze for a second. he hadn’t seen you yet.

you almost turned around.

then he looked up.

his eyes met yours.

and for the first time since that chaotic night in the ring, neither of you looked away.

"didn’t know anyone was still in here" you said, stepping inside, voice soft.

he gave a faint shrug. "didn’t feel like being anywhere else."

you nodded, slowly making your way toward the ropes. "hell of a match the other week."

he huffed a bitter laugh. "you mean the one i screwed up?"

you tilted your head. "you mean the one where you stopped Becky from breaking my jaw?"

he didn’t respond.

you leaned against the ropes, watching him. "why’d you do it?"

"i don’t know."

"try again."

bron looked up, jaw tight. "you don’t get it, y/n. i wasn’t supposed to care. about you. about that match. about anything. that’s what they want. clean. controlled. ruthless. no hesitation."

"but you did hesitate" you said gently. "twice."

he stared at the mat. "yeah. and now i’m a liability."

you stepped closer, slipping through the ropes. "you’re not a liability. you’re just finally acting like a human."

he looked up again. something flickered in his eyes. not quite hope. not quite fear. something fragile.

"you know what they’re gonna do if i keep this up, right?"

you nodded. "turn on you. cut you out."

"they built everything i have."

"no, bron,” you said. "you built it. with your blood. your body. your work. not rollins. not heyman."

you knelt beside him on the mat, your voice barely above a whisper now. "you’re allowed to want more than being their weapon."

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with your words.

then he said, quietly, "when i was standing in front of you in that ring i didn’t feel like a heel. i didn’t feel like a faction member. i felt like me. and i didn’t hate it."

you smiled softly. "then maybe that’s who you really are."

silence fell between you.

heavy, but not uncomfortable.

eventually, you stood and reached for the ropes.

"come find me when you’re ready to stop surviving and start living, bron."

and with that, you stepped out of the ring, leaving him alone under the low gym lights.

but not nearly as alone as before.

the door shut behind you with a soft click.

bron didn’t move.

he just sat there, alone in the ring, elbows on his knees, staring at the ropes you’d just slipped through. the echo of your voice still rang in his head.

"come find me when you’re ready to stop surviving and start living."

no one had ever said that to him before. not his father. not his uncle. not seth. not heyman. certainly not anyone in this business.

living wasn’t part of the job description. surviving was.

you didn’t survive in wwe by feeling something. you survived by grinding your knuckles into the mat and smiling through the blood. you did what you were told. you became whatever they needed you to be.

and for bron breakker, that meant becoming a weapon.

until now.

until you.

he clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching as his hands slowly curled into fists.

he should’ve told you to leave him alone. told you to stop trying to fix something that wasn’t broken. he should’ve stood up and walked out the second you walked in.

but he didn’t.

he stayed.

he listened.

and worst of all, he believed you.

because when you looked at him with those eyes, sharp, honest, unafraid, he didn’t feel like a machine anymore.

he felt like a man.

and that scared the hell out of him.

bron rose to his feet slowly, the mat creaking beneath his boots. he moved to the ropes and leaned against them, forearms draped over the top strand, head bowed.

if seth saw him now, he’d call it weakness. if heyman saw it, he’d call it leverage.

but if you saw it?

you’d call it something else entirely.

you’d call it a choice.

and maybe, for the first time in years, it was.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you knew something was off the second your music hit.

the match had been booked last minute, too last minute. you were set to face ivy nile, a clean showcase to keep your momentum going. no run-ins. no drama. that was the plan.

but your gut didn’t buy it.

as you stood in gorilla, pulling your wrist tape tight, one of the producers gave you a quick nod.

"clear segment. no interference" he said.

right.

you stepped through the curtain anyway.

the crowd lit up, your name echoing off the walls. you smiled as you slapped a few hands on your way to the ring, trying to push down the unease curling in your stomach.

ivy was already in the ring, smirking like she knew something you didn’t.

and fifteen seconds into the match, you did too.

because his music hit.

bron's

the crowd erupted, not in boos, not in cheers, just that kind of buzz, that electricity that meant everyone was watching, waiting, unsure which version of him they were about to get.

you paused mid-sequence, instinctively turning toward the ramp.

bron strode out, slow and deliberate, hoodie unzipped, eyes locked on you.

no seth. no heyman. no reed. just him.

your heart pounded.

ivy used the distraction to hit a cheap shot from behind, a hard forearm that staggered you into the corner. the ref shouted at her. the crowd booed. but you barely registered it.

because bron had reached the ring.

he didn’t slide in.

he stood there. hands on the apron. watching.

your eyes locked again, just like they had in the training room. like they had in the tag match. like he saw you, really saw you, and couldn’t unsee it anymore.

ivy shoved past the ref, charging toward you again.

but bron moved.

quick.

he reached up, caught her by the ankle mid-step and yanked her off her feet. she hit the mat face-first with a stunned yelp.

the crowd popped.

and you went for the pin.

1... 2... 3...

you won.

you stared at bron in disbelief as he rolled into the ring slowly. not rushing. not angry.

just… calm.

ivy scrambled out of the ring, shrieking at the ref, holding her jaw.

bron didn’t look at her once.

his eyes were still on you.

"why?" you asked, barely loud enough to be picked up by the nearest camera mic.

"because i heard what they told me to do" he said quietly. "and i decided not to."

the crowd, dead silent for a beat, erupted.

not a full cheer. not yet. but something.

recognition. shift. a crack in the foundation.

he stepped closer, not touching you, not intimidating. just there.

"they told me to hurt you. make a statement. bring you down."

"and instead?" you asked.

he looked at you like it was the only thing he was sure of in the entire world.

"i protected you."

for a long moment, the noise around you vanished. you stood in the centre of the ring, staring at the man who had once been your enemy, now standing between you and everyone who wanted to break you.

and in that moment, he didn’t look like a weapon.

he looked like a choice.

one he had finally made.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the locker room was colder than usual.

not in temperature, just in atmosphere. heavy. still. like the air before a thunderclap.

bron breakker stood inside, arms crossed, back to the door. he’d been summoned. not invited. summoned.

heyman was already seated when he walked in, legs crossed, hands folded around his phone like a prayer. seth stood near the lockers, pacing with the simmering energy of a bomb mid-tick.

no one spoke for a long moment.

then seth laughed, short and bitter.

"you’ve got balls, i’ll give you that" he said. " embarrassing my faction? throwing the match just so you can play knight in shining fucking armour"

bron didn’t flinch. "she was hurt."

"so?!" seth exploded, arms wide. "that was the point!"

paul heyman stood slowly, eyes cold and calculating. "we gave you direction, bron. focus. prestige. and you, you chose to undermine us for a woman."

he didn’t say your name.

that was deliberate.

"she’s not the reason i stopped" bron said, jaw tight. "you are."

seth stepped forward, nose to nose with him now, teeth clenched. "no. you’re the reason. you got soft. that’s on you."

bron’s silence was dangerous. he wasn’t shouting. wasn’t posturing.

he was thinking.

heyman turned, slow and deliberate. "do you know what happens when people start thinking for themselves, bron? they get replaced."

bron’s nostrils flared. "try it."

seth grinned like a devil. "oh, we won’t replace you, big man. that’s not the plan."

heyman smiled too, thin and sharp. "we’re going to remind you what happens when feelings cloud judgment."

bron’s gaze flicked between them. "what does that mean?"

seth turned away, casually pulling his gloves from his pockets. "it means sometimes, bron the best way to break a man isn’t through him."

bron’s stomach dropped.

they were going after you.

and now he knew it for sure.

he stepped forward, fast enough to make seth pause mid-glove pull.

"you touch her", bron growled, voice low and deadly, "and i promise, i won’t just walk away from this faction, i’ll tear it down from the inside out."

seth didn’t answer.

but the grin on his face?

it was already a declaration of war.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the arena was quiet. long after the last match. long after the crowd had emptied out and the lights dimmed.

you sat alone on the edge of the ring in the private gym, hands resting on the ropes, still in your gear but stripped of the adrenaline. everything ached in that post-show way, sore muscles, bruised ribs, a tension in your chest that had nothing to do with the night’s match.

you didn’t look up when you heard the door open.

you didn’t have to.

he walked in slow, like he wasn’t sure if he should be there. like every step forward was another rebellion.

"bron" you said softly.

he stopped at the edge of the mat, silent. watching you.

"they know" you murmured. "don’t they?"

he nodded once. "yeah."

you turned to look at him fully, your voice lower now. "and?"

"and i think they’re going to make an example out of you" he said, jaw tense.

you exhaled slowly, unsurprised. "you came to warn me?"

he didn’t answer right away. then he stepped closer and pulled himself up onto the apron, sitting beside you without asking.

"i came because i couldn’t stop thinking about you" he said.

you blinked.

and for a moment, the weight of everything, the games, the pain, the lies, slipped away.

"you don’t have to do this" you said, your voice barely a whisper. "you don’t owe me anything."

he turned to you slowly.

"yes, i do."

his words were quiet, but solid. Final.

"you made me remember i'm not just what they built. you made me feel like something more than a weapon."

you didn’t know what to say. so you said nothing. just looked at him, really looked, at the crease in his brow, the scar above his eyebrow, the storm barely kept behind his eyes.

he moved first.

leaning in like he was expecting you to stop him. like this was a risk he was willing to take, but not one he’d force.

you didn’t stop him.

his lips brushed yours, careful, tentative. a test.

and then you kissed him back.

there was nothing performative about it. no crowd. no heat of battle. no ring to perform in.

just two people who had been at war with everything around them and now, for just a second, found peace in each other.

when the kiss broke, he kept his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"i don’t know what happens next" he murmured. "but whatever it is, i’m with you."

you closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of him.

"then we face it together."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you should’ve known something was off the second the lights flickered.

the crowd was buzzing, not roaring, not hostile, just that weird, restless kind of noise that comes when something unexpected is in the air.

you had just won your match. clean. quick. nothing high-stakes, just a solid crowd-popper, one more notch in your belt. the ref raised your hand and you smiled, waving to the fans, turning toward the ropes—

and then it hit.

a steel chair. cracked across your spine so fast, so hard, that the air left your lungs in a choked gasp.

the crowd exploded in shocked boos.

you dropped to your knees, breathless.

another shot.

and another.

you barely registered the red hair at first, too busy trying to breathe, to move

but when she stepped in front of you, chair in hand, sneering through her teeth

you saw her.

becky lynch.

not the crowd-favorite. not the underdog rebel.

this becky was merciless.

"you like saving people, bron?" she hissed through the camera. "you like protecting her?"

she drove the edge of the chair into your ribs.

you screamed.

the crowd was on their feet now, shouting, panicking. referees ran down the ramp but becky shoved one to the mat, then pulled you up by the hair, dragging you upright just enough to throw you violently into the steel steps outside the ring.

everything blurred.

your face hit metal. you tasted blood.

you barely registered her boot stomping down on your shoulder.

"THIS IS YOUR FAULT, BRON!" she screamed toward the hard cam. "This is what she gets when you grow a heart!"

you rolled onto your side, coughing, blinking through the blood dripping from your forehead.

she wasn’t stopping.

you heard the crowd shift before you saw him.

because he came.

bron’s music hit, not like a hero’s return, not like a save, but like a storm breaking through a wall.

he sprinted down the ramp.

becky raised the chair again, one last shot aimed for your head

and then she was gone.

bron tackled her off her feet, not attacking, not striking back, just removing her from you.

he shoved her off, grabbed the chair, and flung it across the floor with a roar.

becky laughed, LAUGHED, blood on her lip, crawling backward like a devil proud of her damage.

security swarmed her.

bron dropped to your side.

your vision blurred.

but you felt him. his arms. his voice, low and shaking.

"y/n hey. hey, stay with me."

your blood smeared on his hands.

you reached for him instinctively, your fingers curling in his hoodie.

you didn’t care that the cameras were on you both.

didn’t care that the crowd was watching, hushed in horror.

all that mattered was him. his presence. his hands. his rage. his fear.

his voice cracked.

"they did this to you because of me."

You blinked slowly, lips parting. "no. they did it because they’re scared of what you’re becoming."

and in that moment, with the world watching

he realised you were right.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the medics tried to pull him away from you. cameras were crowding the floor around the ring. producers yelled in his earpiece. refs shouted. security tried to keep fans from climbing the barricade.

but bron didn’t move.

he was crouched beside you on the floor, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other holding your bloodied fingers. your forehead was split. your lip swollen. your gear streaked with blood and steel dust.

and you still whispered, "i'm okay."

you weren’t. but you said it anyway.

bron looked like he could rip the whole arena down.

then seth’s music hit.

the crowd booed, viciously. but seth walked out like he owned the world, slow and theatrical, wearing that unbothered grin.

he stood at the top of the ramp with a mic in hand, tilting his head toward bron like this was all just so predictable.

"you know, bron", seth called out, voice echoing, "it’s cute that you’re playing white knight. really. but maybe now you understand, this business? this war? it’s not about love stories. it’s about legacy."

bron didn’t look up.

seth kept going.

"you were supposed to be more than this. we were going to build you into a monster. and instead? You let some starry-eyed face with a pretty smile turn you into a puppy dog."

bron’s jaw tightened.

you squeezed his hand, weak but present.

then he stood.

slowly. like something seismic had shifted.

he stepped between you and seth, not hiding you, but protecting you, eyes locked like a sniper on his target.

someone offered him a mic. he didn’t take it.

he ripped it from their hand.

when he spoke, his voice didn’t need shouting.

it was low. steady. and terrifying.

"you want a monster?"

"you made one."

the crowd erupted.

"you think i'm weak because i care? you think protecting someone i love makes me less dangerous?", he paused, "no, seth. it makes me free."

the camera cut to seth, frowning now. the smile gone. his jaw flexed.

"you and heyman used me. you told me i had to hurt people to matter. to belong. and i bought it. but she looked at me like i was worth something. even before i earned it."

you felt your heart twist.

"and you sent becky to punish her for that? you didn’t break me, seth. you gave me a reason to fight."

bron turned, crouched beside you again, cupping your cheek.

"you good to watch me finish this?"

you nodded, lips trembling. "burn it all down."

he stood.

turned toward aeth.

and said the words that made the arena explode.

"you. me. saturday night's main event. no faction. no heyman. just you and the consequences of every damn thing you’ve done."

"i’m not your weapon anymore. i’m your reckoning."

bron dropped the mic.

and the camera held on you both, bloodied, furious, united.

for the first time, face to face with fate.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the trainer’s room was quiet.

dim lights. the soft hum of a mini fridge. the occasional click of a monitor. you sat on the edge of the exam table, your body aching from neck to knee. your lip was split. your temple bandaged. bruising bloomed along your ribs like dark fingerprints.

and still, you’d had worse.

just not like this.

the curtain rustled gently, and you looked up. you didn’t have to guess.

bron stepped in, his hoodie streaked with your dried blood, eyes dark with the kind of anger that hadn’t faded even after the shouting. even after the challenge. even after the whole damn building roared for him.

he looked like he was still ready to fight the world.

until he saw you.

his whole face softened.

"you’re still standing" you said with a crooked smile.

he didn’t smile back.

he walked straight to you, knelt in front of the table, and took your hand like it was glass.

"why didn’t you stop her?" you asked, the words out before you could filter them. "you could’ve..."

"i was too late" he said. "and if i’d touched her, they’d have spun it. seth would’ve used it. i’d be suspended, or worse. and you’d still be bleeding."

you were quiet for a beat. then you whispered, "i didn’t want you to see me like that."

he looked up. "y/n, i never wanted to see you like that."

his hand came up to your face, fingers gently brushing your cheek, avoiding the worst of the bruises. you leaned into it anyway. his touch grounded you.

"you scared the hell out of me" he said, voice tight. "i thought i lost you before i even had you."

you blinked hard. swallowed back the ache in your throat. "you’re not gonna lose me that easy."

he exhaled, forehead dropping gently to your knee.

you let your fingers thread into his hair, holding him there.

safe.

warm.

still here.

"i meant what I said out there" he murmured. "about you. about all of it."

"i know."

he finally looked up again, eyes searching yours. "you don’t have to be strong right now. not with me."

you weren’t.

not anymore.

you leaned down and kissed him, soft, slow, steady and for the first time in days, neither of you were pretending.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

it was late.

the kind of late where everything felt softer. more real.

your apartment was dimly lit, the tv low and ignored. rain tapped against the windows. the bandage above your eye itched, and your ribs throbbed if you moved too fast, but at least you were home.

alive. upright. healing.

bron sat on the couch beside you, legs spread, forearms braced on his knees. he looked like he’d been thinking for hours. not twitchy, just quiet. focused. like the next twenty-four hours might decide who he was going to be for the rest of his life.

you sat cross legged, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea, the other resting lightly on his knee.

he hadn’t said much since dinner.

you didn’t push him.

finally, he spoke.

"do you think i'll come out the other side of this better?"

you blinked. "better than what?"

"better than what they made me" he said, eyes still on the floor. "better than the guy who stood by while others got hurt. while you got hurt."

you set the mug down and shifted closer.

"bron" you said softly, "you’re already better than that."

he looked at you then, really looked and in that gaze was a thousand things he hadn’t said yet. fear. guilt. hope. love. it all swirled behind those tired eyes.

"if i lose tomorrow..." he started.

"you won’t."

"but if i do..."

"you won’t."

he exhaled hard. "you don’t know that."

"i know you" you said simply.

and that silenced him.

he leaned back into the cushions, eyes on the ceiling now, jaw tight. you crawled into his lap without asking, gently, careful of your ribs, careful of his stress. you settled against his chest, felt the strength of his arms wrap around you, and you listened to his heart thudding like it already knew the fight was coming.

"do you believe in me?" he asked, voice barely audible against your hair.

"with everything i have" you said.

he held you tighter.

and in that dark, quiet space, no crowds, no cameras, no war drums, you felt him begin to believe it too.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the arena was electric.

every light, every heartbeat in the building pulsed toward the same moment. saturday night's main event. seth rollins vs. bron breakker, not just a grudge match, not just a headline.

it was war.

and you were there.

you shouldn’t have been cleared to appear ringside. your ribs were still taped. the stitches above your brow had only come out two days ago. but no one was going to keep you away from that match.

not after everything.

you stood at ringside, one arm pressed protectively against your side, hoodie zipped up over your ring gear, eyes locked on the man inside the ropes.

bron.

he didn’t look like a soldier anymore. He looked like himself.

focused. dangerous. grounded.

free.

across the ring, seth grinned like the devil. arrogant. colorful. poison in motion. he played to the crowd, taunting, waving his arms, but there was a twitch in his jaw you recognized now.

he was nervous.

the bell rang.

and it began.

seth fought like a snake, fast, dirty, clever. he went for bron’s knees, raked the eyes, baited him into near-falls with chair teases and rope breaks. but bron didn’t flinch. he countered, punished, endured.

it wasn’t a squash match.

it was a war.

seth hit the stomp.

bron kicked out.

the crowd exploded.

seth’s eyes widened, disbelief, fury. He shouted at the ref. shoved him. turned back toward bron

and caught a spear so brutal the mat shook.

bron didn’t cover right away. he stared down at seth’s crumpled body, chest heaving, fists clenched.

then he looked at you.

and everything stilled.

you nodded once.

do it.

end it.

bron hauled seth up like dead weight, hooked him, and slammed him with his finisher, a move born from the faction, now used to destroy it.

1.

2.

3.

the bell rang.

the crowd roared like thunder.

bron stood over the ruins of his past, victorious.

you climbed the steps slowly, ribs aching, legs weak, but your eyes never left his. he turned toward you as the referee raised his hand, and for a second, you both just looked at each other.

no cameras. no noise.

just the two of you.

and then you stepped forward

and he kissed you.

hard. sure. in the centre of the ring, under the lights, with twenty thousand people screaming and the world watching, he cupped your face in both hands and kissed you like there was no tomorrow.

because he had one now.

with you.

the crowd chanted your names.