Steeze

Jay White x OC (Chloe Devitt)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and idea

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"For feck sake Fergal. You're suppose to be fecking navigating me". Chloe hissed as she drove around a roundabout for the second time. Her anger increasing as her brother, and current New Japan star Prince Devitt stuck his phone out of the open window to get a better signal.

"Don't shout at me Chloe! I live in fecking Japan and I don't drive on the left, you're the one who insisted on driving!" Fergal shot back, though he was grinning as Google maps finally recalibrated.

"Because the London transport network is fecking shite that's why". Chloe muttered, finally spotting the venue. She pulled the car into a quiet side street a few blocks away from the arena, killing the engine with a sharp click. For a moment, the two siblings sat in the sudden silence, the muffled roar of the city continuing just outside the glass.

"I'm never driving you ever again". Chloe huffed rubbing her temples, though the edge of her voice had softened. She stepped out of the car, the crisp London air hitting her face as she stretched her limbs. Being the World of Stardom Champion meant she spent most of her life in the humid heat of Japanese arenas; the damp chill of England felt like a homecoming, even if the traffic had nearly ruined her mood.

Fergal hopped out beside her, his energy already shifting into 'work mode.' He looked at his sister, noting the way she carried herself—the innate confidence of a woman who knew exactly how to dismantle an opponent. They walked toward the venue in a comfortable silence, the kind shared only by siblings who have spent years navigating the chaotic orbit of professional wrestling. The arena was still quiet, the gates locked, but the hum of anticipation was already vibrating through the brick walls of the building.

"Look at them. Like starving dogs waiting for a scrap of meat," Fergal remarked, nodding toward the curb.

A small but fervent crowd had already congregated by the front entrance, a mixture of hardcore enthusiasts in faded t-shirts and curious locals who had wandered in from the street. They weren't shouting yet, but there was a focused, electric energy in the air—a shared knowledge that something significant was about to happen inside those walls. The fans shifted their weight, glancing anxiously at their watches and then back at the locked doors, oblivious to the fact that two of the industry's biggest stars were currently strolling past them in civilian clothes.

Chloe pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, a small smile playing on her lips. She enjoyed this part—the quiet before the storm, the moment where she was just another face in the London fog before the lights hit and the "Cut Throat Queen" persona took over. She caught the eye of a young lad holding a worn-out program, and for a second, she saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, but she simply gave a subtle nod and kept walking, enjoying the anonymity of the approach.

Once inside, the venue smelled of old canvas, stale popcorn, and the metallic tang of rigging. The arena was a cavern of echoing silence, the vast space feeling strangely intimate without the roar of a thousand people. Chloe wandered away from Fergal, her Vans squeaking rhythmically against the concrete floor as she climbed toward the stands. She found a spot high up in the empty rows, leaning back against the cold plastic seating to get a panoramic view of the ring setup.

"So you're just gonna sit there?". Fergal’s voice echoed from the floor, sounding distant and amused. He was standing by the curtain, waving a hand dismissively at her.

"Yeah and if you don't like it then blow yourself". Chloe shouted back, sticking her tongue out at him for dramatic effect.

From her vantage point, the ring looked like a giant, pale island in a sea of gray concrete. The crew were moving with a practiced, frantic efficiency, hauling heavy steel beams and stretching the canvas tight. Amidst the chaos, one figure stood out—a young man with a lean build and an intensity in his movements that suggested he wasn't just helping because he was told to. He was pulling on the ropes with a focused grit, his jaw set, his movements precise and deliberate. He didn't look like the typical road crew; there was a poise to him, a quiet arrogance that Chloe recognized instantly. It was the look of someone who knew they were the best person in the room, even if they were currently sweating through a plain t-shirt.

Chloe leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. She had seen his work in tapes from New Zealand—Jay White. He was a rising star, a technician with a psychological edge that reminded her of her own approach to the ring. There was a coldness to his efficiency, a methodical nature that felt familiar. She watched him for a few minutes, noting the way he scanned the arena, not with the eyes of a laborer, but with the eyes of a predator surveying his hunting grounds.

"Jay, keep your end up mate".

Jay didn't look up immediately, but his grip on the rope tightened, the hemp creaking under the tension. He gave a short, sharp nod to the crew member and then, as if sensing a gaze on him, his eyes drifted upward. He spotted Chloe sitting in the stands—a lone figure against the grey plastic—and for a moment, their eyes locked. There was no wave or smile, just a mutual acknowledgment of presence. He didn't know who she was yet, but he recognized the way she watched him: not with the wide-eyed awe of a fan, but with the critical, discerning eye of a peer.

A few minutes later, the ring was secure, and the crew began dispersing into the locker rooms. Jay wiped his palms on his trousers and just stood staring at Chloe for a few minutes, seemingly trying to place her, before he finally climbed the steps and made his way toward her row. He walked with a deliberate, slow-paced confidence, his expression guarded but curious.

"You've been staring for a while. Do I have something on my face, or are you just admiring the handiwork?" Jay asked, his New Zealand accent cutting through the silence of the arena. He stopped a few feet away, leaning his hip against the railing with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, though it wasn't unkind.

Chloe raised her eyebrow. "Bold of you to assume I was looking at you".

Jay let out a short, dry laugh, his smirk widening as he shifted his weight. "Right. My mistake. I’ll just assume you were deeply fascinated by the structural integrity of the turnbuckles, then." He paused, his gaze flickering briefly toward the floor where Fergal was still chatting with a few officials. "I didn't catch your name. You're with Fergal, yeah? I'm guessing you're the girlfriend? He didn't mention he was bringing a plus-one today."

Chloe felt a sudden, sharp urge to laugh, though she kept her expression deadpan. She slowly stood up, the movement fluid and deliberate, and looked him square in the eye. "Girlfriend? Hang on a second while I puke".

Jay shrugged. "The way you were busting his balls when you told him to go blow himself… it had a certain domestic energy to it."

Chloe couldn't help it; a genuine laugh escaped her, the sound echoing through the empty arena. "That's gross. For the love of God, I'm his sister. Chloe Devitt. And if you ever suggest we’re dating again, I'll have to personally ensure your career ends with a very sore jaw."

Jay froze, the smirk vanishing as the realization hit him. He blinked, his eyes scanning her face again, this time seeing the family resemblance—the same sharp intensity in the eyes and the unmistakable air of confidence. He shifted his weight, his expression softening into something genuinely apologetic, though he still maintained that characteristic poise. "Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—well, I didn't know. My bad, Chloe."

Chloe waved a hand dismissively, the tension breaking. "It's alright. You've got balls for thinking you can categorize me that quickly. I'll give you credit for the confidence, if nothing else." She stepped closer, her curiosity returning. "What's your name?"

"Jamie. Jay. Jay White," he replied, extending a hand. His grip was firm and calloused, a worker's hand. "Though I imagine you already knew that, since you were analyzing my form from the rafters like a scout."

Chloe smiled, shaking his hand briefly before letting go. "I’ve seen a few of your matches. You’ve got a certain… arrogance to your style. It's effective. Most people just flail; you look like you're solving a puzzle while you're dismantling someone."

Jay’s expression shifted, the guarded poise giving way to a genuine flicker of interest. It wasn't often someone spoke his language—the language of psychology and geometry—especially not someone who had reached the heights Chloe had in Stardom. He let his hand drop to his side, his posture relaxing as he looked at her with a newfound respect. "Solving a puzzle… that's a fair way to put it. Most people just want to hit something hard. I'd rather make them realize they've already lost before the bell even rings. It's about the space between the moves, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Chloe nodded, her eyes brightening. "That's what they don't get. They think the match is the sequence of moves, but the match is actually the story you tell while you're doing them. In Japan, I've had to learn how to communicate that without saying a word. You can feel it in the way you hold your opponent's wrist—you're not just gripping it, you're telling them exactly how much power you have over them."

Jay leaned back against the railing, his gaze drifting toward the ring they had just finished securing. "The communication," he mused, his voice dropping an octave. "That’s the part most people ignore. They focus on the spectacle, but the real game is the silence. When you can make a crowd hold their breath just by the way you look at your opponent—that’s where the real power is." He looked back at her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I didn't expect to find someone in London who actually thinks about the geometry of a match. Most people just see the 'Cut Throat Queen' and think about the violence."

Chloe chuckled, leaning her shoulder against the plastic seat. "The violence is just the punctuation. The psychology is the sentence. If you don't have the story, the violence is just noise." She paused, her expression turning thoughtful. "So Jamie, Jay White. What do you do when you're not wrestling or wrongly presuming someone's sister is their girlfriend?".

Jay let out a soft, genuine chuckle, the sound devoid of the theatricality he usually reserved for the cameras. "Mostly I spend my time trying to convince people that my plan is the only one that actually works. Outside the ring, it’s a lot of travel, a lot of quiet hotels, and a lot of staring at tapes until my eyes bleed. It's a lonely way to live, but the view from the top is usually better when you're the only one there."

"The isolation is the price of the precision," Chloe replied, her voice thoughtful. "I get it. In Stardom, I’m the face of a revolution, but there are nights when the hotel room feels like a vacuum. You start to realize that the higher you climb, the fewer people there are who actually understand why you do the things you do."

Jay nodded slowly, the shared admission of loneliness creating a bridge between them that had nothing to do with their respective promotions. For a moment, the bustling activity of the arena faded into the background; the distant shouts of the crew and the muffled sounds of the city outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of professional kinship. He looked at her, really looked at her, seeing not just the champion, but a fellow architect of chaos.

"It's a strange kind of kinship, isn't it?" Jay asked, his voice quiet. "To be surrounded by thousands of people screaming your name, yet feeling like you're the only person in the room who knows how the clock actually works."

"What are your goals for your cqreer?" Chloe asked, her tone shifting from philosophical to pragmatic. She liked the way he didn't try to fill the silence with empty bravado. Most young wrestlers she met spent their time talking about the belts they wanted or the arenas they dreamed of filling, but Jay spoke about the work.

Jay shifted his weight, his gaze returning to the ring. "I'd love to say it's about the gold," he said, his voice steady and devoid of pretension. "And sure, the belts are the validation. But for me, it's about the legacy of the craft. I want to be the one they talk about ten years from now, not because I was the strongest, but because I was the smartest. I want to refine the art of the 'calculated victory' to a point where it's undisputed. I want to move through the world like a ghost—unseen until the moment I decide to strike, and then absolute."

Chloe studied him, her expression one of quiet approval. "The intellectual approach. It’s a dangerous game because if you overthink it, you lose the instinct, but if you nail it, you're untouchable." She shifted her posture, crossing her arms. "I’ve spent the last year making sure every person who steps into that ring with me feels like they’re trapped in a room with a predator who knows exactly where the exits are. It’s a high, isn't it? That moment when you realize your opponent is fighting the version of you that exists in their own head, and you're the only one who knows the real script."

Jay smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, reflecting a shared hunger for perfection. "Precisely. You're not just fighting a body; you're fighting their expectations. You're the only one with the map." He straightened up, glancing toward the curtain where Fergal was now gesturing for them to come down. The professional bubble was beginning to pop as the reality of the event set in. "I have to imagine that's why you're the champion. You don't just take the title; you take the space."

"Silly talk about maps and ghosts aside," Chloe said, her voice shifting into a more casual, curious tone. "Tell me something about yourself that doesn't involve a canvas or a referee. What do you actually do when you're not trying to dismantle someone's psyche?"

Jay leaned back, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "I’m a bit of a nerd for old cinema. Not the blockbuster stuff, but the black-and-white classics—the noir stuff where the lighting does half the acting. I can spend an entire rainy afternoon in a hotel room watching 1940s detective films, just analyzing how they build tension without a single explosion."

Chloe’s eyes widened, a genuine spark of surprise hitting her. "You're joking. Tell me you're not serious. I have a collection of vintage noir posters in my flat that my brother thinks is an obsession. I can't stand modern pacing; everything is too fast now. There's something about the slow burn of a classic mystery—the way the shadows hide the truth until the final act—that just hits different."

Jay let out a short, surprised laugh, his posture relaxing further. "No way. Most people just find that stuff boring or 'stuffy.' They don't get the appeal of the silence." He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Please tell me you're a fan of The Big Sleep."

"The 1946 version, obviously," Chloe replied with a smirk. "And if you tell me you prefer the remakes, we can stop talking right now."

They both laughed, the sound genuine and easy, a stark contrast to the carefully curated personas they presented to the world. For a few minutes, the conversation drifted away from the ring and into the world of atmospheric cinema, shared tastes in music that favored the melancholic over the mainstream, and a mutual appreciation for the quietude of a city at four in the morning. It was a rare moment of synchronization; they had found a common language that didn't require a playbook or a script, simply two people discovering they viewed the world through the same moody, cinematic lens.

The spell was broken by a sudden, jarring crackle of static that ripped through the arena. A voice, amplified by a dozen speakers and distorted by the acoustics of the cavernous hall, boomed across the space. "All staff and talent to their positions. Doors open in five minutes. I repeat, doors open in five minutes." The announcement echoed, bouncing off the concrete walls like a physical force, signaling the end of the quiet and the beginning of the chaos.

The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. The lethargy of the empty venue evaporated, replaced by a frantic, high-voltage energy. The crew, who had been lounging or chatting in small groups, suddenly snapped into motion, scurrying toward the exits to finalize the security checkpoints. The silence that had enveloped Chloe and Jay was swept away by the distant, rising tide of the crowd outside—a low, rhythmic thrumming of thousands of people pressing against the brickwork, their collective anticipation vibrating through the floorboards.

"Well, guess that's my cue". Chloe stepped away from the railing, the ease of the last twenty minutes settling into a comfortable warmth. She looked at Jay, noting how the casualness of their conversation was already being replaced by that predator's poise again. It was a fascinating transition to witness—the flick of a switch from a cinema buff to a calculated combatant.

Jay mirrored her movement, straightening his posture and smoothing out his shirt. The smirk returned, but it was different now; it wasn't a challenge or a mistake, but a sign of mutual respect. "It was a pleasure, Chloe. Truly. Not many people can talk noir and ring psychology in the same breath without sounding like they're trying too hard." He paused, his eyes lingering on hers for a beat longer than necessary. "You've got a sharp mind. It's almost as dangerous as your reputation."

Chloe let out a soft hum of amusement, her eyes tracking the way he carried himself—the subtle shift in his shoulders that signaled he was already mentally stepping into the role of the antagonist. She liked that he didn't try to linger or cling to the moment; he understood that in their world, the most impactful exits were the ones that left people wanting more.

"Careful, Jay," she replied, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you keep complimenting my mind, people might start thinking you've actually got a heart. That would be terrible for your brand."

Jay let out a dry, knowing chuckle and stepped back, giving her a mock salute. "A heart is a liability in this business, Chloe. I prefer to keep mine under lock and key." He began to descend the stairs, his pace regaining that slow, predatory rhythm. "But for today, I think I can make an exception for a fellow connoisseur of the slow burn."

Swerve Strickland x oc (Thalia Lawless)

Warnings: N/A

A/N: I only own the OC and idea

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The stage manager had a habit of chewing on a toothpick while he counted down the final seconds of the curtain call. It was a nervous tic that usually signaled the exact moment the adrenaline began to leak out of the room.

Thalia leaned her head against the cool brick of the wing, listening to the roar of the West End crowd fade into the distance. Her costume—a shimmering, heavy thing that felt like wearing a suit of sequins—was itching her collarbone, and her lungs were still burning from the final high note. She stepped out of the costume, letting the dress pool on the floor like a fallen star, and slipped into an oversized hoodie and leggings. The transition from the polished, protected version of herself to the girl who used to film dance videos in a Disney wardrobe was always the fastest part of her day.

The hoodie was a theft of convenience, snatched from a hotel laundry bag three weeks ago while Stephon had been distracted by a phone call from his agent. It was three sizes too big and smelled faintly of expensive cologne and gym chalk, a scent that acted as a grounding wire for her whenever the chaos of the West End threatened to spin her off axis. She remembered the way he’d looked at her—half-amused, half-exasperated—as she’d practically bolted out the door with the garment clutched to her chest, claiming it was "essential for her artistic process." To Thalia, the oversized fleece wasn't just clothing; it was a tactile piece of him she could carry into the wings of the theater, a soft shield against the scrutiny of a thousand staring eyes.

She navigated the labyrinth of the backstage area, dodging a frantic costume assistant carrying a rack of velvet coats. The adrenaline was still humming in her veins, but it was being rapidly replaced by a quiet, humming anticipation.

Thalia sank into the velvet depths of her dressing room chair, the silence of the small space acting as a vacuum that sucked away the residual noise of the theater. She stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her makeup still a dramatic mask of stage glamour, though her eyes looked tired. She had just started to unpin the heavy extensions from her hair when a sequence of three thunderous, rhythmic knocks rattled the door in its frame. It wasn’t the polite tap of a stage manager or the cautious knock of a makeup artist; it was a deliberate, heavy sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and right up into her chest.

The door swung open before she could even call out a "come in," and Stephon filled the entryway, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He was dressed in a sharp, understated jacket that managed to make him look both like a high-fashion mogul and a man who could reasonably be expected to throw someone through a table. For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other—the singer stripped of her sequins and the wrestler who had traveled across an ocean just to be the first person she saw after the applause died down.

He grinned his gaze momentarily casting to the bouquet of lilies he held, though his eyes never truly left her face. He didn't even wait for her to stand before he crossed the small room in two strides, closing the gap and pulling her into a hug that felt like a physical reclamation. Thalia let out a breath she felt she’d been holding since the first act, her face pressed against the lapel of his jacket. The smell of the city—rain, exhaust, and expensive leather—clung to him, mixing with the familiar warmth of his skin. For a few minutes, the dressing room ceased to be a place of work and became a sanctuary, the heavy silence of the room absorbing the frantic energy of the theater outside.

"You were incredible," Stephon murmured into her hair, his voice a low rumble that Thalia felt more than heard. He pulled back just enough to cup her face, his thumbs brushing away a stray smudge of eyeliner. "The way you hit that final note… I could hear the people in the back row shaking. I think you actually broke a few seats."

Thalia laughed, the sound genuine and light, a stark contrast to the polished vocals she’d been delivering for the last two and a half hours. She leaned back into the vanity chair, pulling him down with her so he sat on the edge of the small table. The suddenness of his presence—the sheer physical reality of him—made the last few weeks of FaceTime calls and time-zone math feel like a fever dream. She reached up to toy with the collar of his jacket, her mind already drifting toward the quiet of a hotel room and the luxury of not having to be 'on' for anyone.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had a packed schedule?". Thalia looked up at him, her eyes searching his, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. The logistics of their relationship had recently been a grueling exercise in endurance, a series of fragmented conversations punctuated by the static of international roaming.

Stephon shrugged, a slow movement that made the muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath the fabric of his jacket. "I figured the schedule could wait. Besides, I didn't want to watch the highlight clips on Instagram. I wanted to see the real thing." He reached out, his hand lingering on the nape of her neck, pulling her slightly closer. "And I missed my favourite thief. You still wearing my hoodie?"

"Thief is a strong word, try appropriater," Thalia teased, glancing down at the oversized fabric bunching around her waist. She leaned her forehead against his chest, the rhythm of his heart steady and grounding. For a few minutes, they existed in a bubble of shared warmth, the distant sounds of the stage crew breaking down the set echoing faintly through the walls. The urgency of her professional life—the press cycles, the vocal coaches, the endless cycle of applause—felt like a movie she had watched a long time ago. Here, in the dim light of the vanity mirror, she was just a girl who had spent too many hours in a costume, finally finding a place to land.

"You didn't have to bring me lilies. You already sent chrysanthemums this morning," she whispered, leaning into him. The scent of the flowers mingled with the lingering aroma of stage makeup and the kind of heavy, expectant silence that only exists when two people are trying to memorize the feeling of being in the same room.

Stephon chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated against her forehead. "Chrysanthemums are for the fans. Lilies are for the lead." He shifted his weight, his expression softening, though a flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps—crossed his features for a fleeting second. He didn't let go of her, his grip remaining firm and protective, as if he were anchoring her to the spot. They stayed like that for a long while, the same way people cling to each other after a long flight or a sudden reunion, letting the physical presence of the other drown out the noise of their separate, chaotic lives.

"And what about the roses you sent to my apartment? What are they for?". Thalia pulled back, her eyes twinkling with a playful curiosity. She liked this version of him—the one that didn't have to perform for a crowd or maintain a persona. In the quiet of the dressing room, Stephon looked less like a superstar athlete and more like a man who was simply happy to be out of the spotlight.

"Those were for the woman who likes to steal my clothes," he replied, his voice dropping an octave.

"How long is 'too long' for your schedule?" Thalia asked, her voice barely a whisper as she traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. She shifted closer, her legs tangling with his, wondering if he had a flight back to the States in forty-eight hours or if he had managed to carve out a week of blissful anonymity in London. The thought of him leaving again so soon felt like a sudden drop in temperature, a cold draft entering the warm sanctuary of the dressing room.

Stephon let out a slow sigh, his hand sliding from her neck to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. "Long enough," he murmured, though there was a weight to his tone that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Long enough to make sure you're actually eating something other than green juice and adrenaline." He kissed her forehead, the gesture lingering, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the moment.

"So four days then?" Thalia asked, her voice tilting upward. "Or is this a 'surprise me' kind of trip where you just show up and disappear like a ghost at midnight?" She pulled back slightly, her eyes scanning his face for the telltale sign of a hidden itinerary. She knew the rhythm of his world—the sudden bookings, the late-night calls from promoters, the way his life was measured in flight miles and gym sessions.

Stephon let out a soft huff of a laugh, his hand sliding down to lock fingers with hers. "I’ve got a week, T. A whole week. No matches, no press, no gym schedules that don't involve me walking you through Hyde Park." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, the intensity of his gaze making the air in the small room feel thick. "I figured since you're killing it on stage, you might need someone to actually make sure you sleep more than four hours a night."

"A week? Can Tony spare you for a whole week?" Thalia laughed, the sound echoing off the cramped walls of the dressing room. She felt a lightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the final curtain call. The tension of the last few months—the grueling rehearsals, the press junkets, the loneliness of a foreign city—seemed to evaporate the moment he’d walked through that door.

They lingered in the quiet for a few more minutes, the kind of silence that doesn't need to be filled. Stephon eventually stood up, pulling her with him, and began helping her gather the few personal items she’d left scattered across the vanity. As he reached for her handbag, his movements slowed. He didn't look at her, instead focusing on the strap of the bag, his expression shifting into something more guarded, more deliberate. The playful energy of the reunion didn't vanish, but it settled into something heavier, something that required the full attention of the room.

"So, dinner at fancy restaurant or cosy dinner at my place?" Thalia asked, her voice light, trying to read the sudden shift in his posture. She leaned against the vanity, her eyes searching his profile. The silence stretched, no longer the comfortable kind, but the kind that precedes a revelation.

Stephon finally looked at her, his expression open and honest, though his jaw was set. He didn't move away, but he didn't lean back in. "T, before we go out there and start this week, there’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have mentioned a few weeks ago, but the timing always felt off with the time zones and the show previews."

"No confessions in my dressing room Strickland. You can bare your soul in the privacy of my swanky London abode," Thalia teased.

"Fair point," Stephon chuckled, the sound low and cautious. He stepped back, giving her space to breathe, though he kept his hand firmly anchored in hers. "The atmosphere in here is a bit too 'backstage drama' for what I've got to say."

Thalia didn't let him dwell on the gravity of the moment. She swept her remaining things into her bag with a whirlwind of efficiency, her mood buoyed by the sheer physical presence of him. The walk to the stage door was a blur of dodging curious stagehands and dodging the lingering gaze of a few superfans who had waited by the alleyway. Once they slid into the back of a sleek, black car, the city of London blurred past the windows in a smear of neon indigo and amber streetlights. Thalia spent the ride leaning her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt and the steady, reassuring thrum of his pulse against her cheek.

Her apartment was a sanctuary of white linen, oversized plants, and the lingering scent of the expensive vanilla candles she lit every time she returned from the theater. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the curated silence of the space enveloped them. Thalia kicked off her shoes, the hardwood cool beneath her feet, and turned to him. She didn't immediately ask for the confession; instead, she led him toward the kitchen, where a bottle of chilled prosecco sat waiting in a bucket of ice—a luxury she’d bought for herself as a post-show treat that now felt like a celebration of his arrival.

"Now," she said, pouring two glasses with a practiced flick of the wrist, "the dressing room is officially a dead zone. You have the floor, the fancy lighting, and a very attentive audience of one." She handed him a glass, her gaze softening. The air between them had shifted; the playfulness was still there, but it was now underlined by a quiet, expectant tension.

Stephon didn't drink. He held the glass by the stem, his thumb tracing the rim as he looked around the room, as if searching for the right place to start. He took a step toward her, closing the gap until the heat radiating off him felt like a physical weight. "I wanted to tell you this in person because the way I've felt about you these last two months… it's not the kind of thing I want to do over a screen." He paused, his voice dropping to a register that felt intimate and raw.

"Okay, you've got my full attention," Thalia whispered, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant siren of a passing police car on the street below. She set her own glass down on the marble countertop, the crystal clinking softly. The playful energy of the evening had crystallized into something more focused, a shared breath held between them.

Stephon shifted his weight, his eyes scanning hers with an intensity that usually preceded a high-stakes match, but here, it was tempered by a vulnerability he rarely showed the world. "I've got two daughters," he said, the words coming out steady but quiet.

"What?" Thalia asked, the word barely a breath. She didn't pull away; if anything, she leaned closer, her brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and sudden curiosity. "Two?"

Stephon nodded, a small, tight movement. "Yeah. A fourteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old. Different mothers." He watched her face closely, his expression braced for a recoil, a question about why he’d kept it a secret, or perhaps a sudden need for space. In the world of high-profile dating, this was the kind of revelation that usually acted as a detonator. He had spent the flight over rehearsing the apology, calculating the exact moment to drop the bomb so it wouldn't overshadow her success but wouldn't feel like a lie of omission.

"I know this is a lot," Stephon added, his voice cautious. He was still braced for the impact, his muscles tense beneath his jacket. "I wanted to handle the timing right. I didn't want it to be the first thing we talked about while you were still in rehearsals, and I didn't want to do it over FaceTime and have you feel like I was hiding it."

Thalia didn't pull away. She didn't even blink. Instead, she let out a slow, thoughtful breath, her mind racing to catch up with the math of it all. Fourteen and twelve. She pictured a miniature version of him—or perhaps a girl with his same intense gaze and sharp wit—and the idea didn't feel like a burden; it felt like a missing piece of a puzzle she hadn't realized she was solving.

"I don't usually tell my girlfriend's about them. Not until I'm sure," Stephon added, his voice cautious. He was waiting for the shift—the moment her eyes glazed over or she stepped back to recalibrate her image of him. In his experience, "two kids, two different women" was often the part where the conversation stopped and the exit strategy began.

"You have two daughters," Thalia repeated, her voice flat not with shock, but with a strange kind of processing. She tilted her head, her eyes scanning his face as if looking for a hidden punchline.

"Yeah. Look, I completely understand if you need a minute to—"

Thalia cut him off with a sudden, bright laugh that broke the tension like a glass hammer. She stepped forward, closing the remaining inch of space and planting her palms flat against his chest. Then, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Wait, so you’re telling me there are two tiny versions of you running around somewhere? God, the world is barely prepared for one Stephon Strickland; how does the planet handle three?"

Stephon blinked, his shoulders dropping an inch. He had been braced for a storm—a request for space, a long silence, or the dreaded 'we need to talk' tone—but instead, she was joking. He let out a breath that sounded like a deflating balloon, a laugh escaping his throat as he looked at her. "You're not… you're not tripping out? Most people start doing the math on the baggage the second I mention the different mothers."

"Baggage is for flights, Stephon. We're talking about people," Thalia replied, her voice warm and steady. She didn't let go of his chest, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. The shock had settled into a quiet hum of intrigue, a curiosity about the girls that outweighed any apprehension about the complexity of his personal history. "Everyone has a history and I don’t judge a book by its cover—especially not when the cover is as gorgeous as yours."

Stephon let out a genuine, booming laugh, the kind that reached his eyes and smoothed out the tension in his forehead. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in so tight that the air left her lungs for a second. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, the relief evident in the way he clung to her. He had spent years navigating the precarious balance of being a father in the public eye, always waiting for the "complication" of his children to be the deal-breaker in his romantic life.

"I thought you'd freak out, throw things or tell me you didn't sign up for a family dynamic," Stephon admitted, his voice muffled against her skin. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and profound gratitude. "I've been playing this scene in my head for three days, and in every version, you look at me like I just told you I was a secret agent for a country that doesn't exist."

Thalia laughed, the sound echoing in the high ceilings of the living room. "First of all, I've spent half my life in a Disney contract; I've dealt with producers who were more complicated than two children and two exes. Second, why would I be upset? It just means you have a side to you that isn't just 'Swerve.' It makes you… human." She stepped back, her mind already pivoting to the logistics. "Fourteen and twelve. Are they into the wrestling? Or are they the types who roll their eyes every time you try to explain a high-flying move?"

Stephon laughed. "They both hate wrestling. When they were little they hated that it took me away from them. They resented it making me miss their moments. Now they still hate it, but they get that I sacrifice my body so they can have a future they want and so they don't have to sacrifice their own." He paused, a look of genuine pride crossing his face. "Anayah loves basketball. She's been playing since she could walk, and she’s already taller than her mother. And Aaliyah she's a dancer. She loves art, books and now she's wanting to deep dive into music."

Thalia’s eyes lit up. The transition from the shock of the news to the curiosity of the girls happened in a heartbeat. "A dancer, huh? Well, she’s coming to the right place. I might have a few pointers for her, though I suspect she’s probably more disciplined than I ever was in my first year of ballet." She stepped back, her gaze softening as she looked at him. "They sound amazing, Stephon. Why on earth were you so worried about telling me?"

"It wasn't a reflection on you T. It's just usually the part where the vibe changes," Stephon admitted, his voice regaining that low, steady rumble. He reached out, hooking a finger under her chin to tilt her face up. "In past experiences they've only wanted fun. The dinners, vacations, the hot sex. When the kids come into the picture, the 'fun' gets a lot more complicated. It's not just about us anymore; it's about a schedule, a support system, a whole different kind of weight."

Thalia leaned into his touch, her expression thoughtful. "I get that. My life has been a series of scheduled appearances since I was six. I know what it's like to have your time managed by people who aren't you." She paused, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "Besides, if Aaliyah is really into music, she’s probably already discovered the deep cuts of my early discography. She’s going to judge my first album's fashion choices before she even meets me."

"Well the girls did grow up on Disney, so the risk of them roasting your early wardrobe is about one hundred percent," Stephon joked, the last remnants of his anxiety dissolving into the warm air of the apartment. He finally took a sip of the prosecco, the bubbles sparking a renewed energy between them. "But honestly, T? Seeing you not even flinch… that does something for me. I don't know if it's the singer or the actress in you, but you've got a way of making the chaos feel like a choreographed dance."

Thalia beamed, leaning her weight against him, the physical tension of the day finally replaced by a humming sense of contentment. "It's not acting, Stephon. It's just… you. I like you. And you're a good man. Why wouldn't I want to know the people who made you who you are?" She paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Do they know about us? Or are we still in the 'secret' phase of the relationship?"

"They know I'm seeing someone but I haven't provided your name or your coordinates," Stephon admitted, his arm sliding around her shoulder to pull her back into his orbit. "I’ve been keeping a tight lid on it. The girls are at an age where they’re protective of me, even if they don’t realize it. They’ve seen me try and fail with a few people, so they've developed this… let's call it a 'vetting process.' If they find out you're a Disney legend, they're going to have a million questions, and I don't want you to feel like you're walking into a press conference the moment you meet them."

Thalia leaned her head against his shoulder, a soft, amused hum vibrating in her throat. "A vetting process? I love that. I've survived the scrutiny of the Disney Channel boardroom and the critics of the West End; I think I can handle a fourteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old. In fact, it sounds like a challenge. I’ll just bring them some fancy London souvenirs and distract them with stories of the time I accidentally tripped over a set piece during a live taping it'll be great. But we'll do that when you think the time's right."

Stephon squeezed her shoulder, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her heart skip. The relief in his eyes had morphed into something deeper, a level of trust that felt more intimate than any kiss they’d shared. He looked at her not just as a beautiful woman or a successful star, but as a partner who had just looked at the messiest parts of his life and didn't try to walk away. "You're something else, T. I really mean that."

"So are you Strickland". Thalia’s smile turned into a smirk, "So about this hot sex you mentioned? Since we’ve established that my 'vetting process' is a breeze…"

Will Ospreay x OC (Emily Winters)

Warnings: Language

A/N: This was requested by @emilynicole862

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Wednesday, which only meant it was AEW Dynamite. Emily Winters didn't carry a traditional briefcase or a laptop bag; instead, she lugged a scuffed suitcase that looked like it had survived a decade of transatlantic flights. It was a small piece of luggage, stuffed with a few outfit choices for the show, shoes, accessories and some comfy clothes for after the show. She dragged it across the concrete loading dock, the wheels rattling with a rhythmic, metallic clatter that echoed against the cavernous walls of the arena.

"Who on earth is still using a clipboard for the layout?" Emily murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the arena’s ventilation system. She leaned in close to the laminated sheet taped to the wall, sipping her coffee with a slow, methodical caution to avoid dripping brown liquid onto the names. The list was a chaotic map of the evening’s logistics—assigned locker rooms, timing slots, and medical clearances—but her eyes didn't linger on the logistics. Instead, they drifted toward the 'Visitors' section, searching for a specific name, a specific presence that usually made the air in the building feel slightly more electric.

The coffee had gone lukewarm, but she didn't mind. She traced the line of the roster, noting the familiar placements of the heavy hitters and the rising stars. There was a certain comfort in the predictability of the locker room list; it was the only thing in professional wrestling that didn't change every five minutes. Yet, as she scanned the names, she felt a flutter of anticipation in her chest. She wasn't just checking for schedules; she was checking for proximity. She wanted to know which hallway she’d likely encounter him in, and whether their paths would cross before the madness of the pre-show began.

She walked down the hallway, her suitcase by her side as she exchanged smiles and greetings to the production crew and a few of the wrestlers already in their gear. The scent of athletic tape and industrial cleaner filled the air as she finally reached the heavy door of the women’s locker room. Stepping inside, the atmosphere shifted from the echoing chaos of the corridor to a focused, humming energy. She found a vacant corner by a row of lockers, the metallic clang of her suitcase opening acting like a small punctuation mark in the room's collective conversation.

Emily stared at the contents of her bag, the fabric of several options overlapping in a colourful heap. She didn't just need something that looked professional for a manager; she wanted something that felt like a statement. She pulled out a tailored blazer, then paused, holding it up against her shoulder. She wondered if it was too formal, or perhaps exactly the right amount of armor for the evening. Her mind drifted, imagining the way the light would hit the fabric as she walked down the ramp, and more importantly, who might be watching from the curtain. The door opened with a sudden burst of energy, and the quiet of her corner was shattered by the arrival of Anna Jay and Skye Blue.

"Still debating the wardrobe, Em?" Anna asked, her voice trailing off into a laugh as she spotted the discarded options on the bench. She leaned against the locker, her eyes scanning the pile with a practiced, critical gaze. Skye Blue followed close behind, her expression curious and supportive.

Emily looked up, a small, hesitant smile on her face. "I can't decide," Emily admitted, gesturing to the blazer and a softer, more flowing dress. "Does this say 'I'm in charge of the chaos,' or does it say 'I'm trying too hard'? I feel like I need something that works, but still feels like… me."

"Are you interfering tonight?". Skye asked, "Cause if you are, maybe no dresses or skirts. You don't want to flash the audience when you're diving for a referee's attention."

Emily laughed, the sound light but slightly strained, as she finally opted for the blazer over a simple black top. As she fastened the buttons, the locker room's atmosphere shifted. The usual pre-show chatter—complaints about travel, discussions on spot-sequences—suddenly died down, replaced by a hushed, collective vibration. A group of wrestlers huddled near the door, their faces illuminated by the glow of a dozen smartphones. The energy wasn't the usual pre-match tension; it was something softer, something celebratory.

"So, how are you feeling?". Anna asked gently, her voice cutting through the sudden silence.

"How am I feeling?" Emily repeated, her brow furrowing as she smoothed a crease in her blazer. "I’m fine. Why on earth would you ask that? I’m just a bit stressed about the timing of the second segment." She looked from Anna to Skye, her confusion growing as she realized neither of them was looking at her. Instead, they were glancing past her shoulder toward the huddle of wrestlers by the door, their expressions a mix of tenderness and sort-of-awkward excitement.

"You don't know do you?". Skye's voice was a whisper, almost a tease, but it lacked the usual bite. She wasn't looking at Emily; she was looking at a screen being passed around the huddle.

Emily froze, her hand still hovering over the lapel of her blazer. "Know what? Know what's happening? Why is everyone acting like they’ve seen a ghost that’s actually a good thing?" She tried to laugh, but it came out as a small, confused noise. She looked from Anna to Skye, then back to the huddle of wrestlers, her mind racing through a dozen different possibilities.

"Fuck. We wanted to be the ones to check on you, not tell you in a crowded room," Anna murmured, her voice softening.

Emily blinked, her expression a mask of genuine bewilderment. She looked at her friends, then at the huddle of wrestlers who were now staring back at her with a heavy, sympathetic silence. "What are you talking about? Why is everyone looking at me like I’ve just been told my dog died?" she asked, her voice pitching higher in a frantic effort to maintain a sense of normalcy. "I’m fine. Seriously, I’m great. I’ve had coffee, I’ve got my blazer, and the second segment is practically locked in. Whatever this 'secret' is, it can wait until after the main event."

The silence stretched, becoming thick and oppressive. Anna and Skye sighed. "Will proposed to Alex," Anna finally said, her voice flat but kind. "He just posted the photo on Instagram. I think he did it last week."

The words hit Emily with a physical force that made her breath hitch. For a second, the locker room blurred, the bright fluorescent lights humming in a frequency that felt like a drill against her temples. She didn’t move; she didn't even blink. The image of the post—which she didn't need to see to know exactly what it looked like—flashed in her mind: Will’s beaming smile, Alex’s tear-filled eyes, and the unmistakable glint of a diamond ring. It was a level of permanence she hadn't dared to imagine, a definitive closing of a door she had spent months pretending was still slightly ajar.

"Oh," Emily whispered. The word felt small and hollow, lacking the emotional weight of the vacuum opening up in her chest. She tried to summon a smile, to play the role of the supportive friend and professional colleague, but her facial muscles felt frozen. The tailored blazer, which had felt like armor only moments ago, now felt like a costume for a play she no longer wanted to act in.

Emily froze, one hand still clutching the lapel of her blazer. She looked at Anna, then at the huddle of wrestlers by the door. The usual frantic energy of the locker room had been replaced by a strange, shimmering kind of joy. Someone let out a muffled "aww," and a few people started clapping softly.

The heavy door swung open with a sudden, triumphant force, and Alex Windsor practically floated into the room. She wasn't just walking; she was radiating, her face flushed with a level of happiness that seemed to brighten the sterile fluorescent lighting of the locker room. Before she could even get a word out, the huddle of wrestlers broke apart like a dam bursting, flooding toward her in a wave of cheers and genuine affection. "You actually did it!" someone yelled, and within seconds, Alex was engulfed in a sea of high-fives and enveloping hugs. The air became a chaotic symphony of celebratory screams and the frantic clicking of phone cameras capturing the ring for a dozen different stories.

Emily felt like she was watching a movie with the sound turned off. She stepped back, her shoulder brushing against the cold metal of the locker, creating a small, invisible island of isolation amidst the celebration. Every time Alex laughed, a sound that was usually melodic and sweet, it felt like a sharp needle pricking at the carefully constructed facade Emily was trying to maintain. She didn't want to be the one to dampen the mood, but the weight of the air in the room had become too heavy to breathe.

Without a word, Emily caught Anna’s eye and gave a microscopic shake of her head. Anna and Skye didn't hesitate; they stepped in, flanking Emily like a protective vanguard. They didn't make a scene, but their movements were synchronized and deliberate, guiding her away from the center of the room and toward the exit. As they slipped through the door, the roar of the congratulations followed them into the hallway, the sound echoing off the concrete walls until it faded into the distance, leaving them in a sudden, ringing silence.

Once they were well clear of the locker room, Emily stopped abruptly, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She didn't cry, but her breathing was shallow, her chest heaving under the blazer she had chosen so carefully only minutes ago. She leaned her back against the wall, sliding down a few inches as she looked at her friends. "I can't do it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I can't walk down that ramp tonight knowing that… knowing that everything is officially settled."

The first sob didn't come as a cry, but as a shuddering gasp that seemed to pull all the oxygen out of the hallway. Then, the dam broke. Emily collapsed further against the concrete, her face buried in her palms as the carefully curated professional mask disintegrated. It wasn't a loud, dramatic wail, but a series of jagged, exhausted whimpers that spoke of months of quiet longing and the sudden, crushing weight of finality. Anna and Skye didn’t try to hush her or tell her it would be okay; they simply stood there, a silent perimeter of support, letting her unravel in the dim light of the corridor.

"Get the veterans," Skye whispered, glancing toward the end of the hall where the heavier hitters usually congregated. She knew Emily didn't need a pep talk from someone her own age—she needed the kind of grounded, weathered perspective that only came from people who had seen every kind of heartbreak, both in and out of the ring.

A few minutes later, the heavy tread of boots signaled their arrival. Jon Moxley and Adam Copeland rounded the corner, their presence filling the narrow space. Moxley didn't offer a hug; he leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms and looking at Emily with a gaze that was surprisingly devoid of judgment. Copeland, however, knelt beside her, his voice a warm, steady anchor in the middle of her storm.

"Look at me, Em," Adam said softly, his expression radiating a fatherly kindness. "The world doesn't stop turning because a door closed, even if it's the door you were hoping would stay open. You're grieving a version of the future that didn't happen, and that's allowed. But don't let the sadness convince you that you're less for having felt this. It just means you've got a heart that's actually functioning."

"Yeah, and fuck Ospreay. He's a great wrestler, but he's a blind idiot if he thinks he's the only one in this building with a soul," Moxley added, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through Emily's sobbing.

The silence that followed Moxley’s outburst was brief but heavy. He didn’t look at anyone in particular, but the bluntness of his comment acted like a lightning rod, grounding the raw emotion of the moment. He shifted his weight, his gaze drifting from Emily's tear-streaked face to Adam Copeland, who was still kneeling beside her and the unamused faces of Skye and Anna.

"Or y'know, what he said". Moxley mumbled.

"Look if you can't be here then go home". Adam soothed, his voice steady and devoid of any pressure. "The world won't stop spinning if you miss one Wednesday night, and the show will still happen. You're no good to anyone if you're walking down that ramp as a ghost."

Emily looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, the makeup she had carefully applied now smudged into dark shadows beneath her lashes. The thought of the arena—the roar of the crowd, the blinding pyrotechnics, and the inevitable moment she would have to look Will in the eye—felt like an insurmountable mountain. The blazer, once a symbol of her professional authority, now felt like it was choking her. She couldn't play the part of the confident manager when she felt like a shattered piece of glass.

"Go home, eat crap and cry or scream or both. We've got you". Skye said, her hand resting firmly on Emily's shoulder. The offer wasn't just a suggestion; it was a lifeline. The logistical machinery of the show was already churning, but in this narrow corridor, the world had shrunk to five people and a shared understanding of a broken heart.

"Yeah, we'll cover for you and Mox can tell Tony". Anna smiled, already stepping into a defensive posture as if she were guarding a championship belt. "If anyone asks, you had a sudden, violent bout of food poisoning from a questionable shrimp cocktail. No one questions shrimp; it's the most believable medical emergency in the hospitality industry."

Emily let out a weak, watery chuckle, the sound barely escaping her throat. She looked at the group—Adam’s steady, encouraging gaze and Moxley’s indifferent yet protective stance. The sheer willingness of them to shield her, to lie for her, felt like a warm blanket over the raw nerve of her heartbreak. She didn't feel like a manager in that moment; she felt like a girl who had just been told a secret she wasn't ready to hear. Slowly, she pushed herself off the concrete wall, her legs feeling like lead as she stood.

"What about my bag?". Emily sniffled trying and failing to wipe her eyes.

"I'll get it". Skye volunteered instantly, already pivoting toward the women's locker room with a determined stride. She didn't wait for a thank you; she simply vanished back into the fray of the celebration, her mission to retrieve the scuffed suitcase as if it were a high-stakes rescue operation.

The remaining group stood in a loose circle, the silence of the hallway returning as the distant sounds of the pre-show production—the testing of the microphones and the muffled roar of the early arrivals—began to bleed through the walls. Emily felt a strange sense of vertigo, the sudden shift from the high-voltage energy of a Dynamite show to the crushing stillness of her own internal collapse. She looked down at her shoes, realizing she was still wearing the heels she had carefully picked to match the blazer, footwear that now felt absurdly impractical for the retreat she was about to make.

"Forget about Ospreay. You deserve better. Listen to your wrestling pops okay?". Adam joked gently, trying to coax another smile out of her. He stood up, offering his arm to steady her as she wobbled.

The walk toward the parking garage felt like a journey through a foreign city; the familiar landmarks of the arena—the gear crates, the catering tables, the hurried assistants—were all blurred by a shimmering veil of tears. Emily felt a strange sense of shame as she passed a few crew members, her smeared makeup and red eyes making her look like she’d just lost a grueling thirty-minute iron man match. She instinctively pulled the blazer tighter around herself, trying to hide the tremor in her hands.

The drive home was a blur of rain-streaked windshields and the rhythmic, hypnotic thrum of the tires against the asphalt. Emily drove with a mechanical precision, her mind operating on a delayed loop, replaying the image of the diamond ring over and over like a glitching film strip. The city lights smeared into long, neon ribbons of amber and violet, mirroring the fragmented state of her thoughts. She didn't remember turning onto her street or pulling into her designated spot; she only remembered the sudden, jarring silence that descended the moment she killed the engine. For a few minutes, she just sat there in the dark, the cooling metal of the car ticking in the quiet, staring at the steering wheel as if it were a foreign object.

The walk from the parking garage to her front door felt like a trek through deep sand. Every step was a conscious effort, a battle against the gravity of her own exhaustion. When the key finally turned in the lock, the click sounded like a gavel bringing a trial to a close. She stepped inside, the familiar scent of vanilla candles and old books greeting her, but the sanctuary of her apartment offered no immediate peace. It only provided the privacy required for the mask to finally, completely, shatter.

The moment the door clicked shut, Emily didn't even make it to the bedroom. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor of the entryway, the tailored blazer—that useless piece of armor—sliding off her shoulders and pooling around her like a discarded skin. She curled into a ball, her forehead resting against the cool wood, and let out a sound that was less of a cry and more of a primal release. It was a guttural, shaking sob that ripped through her chest, echoing off the empty walls of the living room. All the professional composure, the manager’s poise, and the careful "friendship" she had cultivated with Will had evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the raw, aching void of a hope that had finally been extinguished.

She stayed there for a long time, the minutes bleeding into an hour, her breath coming in jagged, uneven gasps. In the silence of her own home, the finality of the news settled in. It wasn't just about a ring or a post on Instagram; it was the realization that the "maybe" she had been clinging to for months had officially become a "never." She thought of the way he looked at Alex, the genuine, uncomplicated love they shared, and it felt like a physical weight pressing down on her lungs, making it impossible to draw a full breath.

The sound of the knock wasn’t a polite request for entry; it was a rhythmic, insistent drumming that vibrated through the floorboards and right into Emily’s cheek. For a moment, she didn't move, convinced it was a hallucination born of exhaustion. Then came the voices—high, familiar, and entirely devoid of the choreographed tension of the wrestling world.

"Em! Open up! We know you’re in there because your car is in the spot and we can literally hear you leaking through the door!" Savannah’s voice pierced through the silence, a sharp contrast to the hushed tones of the locker room.

Emily scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror—a disaster of smeared mascara and a wrinkled black top—and felt a sudden, fierce surge of gratitude that the people on the other side of that door didn't know who Will Ospreay was. To Savannah and Lexi, he wasn't a world-class athlete or a heartbreaker; he was just "that guy she’s always talking about," a distant figure in a world they viewed with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

She swung the door open, and the two of them practically stormed inside, bringing with them the smell of rain and overpriced takeout. Lexi was already holding a brown paper bag that smelled heavily of garlic fries and soy sauce, while Savannah carried a bottle of wine and a look of predatory concern.

"How…?"

"Skye text us," Savannah answered, stepping past Emily without waiting for an invitation and heading straight for the kitchen. "She didn't give details—just that you had a 'shrimp-related crisis' and were currently mourning a man who doesn't know how to use a map. I assume that means the guy with the fancy hair finally did something stupid?"

Lexi followed her, though she paused to give Emily a long, assessing look. "You look like you’ve been through a car wash with the windows down, babe." She stepped forward, wrapping Emily in a hug that smelled of vanilla perfume and damp wool, effectively steering her away from the wreckage of the blazer on the floor. "The shrimp story was a nice touch, but we know you're too picky for random appetizers. What actually happened?"

Emily let herself be led into the living room, the heavy, suffocating silence of the last hour finally starting to break. For the first time in years, she felt the luxury of being known by people who didn't care about win-loss records, championship gold, or the politics of a locker room. To Savannah and Lexi, she wasn't "Emily Winters, Manager"; she was just Em, the girl who sometimes forgot to water her plants and had a disastrously predictable taste in men.

Savannah began unloading the takeout onto the coffee table with a clinical efficiency, the scent of garlic fries filling the room and grounding Emily in the present. "Now, spill it," Savannah commanded, popping the cork on the wine with a satisfying thwack. "Did he break up with her? Did he get a haircut? Did he finally admit he’s obsessed with you? Give us the tea, and don't you dare tell us 'it's fine,' because your mascara is currently migrating toward your chin."

Emily sank into the sofa, her body feeling like a heavy, sodden sponge. She looked at the wine, then at her friends' expectant faces, and felt a strange, dizzying relief. "He proposed," she whispered, the words feeling like small stones dropping into a deep well. "To Alex. He proposed to her."

The reaction was instantaneous. Lexi let out a sharp, indignant gasp, while Savannah froze with a glass halfway to her lips. There was no "it'll be okay" or "there are plenty of fish in the sea." Instead, Savannah set the glass down with a decisive clink and looked Emily square in the eye. "Absolutely not. Not after the way you've pined for him for the last six months. That is a crime against your emotional wellbeing."

"But he's… he's happy," Emily added, though the words felt hollow. "And she's wonderful. Everyone loves them together. The whole locker room was practically glowing."

"The locker room isn't here," Lexi countered, sliding a container of fries toward Emily. "The locker room doesn't have to deal with the hollow pit in your stomach. Right now, we are in the 'No-Will Zone.' If he even exists in this room for the next two hours, he exists only as a cautionary tale about men with too much agility for their own good."

For the first time that evening, a genuine, if fragile, laugh escaped Emily's chest. She leaned back into the cushions, the warmth of the room finally beginning to seep through the chill that had settled in her bones. The conversation shifted, drifting away from the glitz of AEW and the crushing finality of a diamond ring. They talked about the banal, beautiful trivialities of their own lives—Savannah’s nightmare of a boss at the agency, Lexi’s disastrous attempt at sourdough, the sheer absurdity of the rainy Tuesday they had just endured.

As the wine flowed and the fries grew cold, the oppressive weight of the arena began to feel like a distant memory. Emily found herself talking about the things she usually kept hidden from her colleagues; the exhaustion of the road, the loneliness of hotel rooms, and the strange, floating feeling of being a manager in a world where the script changed every five minutes. She realized that while her wrestling friends—Adam, Mox, and the girls—had provided the necessary shield to get her out of the building, Savannah and Lexi were providing the ground to stand on.

Around midnight, the phone on the coffee table buzzed. It was a group text from the 'Inner Circle' of friends back at the arena. Anna had sent a photo of the night's final segment, followed by a series of heart emojis and a simple message: 'You were missed, but the shrimp story is a legend. Moxley actually told Tony you were in a 'gastric crisis.' You're safe. Sleep well, Em.'

Emily stared at the screen, then looked at her friends. Lexi was currently mid-rant about a dating app horror story, gesturing wildly with a fry. The contrast was jarring—the high-stakes, televised drama of her professional life versus the messy, unscripted comfort of her real one. She felt a sudden, sharp clarity. The "maybe" she had been harboring for Will hadn't just been a hope for a relationship; it had been a desire for a different kind of stability.

/*/

The air in the gorilla position was thick with the smell of ozone and adrenaline, a cocktail that usually felt like home. Will Ospreay stood in the center of the celebratory storm, his chest still heaving from the match, his skin slick with sweat. To anyone watching, he looked like a man who had won everything. People were slapping his back, shouting congratulations, and praising the "bold move" of the engagement. But as the noise reached a crescendo, Will felt a sudden, jarring disconnect, as if he were watching the scene from a great height.

He leaned against a production crate, his gaze drifting toward the curtain. For the first time in years, the roar of the crowd felt like background noise. He found himself thinking about the gaps in the evening—the moments where he had instinctively looked for a specific, tailored presence in the wings, only to find a void. He thought of Emily. He thought of the same way she always managed to find him in a crowded room, the quiet, steady support that didn't require a microphone or a spotlight. He had spent months dancing around a feeling, convinced that the safety of his current path was the only right one, but the silence where Emily should have been was suddenly deafening.

"You alright, mate?", Kyle asked, noticing the distant look in his eyes.

Will blinked, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Just… catching my breath."

"Right". Kyle’s voice was flat, his skepticism cutting through the post-match adrenaline. He didn't move, his arms crossed as he watched Will's gaze linger on the empty space beside the curtain. "You've been 'catching your breath' for five minutes, but you're staring at the wall like it’s got the secrets of the universe written on it. You're not here, Will. Where's your head?"

Will shifted his weight, the celebratory noise of the locker room now sounding like a dull hum. He tried to play it off with a shrug, but the restlessness in his chest was winning. He looked at Kyle, his expression slipping from the triumphant athlete to something far more uncertain. "Where's Emily?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the nearby commotion. "I haven't seen her since the pre-show. She's usually hovering around the second segment by now."

"You didn't hear? She had a run in with a shrimp cocktail. I heard Mox tell TK that she’s currently fighting for her life against some rogue shellfish," Kyle answered, a smirk playing on his lips. He let out a short, dismissive huff. "But looking at you, I reckon you're the one in a crisis. You look like you've seen a ghost, and you've just got a ring on your finger and a win in the bag. Stop acting like you've lost your keys."

Will didn't laugh. The "shrimp" excuse sounded too convenient, too choreographed. He knew Emily; she was the kind of person who would show up to a match with a broken leg if it meant the logistics were handled. The idea of her vanishing because of a bad appetizer felt like a script written by someone trying too hard to be believable. "A shrimp cocktail? In this building? On a Wednesday?" Will shook his head, his brow furrowing. "That doesn't sound like her. Not even close."

"What's with the face?" Kyle asked, his voice dropping the smirk as he noticed the genuine tension in Will’s shoulders. "You're acting like you've just been told the match was a fluke. It's just shrimp, Will. People get sick. It's a catering thing."

Will didn't look at him; he was staring through the curtain, his mind racing through the timeline of the evening. Emily was the bedrock of his operational world; she was the one who noticed the small things—the misplaced water bottle, the timing of a cue, the subtle shift in his mood before a match. She didn't just 'miss' things, and she certainly didn't leave a show without a personal handover of the logistical baton. The silence she had left behind wasn't an absence; it was a statement.

"Ky bruv, can I ask you something?" Will’s voice was strained, his mind looping back to the way Emily had looked at him during their last briefing—a look of quiet, unwavering support that he had mistaken for professional courtesy. "Do you think… do you think it's possible for someone to be too professional? To the point where they just vanish if they feel they're in the way?"

Kyle sighed, the sound of a man who had spent too many years dealing with the eccentricities of high-flyers. "What are you actually talking about? You’ve just proposed to the love of your life, you’ve just had a five-star match, and now you’re philosophizing about Emily’s professionalism? You’re overthinking it, Will. Go celebrate."

But the seed of doubt had already taken root. Will didn't move. "What if Alex isn't the love of my life?" The question hung in the air, sudden and jagged. "What if I just… assumed she was because it was the easy path?"

Kyle stared at him, the same expression he ever wore when Will decided to attempt a flip from the top of a lighting rig.

"Well we'll we'll. If it isn't Billy boy bruv and his little sidekick, looking like he's just realized he bought the wrong house."

The voice was a sharp, polished blade that cut through the tension. MJF stepped out from the shadows of the production crates, leaning back with a smug, predatory grin that suggested he had been enjoying the spectacle from a distance. He didn't approach so much as he invaded the space, his expensive suit a stark contrast to the sweat-soaked gear Will was still wearing. He didn't offer a handshake; instead, he circled Will like a shark that had just found a bleeding reef.

"What do you want Max? I'm not in the mood for your bullshit tonight," Will snapped, though the edge in his voice lacked its usual conviction.

MJF didn't flinch; he simply stopped circling and leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, almost theatrical stage-whisper. "Oh, I’m not here to talk about your match, Will. I’m here to talk about your timing. You see, while you were out there playing the hero and playing house, I happened to notice a very specific sequence of events. I saw Emily arrive. I saw her face when the news broke. And then, I saw her exit the building with a look on her face that I usually only see on people leaving a funeral."

"He's bullshitting you". Kyle started, stepping in to shield Will from MJF’s orbit, but the arrogant man simply waved him off with a manicured hand.

MJF stepped closer, his voice dripping with a mock-sympathy that felt like acid. "Now, let’s look at the evidence, shall we? The great Will Ospreay, a man of precision, a man who calculates every single angle of a Hidden Blade, yet somehow completely blind to the woman who’s been his shadow for years. Think about it. Think about the 'shrimp cocktail.' Does Emily Winters—the woman who organizes her life by a colour-coded calendar—just happen to have a violent allergic reaction to catering on the one night you decide to announce your eternal devotion to someone else? It’s a bit too convenient, isn't it? It’s a tragedy in three acts, and you’re the only one who didn't read the script."

Will shifted, his face tightening. "What the fuck are you talking about, Max?"

"I'm talking about the fact that she didn't leave because of shellfish, you idiot; she left because of you," MJF sneered, his eyes gleaming with the pleasure of dismantling someone else's peace. "She didn't just walk out of the building; she walked out of the version of the future she’d been building in her head. The facts are simple, really. She's been in love with you since the day she signed her contract. Since the first time she stepped foot in an AEW locker room and realized you were the only person in this circus who actually spoke her language. She’s played the perfect professional, the perfect manager, the perfect 'friend,' all while watching you from the wings. And then, you went and gave her the one thing she couldn't handle: a diamond ring for someone else."

The air seemed to leave the corridor. Will felt a cold, sudden weight settle in his stomach, a sensation far more visceral than any impact he'd ever taken in the ring. He looked at MJF, and for once, the arrogance of the man didn't irritate him; it was merely the delivery system for a truth he had been too terrified to acknowledge. The images flashed by—the way Emily would always know exactly when he needed a drink of water without him asking, the quiet, fierce way she defended his reputation in meetings, and the same, subtle longing in her eyes that he had spent months convincing himself was just "team spirit."

"You're lying," Will whispered, though it sounded more like a question than a denial.

"Am I?" MJF chuckled, stepping back to give Will a mockingly wide berth. "Go ask the 'veterans.' Ask Moxley if he’s ever seen a manager look more devastated by a proposal. Or better yet, go look at your phone. I’m sure the silence from her end is screaming everything you’re too slow to hear. She’s not sick, Will. She’s heartbroken. And the best part? You’re the one who did it, all while thinking you were the hero of the story."

Kyle shifted beside him, his expression softening from skepticism to a grim understanding. He didn't say anything, but he didn't disagree. The celebratory noise of the arena was still pulsing through the walls, but to Will, it sounded like a distortion, a distant roar from a world he no longer quite fit into.

Will didn't answer MJF. He couldn't. The silence that followed the confrontation felt like a physical weight, pressing the oxygen out of his lungs. He stepped away from the production crates, his movements jerky and disconnected, as if he were suddenly operating a body that didn't belong to him. He didn't look at Kyle or MJF; he just started walking, his boots echoing hollowly against the concrete as he retreated toward the locker rooms.

He didn't go to his own locker. Instead, he found himself drifting toward the women's section, stopping just outside the threshold. He didn't enter—he didn't have the right to—but he stood there for a moment, staring at the same spot where Emily had stood only hours before. He could almost see her there: the poise, the sharp blazer, the way she always seemed to be the only person in the room who knew exactly where everything was. He had always mistaken her stability for a lack of desire, assuming she was simply the perfect gear in his machine. He had leaned on her strength for so long that he’d forgotten to ask if it was costing her anything to be that strong for him.

Will reached into his gear bag and pulled out his phone, the screen illuminating his face in a ghostly pale blue. He scrolled through his messages, his thumb hovering over Emily’s name. Their chat history was a testament to a shared language of logistics and quiet support—flight numbers, match timings, and the occasional "good luck" sent an hour before the doors opened. There was nothing explicit, no confessions of love or desperate pleas, but looking at it now through the lens of MJF’s cruelty, the subtext was deafening. Every "Let me know when you're back at the hotel" and "I've sorted your meal prep for tomorrow" wasn't just management; it was care. It was a devotion he had accepted as a given, never pausing to wonder who was paying the emotional price for that level of attentiveness.

He started to type a message, his fingers trembling. Are you okay? He deleted it. Too vague. I'm sorry. Sorry for what? The engagement? The ring? To apologize for the proposal now would be a disaster, a confusing signal that would only deepen the wound. He felt a surge of frustration, not at MJF or the situation, but at his own blindness. He had spent his entire career mastering the art of spatial awareness, knowing exactly where every opponent was in the ring to the millimeter, yet he had been completely oblivious to the woman standing three feet away from him for years.

The locker room was a cathedral of echoing silence, the celebratory noise of the arena now just a rhythmic thrumming in the walls. Will stripped off his gear with a mechanical, joyless efficiency. Each piece of clothing—the soaked tights, the bruised wraps, the boots—felt like a layer of a persona he was no longer sure he wanted to wear. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall, and for the first time, the image of the triumphant champion looked like a stranger. He looked at the ring on his finger, the gold glimmering under the harsh fluorescent lights, and felt a sudden, violent surge of nausea. He wasn't seeing Alex; he was seeing the ghost of Emily’s expression as she had walked away.

As he pulled on a plain black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin, a memory surfaced with a clarity that felt like a physical blow. He remembered a night in Tokyo, three years ago, when he had collapsed in a hotel room from sheer exhaustion, unable to even move his arms. Emily hadn't just called the doctor; she had sat by his bed for six hours, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low, steady voice that had anchored him back to reality. He had called it "professionalism" then. He had called it "good management." But as he stood there in the stillness of the locker room, the word professional felt like a lie he had told himself to avoid the terrifying truth.

It wasn't a sudden epiphany; it was the collapsing of a dam. The realization hit him not as a romantic spark, but as a profound, aching loss. He loved her. Not as a confidante, not as a pillar of support, and certainly not as a "friend." He loved the way she anticipated his needs before he could voice them, the way she challenged his ego with a single arched eyebrow, and the way her presence made the chaos of the wrestling world feel manageable. He had spent years building a life around her, letting her be the architect of his daily existence, and he had been too arrogant, too blind, to realize that he had fallen in love with the architect while pretending he was only interested in the building.

The weight of the mistake settled into his marrow. He had proposed to Alex because it was the expected path, the "correct" narrative of his life, while the actual heart of his world had been standing in the wings, holding his water bottle and checking his schedule. He felt a sudden, desperate need to be near her, to see if the air still felt the same when she was around, but the distance between the arena and her apartment felt like an ocean.

He grabbed his phone again, the screen blurring as he scrolled frantically through his contacts. He didn't have her address—she always handled the logistics, she was the one who booked the cars and mapped the routes. He was a man who could fly across a ring with surgical precision, yet he realized with a surge of panic that he didn't even know which street she slept on.

"Damn it," he whispered, the sound echoing off the lockers. He turned to find Kyle, who was leaning against the wall, watching him with a pitying expression.

"You look like you've just realized you're standing on a trapdoor, Will," Kyle said, his voice devoid of its usual mockery. He didn't move to comfort him; he just stood there, a silent witness to the wreckage of Will’s sudden clarity.

Will didn't look up. "I don't know where she lives, Kyle. I don't even know her street." The admission sounded pathetic, a confession of systemic incompetence. For years, he had operated under the assumption that Emily was a permanent fixture, a reliable constant that existed wherever he happened to be. He had outsourced the very concept of "home" to her, never bothering to learn the coordinates of the sanctuary she retreated to every time he wasn't around.

"I have her address and I also have an American drivers licence. I'll take you, but first you need to sort things with Alex," Kyle said, his voice shifting into something resembling a mentor’s tone. He didn't move to get his keys yet, instead crossing his arms and staring at Will with a hard, steady gaze. "You can't just fly over to Emily's door while you're still engaged to someone else. That's not a romantic gesture, Will; that's just a mess. You'll walk in there and you'll be the villain in her story before you even open your mouth."

Will looked at the ring on his finger, then back at Kyle. The adrenaline that had carried him through the match was gone, replaced by a crushing sense of urgency that felt like a panic attack. He knew Kyle was right, but the thought of waiting—of letting Emily spend another hour believing she was a disposable part of his professional machinery—was unbearable. He didn't want a "sorted" situation; he wanted to see if she would even look at him.

"I can't wait until tomorrow," Will said, his voice cracking. "If she's sitting in her apartment right now feeling like she's not enough, if she's thinking that her entire existence to me is just… logistics… I can't leave her with that for another second."

Kyle sighed, the sound heavy with the knowledge that Will was currently operating on a level of emotional desperation that defied logic. He stepped away from the wall and fished a set of keys from his pocket. "Right. But we're not doing a 'grand entrance' movie scene. You stay in the car until she says she wants to see you. You go in there as a man who messed up, not a superstar looking for a redemption arc. Clear?"

"Crystal," Will muttered, though his mind was already halfway across town.

He turned back toward the center of the locker room, where the celebration had shifted from a roar to a steady, humming glow of champagne and laughter. Alex was there, surrounded by a circle of admirers, her face radiating a kind of serene triumph that now made Will’s chest tighten with a suffocating guilt. She looked beautiful, the diamond on her finger catching the fluorescent light of the arena, marking a milestone that Will had pursued because it felt like the logical next step in a successful life. He had approached the proposal like a match strategy: execute the move, get the reaction, secure the win. He hadn't realized he was playing the wrong game entirely.

As he approached her, the noise of the room seemed to dampen, replaced by the loud, rhythmic thumping of his own heart. He caught her eye, and for a second, the joy in her expression faltered. She had always been intuitive, and she could see the wreckage in his eyes before he even spoke. He didn't try to fake the smile; he didn't have the energy for the performance. He reached out, taking her hand—the one with the ring—and felt a sudden, jarring sense of misalignment.

"Al," he started, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. He didn't lead with a confession; he didn't have the right to shatter her world in the middle of her victory lap. "Can we go somewhere private? Just for five minutes."

Alex’s brow furrowed, her smile dimming into a look of confusion. She looked around at the crowd of colleagues and the popping corks, then back at Will. The intuition that made her a formidable athlete picked up on the static in the air. She didn't ask why; she simply squeezed his hand—a gesture of instinctive trust that made Will feel like a fraud—and led him toward the quiet corridor of the loading dock.

The silence of the concrete hallway was a vacuum, pulling the oxygen from the room. Will stood there for a moment, looking at the woman he had spent the last year convincing himself was his destiny. She was brilliant, fierce, and they made sense on a whiteboard. But as he looked at her, he realized he was thinking about her in terms of compatibility, whereas he thought of Emily in terms of necessity.

"What is it, Will?" she asked softly. "You look like you've just lost a match you didn't even know you were in."

The words felt like gravel in his throat. He didn't want to be the villain, but he knew that prolonging the lie was a greater cruelty. "Al, I need to be honest with you. About the ring. About the 'yes' and the 'forever' part of this." He paused, his voice cracking. "I think I’ve been following a map that someone else drew for me. I thought this was where I was supposed to go, but I’ve just realized I’ve been looking right past the person who actually knows me. The real me. Not the 'champion' version."

Alex didn't scream or cry; she simply let go of his hand. The space between them suddenly felt like a canyon. She looked at the ring—the symbol of a future he had just admitted was a miscalculation—and then back at his devastated face. She was a pro; she recognized a "lost" look when she saw one. "You're talking about Emily," she whispered, her voice devoid of anger but heavy with a sudden, sharp understanding. "You're an idiot, Will. A complete and utter idiot."

She didn't wait for him to apologize. She stepped back, her expression shifting from confusion to a kind of weary pity. "Go. Before you make a complete mess of the rest of the night."

Will didn't look back. He practically bolted toward the loading dock, where Kyle was leaning against a rental car, checking his watch with an expression of profound boredom. "Took you long enough," Kyle remarked, though his eyes were scanning Will’s face, searching for the wreckage. "Did you do it? Or are we still pretending you're a fiancé for the sake of the sponsors?"

"She knows," Will breathed, his voice ragged. "She told me to go."

The drive across the city was a blur of neon lights and suffocating silence. Will sat in the passenger seat, his hands gripped tightly in his lap, feeling as though he were plummeting toward the mat without a rope to catch him. Every red light felt like a countdown; every turn felt like a risk. He wasn't the superstar in this car; he was a man who had spent years ignoring the warmth of a fire because he was too busy admiring the architecture of the fireplace.

When Kyle finally pulled the car to a stop in front of a modest, brick-faced apartment complex, Will didn't move. He stared at the third-floor window, where a soft, amber light leaked through the curtains. He could imagine her there—probably in oversized pyjamas, surrounded by the friends who actually knew how to hold her together when he was too blind to see she was falling apart. The thought of her pain, now coupled with the knowledge that he was the cause of it, made his chest tighten with a physical pressure.

"Remember the deal," Kyle reminded him, leaning back against the headrest. "You don't go charging in there like you're cutting a promo. You're a guest in her space, Will. And right now, you're a guest who’s overstayed his welcome in her heart."

Will nodded slowly, his movements heavy. He stepped out of the car, the cool night air biting at his skin, and walked toward the entrance. The elevator ride felt like an eternity, the rhythmic ding of each floor echoing the heartbeat of a man walking toward his own judgment. When he finally reached her door, he didn't knock immediately. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, closing his eyes. He could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses from inside—the grounded, civilian comfort of Savannah and Lexi. He was the intruder here, the chaotic element crashing into a sanctuary he had no right to disrupt.

Will didn’t knock. He couldn’t bring himself to break the seal of that sanctuary with a loud, demanding rap of his knuckles. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, listening to the low hum of voices inside. He heard Lexi say something about "ordering more Thai food," and the mundanity of it—the sheer, beautiful normality of her life outside of his orbit—made him feel smaller than he had ever felt in a ring.

He finally raised his hand and gave a single, tentative knock.

The laughter inside the apartment died instantly. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of silence that occurs when a room full of people collectively holds their breath. Will stood in the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs, feeling the sudden, sharp contrast between the curated noise of the arena and the raw, domestic stillness of Emily’s home.

"Who the hell is at the door?" Savannah’s voice drifted through the wood, sounding more curious than welcoming.

"Don't open it," Emily’s voice came through, barely a whisper. She sounded exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix. "Savannah, don't open the door. Just… tell whoever it is to go away."

Will leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. He could hear the conflict in the room; the soft shuffle of feet, the low, questioning murmur of Lexi. He knew he was the last person she wanted to see. He was the storm that had just crashed through her carefully constructed wall of recovery, and he had no right to demand entry into the shelter she’d found with her friends.

The door didn't open because of a lack of curiosity, but because Savannah had a level of stubbornness that rivaled any heavyweight champion. There was a sharp click of the deadbolt, a sudden rush of warm, cinnamon-scented air, and the door swung wide. Savannah stood there, arms crossed, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of Will standing in the dim hallway, looking less like a world-class athlete and more like a man who had just survived a shipwreck.

"You've got about ten seconds to tell me why you're breathing my air before I shut this door on your nose," Savannah stated, her voice a flat, uncompromising line.

From the living room, Emily appeared. She wasn't the poised manager in the sharp blazer anymore; she was draped in a plush grey cardigan, her eyes red-rimmed and her expression guarded. She stopped a few feet behind Savannah, her gaze locking onto Will’s. The silence that stretched between them was thick, vibrating with the ghost of everything they hadn't said for three years.

"Savannah, please," Emily whispered, though she didn't move toward him.

Savannah looked from Emily’s shattered expression to Will’s desperate one, then sighed, stepping aside with a reluctant shrug. "Fine. But if he starts acting like he's in a music video, I'm throwing him over the balcony."

Will stepped into the entryway, the warmth of the apartment feeling like a physical weight against his chest. He didn't try to approach her; he stayed by the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the fact that they were still shaking. He looked at her—really looked at her—and felt a surge of agony at the sight of her vulnerability.

"I didn't come here to make things harder," Will began, his voice sounding raw and thin. "And I know I have no right to be here. I know I'm the last person you want to see after tonight."

Emily leaned against the back of the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "Then why are you here, Will? You have a fiancé. You have a celebration. You should be halfway to a hotel room with a bottle of champagne."

"I'm not engaged," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "I mean, I was. For a few hours. But Al and I… we talked. I told her the truth. I told her that I’ve been following a map that didn’t actually lead to where I wanted to be." He took a tentative step forward, his eyes searching hers. "I broke it off, Emily. I couldn't let her—or myself—start a life based on a version of me that wasn't honest."

The room went deathly silent. Lexi and Savannah exchanged a wary glance, the air thick with a sudden, electric tension. Emily’s grip tightened, her expression flickering between disbelief and a cautious, terrifying hope.

"You did what?" she whispered.

"I realized I've been an idiot," Will continued, his voice gaining strength as the desperation took over. "I spent years letting you take care of everything. I let you be the strength in the room because it was easy, and I convinced myself that your kindness was just 'professionalism.' But the second you walked out of that arena, the air just… vanished. I felt like I was suffocating in a room full of people because you weren't there to tell me where the exit was."

He took another step, finally closing the distance, though he stopped just short of touching her. He looked at her, really seeing the exhaustion in her eyes and the way she was shivering beneath the cardigan. "I don't want a manager, Emily. I don't even want a 'support system.' I want you. I want the person who knows exactly how I take my coffee and the only person who isn't afraid to tell me when I'm being an arrogant prick. I love you. Not as a friend, not as a teammate, but as the only thing in my life that actually feels real."

Emily let out a ragged sob, the sound breaking through her composure. She didn't move toward him, but her shoulders slumped, the wall she had built over the last few hours finally cracking under the weight of his confession. "You're a fool, Will Ospreay," she choked out, a small, watery laugh escaping her. "A complete and utter, blind, oblivious fool."

"I know," he whispered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm the biggest fool in the industry. But I'm here. And I'm not leaving until you tell me I'm forgiven, or until you tell me to get out of your house."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sirens of the city outside. Savannah and Lexi had retreated a few steps, giving them a sliver of privacy while still remaining the silent guardians of Emily's heart. Then, as if a string had been pulled, Emily surged forward, burying her face in his chest. Will wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in with a fierce, crushing intensity, as if he were trying to fuse their two separate worlds into one. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, the scent of her skin—something like vanilla and old paper—grounding him more than any victory ever could.

"I love you and I want to be with you Em". Will whispered into the top of her head, his voice muffled by her hair. "But I know I've made a complete mess of everything. The timing, the way it happened… I know it's a disaster."

Kyle Fletcher x OC (Violet)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and idea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"If you keep staring at that plate, the chicken is going to start judging you," Mark said, leaning back in his plastic chair with a smirk.

The catering area of the arena was a chaotic hum of shouting producers, frantic stagehands, and athletes trying to fuel up before the cameras rolled for Dynamite. It smelled of industrial cleaner and lukewarm buffet trays. Kyle didn't look up; he was too focused on the vibration of the phone in his palm. He had just spent the last twenty minutes meticulously rearranging his meal—pushing the peas to the side, cutting the chicken into perfect squares—as if the symmetry of his plate could somehow stabilize the adrenaline still coursing through his veins from the title win.

"I'm not staring, I'm calculating," Kyle muttered, finally glancing up. He didn’t look at Mark, but instead at the lock screen of his phone. A message from Violet had just popped up, a simple 'Can't wait for you to come home,' but it felt like a timer counting down to a surprise he wasn't sure he could keep. He felt a surge of protective energy, the kind that usually fueled a main-event match, but this was different. This was about a secret itinerary, a set of non-refundable flights, and a villa in the Maldives that he had spent the last three months obsessively researching in the dead of night.

Mark leaned in, his curiosity piqued by the sudden, goofy grin spreading across Kyle’s face. "You've got that look. The 'I've’ve’ actually managed to keep a secret' look. What’s the play, champ? Please tell me you didn't just buy another pair of the same boots." Kyle laughed, quickly locking the phone and sliding it face-down on the table. The International Championship belt was draped over the back of his chair, the gold plates catching the harsh fluorescent lighting of the catering hall, a heavy reminder of the peak he had finally reached.

"You're acting like a man who's just been handed a live grenade," Mark observed, his voice cutting through the clatter of plastic cutlery and the distant roar of the crowd filling the arena.

Kyle didn't answer immediately. He was staring at the screen again, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. The text from Violet—Can't wait for you to come home—was a simple anchor, but it felt like a tether pulling him away from the sterile, high-pressure environment of the backstage area. Around them, the city of Jacksonville was humming with the energy of a Dynamite night, a frantic electricity that usually made Kyle feel invincible. But right now, he felt an odd, fluttering nervousness that no amount of championship gold could soothe. He was on the bubble, hovering between the own persona of the arrogant champion and the reality of a man who had spent his entire bonus check on a surprise that he was terrified of ruining.

"If I tell you, you can't tell Vi". Kyle finally looked at Mark, his expression shifting from nervous to conspiratorial. "The Maldives. Two weeks. Total blackout. I’ve got the villa booked, the flights are set, and the itinerary is a goddamn work of art. But I can't handle the logistics of the surprise alone—I'm too obvious."

Mark grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. "That's good you both deserve a break. I'm assuming it coincides with your anniversary?".

Kyle nodded. "Yep and the date we first met falls when we'll be away too so I've got something big planned".

"I'm not just taking her to a beach, Mark. I'm taking her to a place where the only thing she can focus on is the fact that I’m never letting her go," Kyle said, his voice dropping an octave, the bravado of the champion replaced by something raw and hopeful. He reached into his gym bag, fingers brushing against a small, velvet-lined box tucked securely in the inner pocket. He didn't take it out—not here, not under the flickering fluorescent lights of a catering hall—but the mere contact with the fabric made his heart race. He had timed everything to the second; the dinner on the night they first met would be the climax of the trip, a sunset proposal on a private deck that would make the International Championship look like a trinket.

Mark’s expression softened, the sarcasm vanishing. "Wait, you're actually doing it? The big jump?" He gave Kyle a supportive shove on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off the plastic chair. "About time, mate. You've been talking about this since the first time you met her back in London after RevPro"

"Since the first time we met?" Kyle echoed, a small, genuine laugh escaping him. He remembered that night in London—the rain slicking the streets outside the venue, the way Violet had looked at him not as a rising star or a technician, but just as a guy who looked like he needed a drink. He had been captivated by her energy before he’d even known her last name, a pull so strong it felt like gravity.

"You’ve got a short memory for a man who prides himself on his technical precision," Mark teased, his grin widening. "You’re forgetting the best part. You didn't just meet her and fall head-over-heels; you spent the next twenty-four hours trying to convince her you weren't a complete lunatic, only to walk into her studio the very next afternoon and realize she was the one holding the needle."

Kyle groaned, burying his face in his hands, though the smile remained. He could still picture the shock of it—the smell of rubbing alcohol and the hum of the machines filling the small, eclectic studio. He had walked in looking for a small piece of ink to commemorate the tour, only to find Violet behind the counter, her eyes widening in recognition, a tattoo gun already in hand. The irony hadn't escaped him; he had spent the night before trying to impress her with his strength and agility, only to spend the following afternoon trembling slightly while she etched a permanent mark into his skin.

"And for the most part she's been tattooing me ever since," Kyle added, his voice softening as he thought about the ink she’d added to his skin over the years—each piece a map of their shared history.

"Alright, look," Mark said, his voice shifting into 'manager mode' as he leaned across the table, nearly knocking over a pitcher of lukewarm water. "You’ve got the vision, Kyle, but your poker face is a disaster. You’re a world-class athlete, but when it comes to secrets, you leak information like a rusted pipe. If you try to handle the decoy logistics and the surprise timing on your own, you’re going to accidentally tell her the flight number while you're asleep."

Kyle sighed, the weight of the secret feeling heavier than the gold belt on his chair. He knew Mark was right; his excitement usually manifested as a series of frantic hints that he mistakenly thought were subtle. "I know. That's why I'm asking for backup. I need someone who can actually coordinate".

"And that's where I come in," Mark replied, pointing a finger at his own chest. "I'll be the buffer. I'll handle the 'distraction' phase. If you need to sneak out for a passport check or a final booking confirmation, I'll be the one texting you 'urgent' gym updates or 'emergency' training sessions to give you cover. I'll be the noise so you can be the silence. But," he paused, a mischievous glint in his eye, "this is going to require more than just me. You can't just have one accomplice; that's too easy to spot. You need a network."

The 'network' materialized in the form of Skye Blue, who had just wandered into the catering area, clutching a protein shake and looking equally exhausted from the day's rehearsals. Kyle had already looped her in via a frantic group chat three days prior. She slid into the seat next to them with a conspiratorial wink, already holding a printed sheet of paper.

"I've got the decoy itinerary," Skye announced, sliding the paper across the table. "While you're actually booking the Maldives, I'm helping Violet 'plan' a low-key weekend trip to a spa in the mountains. She'll think she's the one organizing the surprise for you. By the time she realizes the spa isn't in the mountains—but in the middle of the Indian Ocean—it'll be too late to turn back."

Kyle felt a wave of relief wash over him. With Mark managing the day-to-day diversions and Skye handling the psychological warfare of the 'decoy trip,' the plan finally felt plausible. For the next few weeks, the three of them operated like a covert ops team. They created a shared digital calendar of 'fake' events and 'phantom' appointments, ensuring that every time Kyle stepped away from Violet to finalize a detail, there was a believable excuse waiting in the wings.

The coordination was seamless, almost too seamless. Mark became a master of the timed interruption, sending Kyle "emergency" texts about training drills exactly when the travel agent called to confirm the villa's overwater bungalow. Skye, meanwhile, spent her afternoons feeding Violet carefully curated hints about the 'mountain retreat,' painting a picture of cozy fireplaces and hiking boots to distract her from any suspicion about Kyle's odd behavior.

However, the precision of their planning created a dangerous vacuum of silence. Violet, observant by nature and used to the high-intensity energy of the wrestling world, began to notice the gaps. She noticed the way Kyle’s phone would vibrate and he would instinctively shield the screen, glancing at Mark with a look of shared understanding. She noticed the whispered huddles in the hallways of the arena and the way Skye would suddenly become overly enthusiastic about 'spa treatments' whenever Violet mentioned wanting a break.

The first crack in the facade happened on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of humid Chicago day that made the air feel like a damp towel. Kyle had left his phone face-down on the kitchen island while he stepped into the shower, the sound of the water drumming against the tiles providing a temporary curtain of privacy. He had been careful—obsessively so—but the same meticulousness that made him a champion in the ring made him predictable in his habits. He always left the device in the same spot, and he always trusted Violet with his life.

Violet wasn't looking for secrets; she was simply looking for the remote. But as she reached across the marble countertop, the screen ignited. A notification had popped up, a message from Skye that bypassed the lock screen: 'Confirmed. The flowers are set for the 14th. She has no clue.'

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thin. Violet stared at the words—confirmed, the flowers, she has no clue—and the pieces of the last few weeks shifted into a new, devastating shape. The secretive phone calls, the hushed conversations with Mark, and Skye’s sudden, intense interest in her schedule weren't the signs of a surprise trip for her. They were the coordinates of a betrayal. The "mountain retreat" Skye had been whispering about felt like a cruel joke now, a decoy to keep her occupied while Kyle coordinated something with another woman. The trust she had built with Kyle, forged through years of supporting his climb to the top of the wrestling world, felt like it was fraying in real-time.

"Callie, you’ve got a smudge of something on your nose. Did you find a moth or just decide to be a menace today?" Kyle’s voice drifted from the hallway, warm and oblivious. He stepped into the kitchen, the cat perched precariously on his shoulder like a fluffy, judgmental gargoyle. He looked refreshed, his arm still a little damp from the shower, wearing a pair of loose joggers and a smile that suggested the world was exactly as he imagined it to be. He didn't see the way Violet's hand was shaking as she pulled away from the phone, or the way her eyes were clouded with a sudden, suffocating grief.

The silence that followed his entrance was heavy, a physical barrier that Kyle didn't seem to notice for the first few seconds. He was too busy trying to coax Callie off his shoulder, laughing as the cat clawed at his t-shirt. "Look at her, Vi. She knows I'm the champ now; she thinks she's royalty by association." He beamed at her, his eyes searching for the usual spark of amusement in her gaze. When he found only a cold, vacant stare, the smile didn't vanish, but it faltered, tilting into a look of confused concern.

Violet didn't say a word. She couldn't. If she spoke, the scream building in her throat would shatter the quiet of the house. She pivoted on her heel, the movement sharp and mechanical, and walked past him without a glance. The sound of her footsteps retreating up the stairs was rhythmic and hurried, a stark contrast to the slow, rhythmic thumping of the cat jumping down from Kyle's shoulder to the hardwood floor.

In the bedroom, the air felt stagnant. Violet didn't turn on the light; the bright Chicago afternoon filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a bright yellow. She grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and flung it onto the bed with a violent thud. Her movements became a blur of frantic efficiency. She didn't pack for a trip; she packed for an exit. She shoved a few changes of clothes into the bag, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. Every time she remembered the phrase 'she has no clue,' her chest tightened, as if an invisible hand were squeezing her lungs.

Downstairs, the confusion had finally set in. Kyle stood in the kitchen, his arm still damp, staring at the empty space where Violet had been. The warmth of the shower had evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling intuition. He looked at his phone—still face-down on the counter—and then back up at the ceiling. The silence from upstairs was worse than an argument; it was the sound of a void. He started toward the stairs, his voice cautious, the confidence of the International Champion stripped away to reveal a man who was terrified he had just broken the only thing that actually mattered.

"Vi? Everything okay?" he called out, his voice echoing in the hallway. He reached the landing just as Violet emerged from the bedroom, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her eyes rimmed with a fierce, shimmering red. She didn't look at him as she pushed past, her shoulder brushing his in a way that felt like a collision rather than a touch. She didn't stop to explain, didn't yell, and didn't ask for a justification.

"Whoa Vi, where are you going?" Kyle’s voice was frantic, his hand reaching out to catch the strap of her bag, but she jerked away with a sharpness that left him stumbling. "Vi, talk to me! What happened?"

Violet didn't answer. She couldn't find the words that wouldn't sound like a plea or a scream. Every time she looked at him, she saw the phone on the kitchen counter, the digital evidence of a secret shared with another woman.

"I saw it, Kyle. I saw the phone." The words didn't come out as a shout; they were a jagged whisper, colder than any ice bath he’d ever taken after a match. Violet finally stopped at the front door, her hand gripping the handle with a white-knuckled intensity. She turned to face him, her expression one of profound, shimmering disgust. "The flowers, the secrets, the 'she has no clue'—is that how it works now? You bring Skye into the loop to help you manage your little side-project?"

Kyle froze, his mind racing to catch up with the sudden shift in the atmosphere. "What are you talking about? Skye? What flowers?"

"Don't do that. Don't play the confused champion," she spat, the first spark of anger finally breaking through the grief. "I am disgusted that you thought you could hide this in our own home. To think that while I was supporting you, while I was cheering for every single win, you were coordinating some… some arrangement with another woman. It’s pathetic, Kyle. Truly pathetic." She didn't wait for his response, wrenching the door open and stepping out into the humid Chicago air, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

The drive to her parents' house was a blur of red lights and suffocating silence. Violet didn't remember the turns, only the feeling of the steering wheel vibrating under her palms. By the time she climbed the porch steps of her childhood home, she felt hollowed out. Her father, seeing the state of her, didn't ask questions; he simply stepped aside and let her collapse into the living room, where the familiar scent of old books and cedar offered a fragile sanctuary. She spent the next hour staring at a faded wallpaper pattern, the phrase 'she has no clue' looping in her mind like a broken record.

"You’ve got that look in your eye, the one where you’ve decided the world is ending and you're the only one who noticed," her mother said, stepping into the living room with a tray of tea that rattled slightly in her grip. Martha didn't need a formal explanation; she had spent twenty-five years reading the subtle shifts in Violet’s posture, from the way she held her breath before a big tattoo convention to the sudden, heavy slump of her shoulders right now. Martha set the tray down on the coffee table with a soft clink, her eyes scanning the tear-streaked cheeks and the trembling hands of her daughter. "Who was it? Did a client flake, or did that boy of yours finally do something remarkably stupid?"

Violet didn't look up from the wallpaper. "He's… he's with someone else, Mom. I saw it. The texts. The secrets." The words felt like shards of glass in her throat, making it hard to swallow. She tried to explain the sequence—the phone on the counter, the message from Skye, the calculated silence of the last few weeks—but it came out in jagged, disjointed bursts. Martha listened in a heavy silence, her hand resting gently on Violet’s shoulder, though her own expression shifted from maternal concern to a sharp, protective focus. She didn't offer platitudes; she simply shifted the tea tray aside to make room for Violet to lean her head against her arm.

"Oh sweetie," Martha murmured, her voice a steady anchor. "You know Kyle. He's a good guy. He loves you. Are you absolutely certain?"

Violet finally looked up, her eyes raw. "The message said 'she has no clue,' Mom. Who else would 'she' be? And why is he coordinating flowers with Skye Blue of all people?"

"They could be for you? Your anniversary's coming up, maybe he wanted to do something special for you?" Martha suggested, though the conviction in her voice was thin.

Violet let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "Since when does 'special' involve a secret network of accomplices and a total blackout of information? If he wanted to buy me flowers, he'd just… buy them. He wouldn't need a tactical coordinator." She sank deeper into the sofa, the familiarity of her childhood home feeling like a costume that no longer fit. The betrayal felt physical, a cold weight settling in her stomach that no amount of tea or maternal comfort could displace.

The floral wallpaper of her childhood bedroom had once been a sanctuary, but now it felt like a gallery of everything she had outgrown. Violet collapsed onto the twin-sized bed, the mattress still smelling faintly of vanilla and old textbooks, and let the first sob tear through her. It wasn't a quiet cry; it was a guttural, jagged release that shook her entire frame, the kind of grief that felt like it was trying to physically expel the betrayal from her chest. She curled into a tight ball, clutching a tattered pillow to her face to muffle the sounds, feeling the familiar four walls of her youth closing in to hold her together while she fell apart.

Beside her on the nightstand, her phone began to vibrate, the buzzing sound cutting through the silence like a serrated blade. Then it stopped. Then it started again. Each vibration was a pulse of anxiety, a reminder that the world outside this room was still moving, still spinning around a version of her life that had just been incinerated. She didn't look at the screen. She didn't want to see Kyle’s name, or Skye’s, or Mark’s; she didn't want to see the digital ghosts of a relationship that now felt like a beautifully painted lie. She ignored the persistent humming until the device finally fell silent, and in that vacuum of noise, she drifted into a heavy, exhausted sleep, the kind that doesn't actually rest the mind but simply shuts it down.

She woke up to the gray, muted light of early morning, her eyes swollen and her throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a lawnmower a few doors down. She was halfway through a tentative stretch when the front door downstairs creaked open, followed by a voice that didn't belong in her parents' house—a voice that sounded raw, desperate, and entirely stripped of its usual championship confidence.

"I know she's here," Kyle's voice drifted up the stairs, devoid of any bravado. "Please, just tell her I'm here. Tell her I'll stay on the porch all day if that's what it takes. I just need her to hear me."

Violet didn't just wake up; she jolted, her heart hammering against her ribs as the sound of Kyle’s voice filtered through the floorboards. For a moment, she considered staying under the covers, letting the silence of the room swallow her, but the desperation in his tone was a hook she couldn't ignore. She slid out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud, and crept toward the door. She didn't open it fully; she cracked it just enough to peek through the gap, her eyes scanning the hallway before she leaned in to listen.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was thick with a tension that felt like a physical wall. Violet could hear the low, rumbling bass of her father’s voice, the tone he reserved for people who had fundamentally failed at a basic task. "When you first met us you vowed never to hurt her, Kyle," her father was saying, his words measured but heavy. "Now you've got her in a state I haven't seen since she was sixteen. If you've been playing some kind of game with her heart, you can consider yourself lucky if I let you leave this porch with all your teeth."

Violet didn't wait for the response. She threw the bedroom door open and descended the stairs in a blur of oversized pajamas and raw nerves. She stopped on the final step, her eyes landing on the scene in the entryway. Kyle looked like he had aged a decade in a single night. He was leaning against the doorframe, his shoulders slumped, stripped of every ounce of the "Protostar" persona. He wasn't wearing the pink or the gear; he was just a man in a wrinkled t-shirt, looking utterly devastated by the sight of her.

"Dad, calm down, please," Violet whispered, her voice sounding thin and fragile in the quiet of the house. She didn't move toward Kyle, but she didn't turn away either. She stood on the last step, a fragile bridge between the safety of her childhood home and the wreckage of the last twenty-four hours.

Kyle didn't move. He didn't try to reach for her or offer a rehearsed apology. He looked at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated panic, the kind of look he usually reserved for a botched spot in a high-stakes match. "Vi," he started, his voice cracking. "I can't—I can't even begin to tell you how much I messed this up. I thought I was being a romantic genius, but I was just being a moron. I was trying to build a masterpiece and I accidentally burned the whole house down."

Violet didn’t move from the stairs, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to keep herself from shaking. "The masterpiece, Kyle? Is that what you call coordinating 'arrangements' with Skye Blue? Because from where I was standing, it looked like a playbook for a secret life."

Kyle took a half-step forward, his eyes searching hers with a desperate intensity. He didn't look like a champion; he looked like a man who had just realized he’d forgotten the most important part of a high-wire act. "There is no secret life, Vi. There is no other woman. There is only you. There has only ever been you." He reached into his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out his phone. "I was going to surprise you with everything. The 'arrangements' with Skye weren't about a relationship."

He stepped closer, though he stopped well short of her personal space, respecting the invisible barrier she had erected. "Skye was helping me with the decoy trip because she knows how to lie to your face without blinking, and I… well, you know I'm a disaster at it. The flowers? They aren't for some secret rendezvous. They're for the villa. The specific kind of white lilies you told me you loved three years ago when we were walking through that garden in Kyoto. I had her coordinate with the resort manager to make sure the entire deck was covered in them for the night of our anniversary."

Violet froze. The mention of Kyoto hit her like a physical blow, a detail so specific and buried in the archives of their relationship that it felt impossible for him to have remembered. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the frantic, honest desperation in his eyes. The anger that had sustained her for the last twenty-four hours began to ebb, leaving behind a hollow, aching confusion.

"Resort? What resort?" Violet asked, her voice barely a whisper. The anger was still there, but it was being rapidly replaced by a dizzying sense of vertigo.

Kyle didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his joggers and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—a printout of a confirmation email. He didn't hand it to her; he held it out like a peace offering, his hand still shaking. "The Maldives, Vi. Two weeks. Overwater bungalows, a private chef, the works. I've been planning it since the night I won the title. I wanted it to be the biggest thing I've ever done for you. I've even booked it to coincide with our anniversaries."

Violet took the paper, her eyes scanning the itinerary. The dates were exact. The villa name—The Azure Sanctuary—was written in an elegant script that seemed absurdly out of place in her parents' modest entryway. As she read the details, the image of Skye Blue shifted from a romantic rival to a reluctant accomplice in a poorly executed surprise. She remembered the "mountain retreat" conversations, the vague hints about spas and hiking, and the way she had let herself be led down a garden path of deception.

The silence that followed was no longer heavy with grief, but thick with a sudden, jarring clarity. Violet looked from the crisp white paper in her hand back to Kyle’s face. He looked utterly defeated, his eyes pleading for a forgiveness he wasn't sure he deserved. The image of him—the confident, technical wizard of the ring—standing here in her parents' hallway, trembling and stripped of his ego, made the air in the room shift.

"I'm an idiot," she whispered, though the edge in her voice had softened into something closer to a sob. "A complete and fucking utter idiot. I thought…"

"I thought you were throwing everything away for someone else," Violet finished, her voice cracking as she finally let out the breath she had been holding since the kitchen in Chicago. The tension that had kept her spine rigid for the last day vanished all at once, and she practically collapsed forward, stepping off the final stair and into his arms.

Kyle didn't just hug her; he clung to her, his face burying itself in the crook of her neck as he let out a ragged, shuddering sigh of relief. He held her with a strength that was familiar and grounding, as if he were trying to physically fuse them back together after the fracture. "I'm the idiot, Vi. I'm the one who thought a 'secret network' was a good idea. I thought it would be like a movie, but instead, I just gave you every reason to hate me."

Violet pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes still puffy but the coldness replaced by a weary, affectionate frustration. "You really thought involving a 'tactical coordinator' was the move? Kyle, you’re a world-class athlete, but your logic in a romantic crisis is absolutely abysmal."

Kyle let out a short, wet laugh, his forehead resting against hers. "I just wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to feel like the world stopped for a second, you know? Away from the travel, the noise, the constant buzz of the road. Just us and those lilies you liked in Kyoto." He tightened his grip on her waist, as if afraid she might vanish if he loosened his hold. "I'm sorry, Vi. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine how it looked from your end."

"I'm sorry" didn't quite cover the distance of the last twenty-four hours, but the way Kyle was shaking in her arms made the apology feel authentic. Violet leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the man who had somehow managed to turn a world-class vacation into a domestic disaster. "And what about the 'she has no clue' part? That's a very specific way to describe your own girlfriend, Kyle. It sounded like you were plotting a heist, not a holiday."

Kyle groaned, the sound vibrating against her chest. "That was Skye's phrasing! She’s the one who insists on the 'spy' aesthetic. She told me that if we weren't treating this like a covert operation, we were just 'badly hiding a secret.' I just went along with it because I was too panicked to realize that 'covert operations' usually end with someone getting interrogated by their partner."

Violet let out a genuine laugh, the first one in days, though she didn't let go of his shirt. "A covert operation. Right. Because nothing says 'I love you' like a tactical briefing and a decoy itinerary." She stepped back, shaking her head, though her eyes were shimmering with a different kind of moisture now. "You are an absolute menace, Kyle Fletcher."

Kyle beamed, the relief flooding his face like a sunrise. The desperation was gone, replaced by that familiar, boyish eagerness to make things right. "I'm a menace who has a very expensive villa waiting for us," he reminded her, his voice regaining some of its habitual bounce. "And a very apologetic Davis who's probably currently scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush because he thinks he’s the reason you left."

Violet paused, the image of Mark Davis in a state of frantic penance bringing a small, genuine smile to her lips. The absurdity of the situation—the champion of the world and his best friend operating as a failed intelligence agency—finally outweighed the lingering sting of the misunderstanding. She looked up at Kyle, whose face was now radiating a level of gratitude that bordered on the spiritual.

"I can't believe you actually remembered the lilies," she murmured, her voice finally steady. "Out of everything, that's the part that actually got me."

Kyle smiled. "Course I remembered the lilies. I remember everything about you, even the things you think you've buried." He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her, really seeing her in the morning light of her childhood home. "I just… I wanted to give you something that didn't feel like a 'wrestler's' luxury. Not just a fancy hotel, but something that showed I actually listen when you talk about the things you love."

The moment of tenderness was interrupted by a loud, rhythmic thumping coming from the living room. They both turned to see Violet’s father, who had been listening from the doorway, now crossing his arms with a look of profound skepticism. "Right. Well, now that we've established that Kyle isn't a philanderer, just a colossal idiot, perhaps we can move this conversation to the kitchen before your mom decides you're still a threat to the family's peace. And if you can not mention the Maldives to her too, otherwise she'll spend the next three hours lecturing you on the carbon footprint of a private jet."

Drilla Moloney x OC (Bethany Clark)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the oc and idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bed squeaked slightly as the "Drilla" Dan Moloney turned onto his side, though he barely felt the movement beneath him. He was currently encased in a heavy, oversized comforter that felt less like bedding and more like a plush cocoon, trapping the residual heat of a Tokyo summer morning. Beside him, Bethany was a warm, steady weight, her breathing rhythmic and slow against his chest. She was curled into him with a proprietary grip, one arm slung across his ribs as if to ensure he didn't drift away in his sleep.

The apartment was quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic hum of the city waking up outside the window and the soft tick of a clock on the bedside table. For a moment, Moloney just stayed still, watching the way the morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long, pale stripes across the hardwood floor. He felt the steady beat of Bethany’s heart against his own, a grounding cadence that seemed to push back the chaos of their professional lives. In the ring, they were storms—he a bruising force of nature and she a whirlwind of calculated aggression—but here, in the cocoon of a heavy comforter, they were just two people trying to remember how to be soft.

He tried to shift, but Bethany tightened her grip, her fingers curling into the fabric of his wifebeater with a subconscious strength that could probably snap a limb if she were awake and motivated. She murmured something incoherent, a soft, sleep-heavy sound that vibrated against his collarbone, and settled deeper into the crook of his shoulder. Her blonde hair was fanned across her pillow, the purple tips slightly faded from the Tokyo humidity.

It had been a month since Bethany had agreed to give him one last chance, and Moloney treated the current peace like a fragile piece of heirloom glass. He hadn't squandered his chance, in fact he'd been attentive, keeping dates and plans without the usual distraction of his phone. He'd slowly been opening up to Bethany more, for the first time in his life being vulnerable with someone other than his mum and younger brother. It had been a huge shift for a man who viewed emotional transparency as a weakness, but with Bethany, the silence of the apartment felt more honest than any boast he could make in a promo. Everyone had noticed the positive change in him, his family, friends, stablemates and even his therapist. He was determined not to mess it up.

Dan looked at his sleeping girlfriend, a soft smile on his face, and decided it was time to transition from cocoon to catalyst. He began the slow, surgical process of extraction, easing his shoulder out from under her arm with the precision of a man defusing a bomb. He held his breath, pausing every few seconds to ensure she remained in that heavy, blissful state of unconsciousness. He was almost clear, one leg already hovering over the side of the mattress, when the bed frame gave a sudden, sharp clack—a structural protest that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Bethany’s eyes remained closed but he knew that she was awake. "Don't you dare fucking move Daniel. I'm too comfy". Her groggy voice was a low rumble, the kind of tone she usually reserved for a referee she didn't like during a chaotic match. She didn't open her eyes, instead choosing to double down on her strategy, shifting her long, tanned leg with a sudden, athletic flick. It landed squarely across his waist, a heavy, pinning maneuver that effectively locked him back into the mattress. It wasn't a violent movement, but it was absolute; the leg of a professional wrestler was a formidable anchor, and Moloney found himself pinned by the sheer, unyielding weight of her affection.

He let out a small, defeated huff, the air escaping him in a long sigh as he sank back into the pillows. The plan for a secret, early-morning head start—the coffee, the pastries, the carefully timed surprise—was currently being thwarted by a single limb. He looked at her, the purple tips of her hair messy and wild against the white linen, and felt a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the comforter. For years, their relationship had been a series of high-tension wires, snapping and sparking, but today, the tension was gone, replaced by this heavy, peaceful stillness.

"Mm, what time is it?". Bethany asked, her eyes still closed, though the grip on his waist had softened from a pin to a gentle hold.

Dan's eyes drifted to the clock, then back to her. "Too early for the rest of the world, but just right for you," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. He didn't tell her it was nearly eight.

Bethany finally cracked one eye open, a mischievous glint appearing through the tangles of her blonde hair. "If you're lying about the time, I'm going to powerbomb you through the coffee table," she warned, though her voice lacked any real venom. She shifted, finally releasing her hold on his waist, and stretched with a slow, feline luxury that made her joints pop.

"Morning, you menace," Dan chuckled, finally freeing himself from the bed. He stood for a moment, stretching his broad shoulders until they popped, glancing back at her. Bethany was still half-buried in the sheets, looking less like the "Baddest Bitch" of Oedo Tai and more like a very grumpy cat.

"You’re staring," Bethany noted, though she didn't move an inch, her voice still hovering in that low, gravelly register of someone who hadn't yet processed the concept of consciousness. "Do I have a smudge of makeup on? Or are you just admiring the view?"

Dan snorted, leaning over to press a quick, lingering kiss to her forehead. "A bit of both, maybe. You’re a sight, Beth. Like a shipwreck in a duvet".

"I'm warm and comfy, so who's the real winner here?" Bethany retorted, finally rolling over to face him. She gave a dramatic sigh, her expression shifting from sleepy to smug in a heartbeat. She reached out, hooking a finger into the waistband of his boxers and tugging him back toward the mattress with a strength that reminded him exactly who she was. "Stay. The world can wait another twenty minutes. The gym isn't going anywhere, and the coffee machine isn't going to suddenly develop a personality and brew itself."

Dan laughed, resisting the lure of the pillows with a focused effort. He managed to pry her finger away, offering her a playful wink as he backed toward the bedroom door. "If I stay, we'll still be in this bed at noon, and then you'll spend the rest of the day complaining that I'm lazy. I'm doing this for the sake of our collective productivity." He paused at the threshold, glancing back at her draped across the bed. "Plus, someone has to handle the delicate logistics of the caffeine situation."

"I don't mind us being lazy," Bethany murmured, her voice dropping an octave into a playful, dangerous territory. She arched her back slightly, the duvet sliding just enough to reveal the toned line of her shoulder. "And believe me, babe, if we stay in this bed for another hour, neither of us is going to be doing any resting."

Dan froze mid-stride, his heart hammering a sudden, erratic rhythm against his ribs. He looked back at her, seeing the predatory tilt of her smile and the way her eyes had shifted from sleepy to wide awake. The challenge was clear, and the temptation was a physical weight in the room. He took one step back toward the bed, then two, until he was hovering over her, the air between them thick with a sudden, electric heat that made the Tokyo humidity outside feel like a breeze.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rough register. He leaned down, his chest inches from hers, his eyes scanning the familiar, beautiful map of her face. "Because last time we decided to ignore the clock, we didn't actually leave the room until the sun was halfway across the city."

"And you enjoyed every minute of it Daniel". Bethany grinned as she leaned close. "So, why don't you come back to bed and live up to your ring name, Drilla".

Bethany didn't wait for him to answer. She reached up, her hand sliding behind his neck to pull him down with a sudden, practiced precision. As her lips met his, she didn't just kiss him; she claimed him, her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth before she caught his lower lip between her teeth. She gave a slow, playful tug—a sharp, feline little nip that sent a jolt of electricity straight down Dan’s spine—before releasing him with a soft, humming sound of satisfaction. It was a reminder that while she could be the softest thing in his world, she was still a predator in the ring and a firebrand in the bedroom.

"We're both free today and it is my birthday tomorrow", Bethany continued as she slowly inched his wifebeater up his torso, her voice a low, teasing vibration. "Which means you have a very limited window to make me feel properly spoiled before the world starts demanding things from us again."

Dan felt the air leave his lungs as her teeth caught his lower lip once more, a deliberate, slow drag that felt less like a kiss and more like a signature. It was a tactile reminder of the woman she was—sharp, precise, and always in control of the tempo. He let out a low groan, his hands finding the curve of her waist and pulling her flush against him, the friction of the sheets sounding like a distant storm. For a few minutes, the gym, the ring, and the looming expectations of the War Dogs ceased to exist.

The fabric of his wifebeater didn't stand a chance; Bethany gripped the hem and yanked it upward in one fluid, athletic motion, tossing the garment toward a chair with the casual precision of a seasoned pro. Before Dan could regain his footing, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and gave a sharp, calculated tug, guiding him backward until he hit the mattress with a soft thud. In an instant, she was over him, straddling his waist with a proprietary confidence. She was wearing one of his old gym shirts—a grey, oversized rag that was fraying at the collar and riddled with tiny holes from years of heavy lifting—and the contrast of the ragged cotton against her polished, fierce energy made Dan’s heart hammer against his ribs.

She leaned down, her blonde hair falling like a curtain around them, creating a private sanctuary of scent and heat. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips as she traced a fingertip down the center of his chest, barely touching the skin but leaving a trail of fire in her wake. "You know, Drilla," she whispered, her voice a low, teasing vibration that seemed to echo in the hollow of his throat, "I’ve been thinking about all the different ways I could break you today. Maybe I'll start with something slow, something that makes you beg for the finish, or maybe I'll just keep you pinned here until you forget your own name."

Dan felt the pressure of her thighs against his hips, a reminder of the strength that could easily hold him in place if she truly wanted to. He watched her eyes dance with mischief, the "Baddest Bitch" of Oedo Tai fully present and enjoying every second of his struggle for composure. She shifted her weight, leaning in to brush her lips against the shell of his ear, her voice dropping to a ghost of a whisper. "I might even let you have a turn, provided you're a very, very good boy for me."

The challenge was too much to resist. In one explosive movement, Dan shifted his center of gravity, bridging his hips with a surge of power that caught her off guard. Before she could register the change in momentum, he rolled her beneath him, the mattress groaning under the sudden shift of weight. With the practiced speed of a man who spent his life in the squared circle, he captured both of her wrists in a single, firm grip and pinned them securely above her head.

"That's cute Beth but you've forgotten who you're dealing with," Dan breathed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress. He didn't just hold her wrists; he locked them with a firmness that was grounded in years of grappling, leaving her pinned and breathless beneath him. The predatory glint in her eyes didn't fade; it intensified, shifting from the hunter to the hunted, and she let out a sharp, delighted laugh that echoed through the quiet room. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of their hearts and the soft friction of skin against linen, a private battle for dominance where the stakes were entirely delicious.

As the heat between them plateaued into a slow, heavy simmer, Dan’s gaze drifted from her eyes to the grey fabric of the gym shirt she was wearing. It was a relic of his early training days, a garment that had survived three different weight classes and countless washes until the cotton had become thin and translucent in patches. He noticed a particularly jagged tear along the side seam, a fraying gap that had finally surrendered and now stopped just an inch above the tanned, toned curve of her thigh.

He let his grip on her wrists slacken just enough to slide one hand down, his fingers tracing the ragged edge of the tear. "You're wearing my old rags, Beth," he murmured, his voice thick with a playful, dangerous edge. "Though they're barely holding on for dear life. One good tug and this whole thing just… vanishes."

Bethany let out a breathy laugh, her chest heaving against his. "Is that a threat, Drilla? Because it sounds like a promise."

"It's a tactical observation," he countered, his fingers hooking into the frayed cotton of the tear. He gave a slow, deliberate pull, the fabric groaning under the tension. "I could rip this right off you. Just a sharp snap, and you're out of the wardrobe entirely. I think the shirt's had enough of a career; it's time for it to be retired." He leaned in close, his lips brushing her jawline as he gave the fabric another teasing tug, threatening to finish the job.

The fabric finally gave way with a satisfying, muted rip, the old cotton surrendering to the tension. As the shirt slid further away, Dan’s free hand abandoned the fraying hem to wander, his palm sliding across the warm, smooth expanse of her ribs. He felt her breath hitch, a sharp intake of air that signaled she was no longer the one directing the flow of the encounter. With one hand still maintaining a firm, proprietary lock on her wrists above her head, he let his other hand venture further, tracing the curve of her hip and moving inward. It was then he realized the grey rag had been the only thing standing between him and her skin; there was no lace, no silk, no barrier at all.

A low, guttural chuckle escaped him as he discovered the truth. "You’re a menace, Beth. A complete and utter menace," he murmured, his voice vibrating against her collarbone. The revelation seemed to electrSame the air, turning the simmer into a boil. He didn't rush; instead, he took his time exploring the geography of her body, his touch deliberate and appreciative. He wanted her to feel every inch of his attention, to know that while he was a wrecking ball in the ring, he could be a surgeon in the bedroom.

"You're talking a big game for a man who's currently being outmaneuvered by a piece of cotton," Bethany teased, her voice a low, challenging rasp. She arched her back, pressing herself into him with a sudden, provocative surge of energy. "What's the matter, Dan? Is the big, bad War Dog afraid of a little fabric? Or are you just too slow to actually finish the job?"

The spark hit the fuel. Dan didn't just pull; he reacted with a burst of explosive power that would have looked at home in a highlight reel. He gripped the collar and the hem of the fraying grey shirt, and with one sharp, decisive heave, he ripped the garment clean away. The old cotton didn't stand a chance, splitting down the center with a loud, visceral crack that echoed through the bedroom.

Bethany let out a genuine, melodic giggle—a sound rarely heard by anyone outside these four walls—as she found herself suddenly exposed and laughing at the sheer, chaotic violence of the act. The "Baddest Bitch" was momentarily replaced by a woman who was simply delighted by his intensity. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling, the remnants of the gym shirt tossed haphazardly across the room like a fallen flag.

"There," Dan breathed, his chest heaving as he loomed over her. "Retired. Permanently."

"So you have me Moloney, question is what are you gonna do with me?". Bethany’s voice was a low, honeyed dare, her head tilting back into the pillow as she looked up at him with a challenge in her eyes. She didn't move to escape the pin; instead, she shifted her hips with a slow, deliberate grind that threatened to dismantle whatever remaining composure he had. "You've got the leverage, you've got the position… but do you actually have the guts to follow through, or are you just posing?"

Dan didn't answer with words. He didn't have the breath for them. He lowered his head, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was less of a request and more of a takeover. It was a heavy, demanding collision of lips and tongue, tasting of salt and shared history. He felt her gasp into his mouth, her body arching upward to meet his weight, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as the teasing ceased and the raw, electric hunger took over. For a few long minutes, the world narrowed down to the friction of skin on skin and the desperate, rhythmic sound of their breathing echoing in the small room.

The clock on the bedside table had ticked forward an hour, though neither of them had bothered to check it. They were currently submerged in the heavy duvet, a tangled architecture of cotton and limbs that had become their entire universe. The air in the room was thick and humid, smelling of salt and spent adrenaline, but beneath the covers, there was a blissful, radiating warmth. Dan lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy cadence, feeling as though his bones had been replaced by warm lead.

Bethany was draped across him, her head tucked under his chin and her body molded to his side with a contented, feline precision. She didn't move; she simply existed in a state of profound, shimmering stillness. There was a smugness to her silence, a quiet triumph in the way she let out a long, slow exhale against his skin. She looked exactly like a cat that had not only caught the cream but had claimed the entire dairy. The "Baddest Bitch" of Oedo Tai was currently a puddle of absolute satisfaction, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with a post-coital glow that made her look softer than Dan had ever seen her.

"I'm so glad we both don't skip cardio," Bethany murmured, her voice a gravelly, satisfied hum against his chest. She shifted slightly, the duvet bunching around them like a fortress. "Though I think you might have overshot your heart rate target for the morning, Drilla."

Dan let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through both of them. He reached up, threading his fingers through the purple-tipped tangles of her hair, tugging gently to bring her gaze back to his. "Slightly. But I'd say the ROI on this particular workout was significantly higher than a treadmill." He felt a profound sense of grounding, a quietness in his mind that had been missing for years. For a long time, his life had been a series of loud noises—shouting prompts, crashing rings, and the constant, grinding pressure to be the most aggressive man in the room. With Bethany, the silence wasn't a void; it was a sanctuary.

"Well I'm satisfied, for now," Bethany sighed, her voice trailing off into a yawn that shook her entire frame. "But now I think I could use my coffee please, maybe some food and we could pick up where we left off in about ten minutes."

Dan chuckled, carefully untangling himself from her limbs as he sat up. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his gaze drifted toward the phone on the nightstand. The screen flickered to life, revealing a string of notifications from the War Dogs group chat. The messages were a barrage of aggressive emojis and urgent prompts; the team was already at the facility, the training session had officially started, and their leader was likely wondering where his heavy hitter had vanished to. In the world of the War Dogs, missing a session without a damn good excuse was a cardinal sin, usually punishable by a grueling amount of burpees or a very loud dressing-down.

Bethany rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow to peek at the screen. She saw the flood of messages—the relentless pestering from his stablemates and the stern, capitalized directives from the team lead—and a small, knowing smile touched her lips. She knew the culture of the Dogs; they didn't just want your sweat, they wanted your soul, and they wanted it at 8:00 AM sharp. She watched Dan's expression, waiting to see if the old version of him would surface—the one who would panic, apologize profusely, and sprint out the door with a half-hearted kiss.

Instead, Dan did something that felt like a quiet revolution. He reached out, his large thumb sliding across the screen to dismiss the notifications with a single, decisive swipe. He didn't even open the chat. He didn't check who was the loudest or who was the most offended. He simply flipped the phone face-down on the mahogany surface, effectively silencing the outside world.

"You good? You can answer them y'know?". Bethany’s voice was a low, teasing challenge, though there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in her eyes. She knew how much he valued the respect of the Dogs, and she’d spent years watching him prioritize the pack over almost everything else. The silence of the phone felt like a heavy, unspoken choice.

Dan didn't look at the device. He kept his eyes locked on her, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "The Dogs are big boys. They can survive one morning without me barking," he said, his voice regaining its usual confidence, though it was softened by a lingering tenderness. "Besides, I've spent the last month promising you that things would be different. I'm not starting the day by choosing a gym over my girl."

"You're serious?" Bethany asked, her voice losing some of its teasing edge. She looked at the face-down phone, then back at him, her expression softening into something genuinely surprised. "You're actually skipping for me? I thought you'd be halfway through a set of squats by now just to avoid the shouting."

Dan let out a soft huff and stood up, the cool air of the room finally hitting his bare skin. "I'm dead serious. Today isn't about the Dogs, and tomorrow isn't about the business. It's about you." He stepped toward her, leaning over to press a firm kiss to the center of her forehead. "Now, as for that coffee… I think we can do better than the machine. There's a place three blocks over that does those thick, buttery croissants you like. The ones that practically melt if you look at them too long."

"That sounds like heaven, but it won't open until eleven. The one thing that'd make Japan elite, breakfast places," Bethany lamented, though she was already stretching her limbs out, her mood buoyant. She watched him with a newfound softness, the kind of look she usually reserved for the rare moments of vulnerability between matches. The fact that he’d silenced the War Dogs without a second thought was a gesture that carried more weight than any expensive gift he could have bought her. It was a choice of priority, a conscious decision to put her on a pedestal above the tribal loyalty of his stable.

Dan laughed, the sound rich and genuine, as he navigated the minefield of discarded clothing on the floor to find his trousers. "Eleven it is, then. That just means we have a few hours of strategic lounging before the buttery pastries enter the equation." He paused, glancing back at her, his expression turning thoughtful. "And since I've already committed the crime of skipping training, I might as well go all in. Tomorrow's your birthday, Beth. I’m not just giving you a dinner and a card. I’ve got a whole itinerary. A proper, non-wrestling, non-stress, full-blown celebration."

"You're blowing off your teammates two days in a row?" Bethany asked, her eyebrows arching as she sat up. She leaned back against the headboard, the duvet sliding down to her waist. There was a flicker of genuine admiration in her gaze; she knew the War Dogs didn't just operate as a team, they operated as a cult of intensity. To the Dogs, a missed session was a sign of weakness or, worse, a lack of loyalty. "Finlay's going to have your head on a platter by Monday."

Dan shrugged, a slow, confident movement of his broad shoulders as he stepped into his boxers. "Let him try. I'm the one who delivers the hits for them; they can't afford to bench me for a few days of pampering my Mrs." He turned back to her, his expression softening. "Besides, I've spent too much of our time together apologizing for my schedule. For once, the schedule is whatever you want it to be."

Bethany watched him, a small, contented smile playing on her lips. The tension that usually resided in her shoulders—the permanent readiness for a fight that defined her life in Oedo Tai—seemed to have evaporated. She felt a rare sense of security, not from his physical strength, but from the deliberate way he was carving out a space for her in his life. It was a subtle shift, but to her, it felt like the difference between a casual fling and a genuine partnership.

"I've told them I have plans, plans that I won't change and if they don't like it then I'll leave the Dogs. I meant what I said Beth, I'd leave them in a heartbeat for you." Dan's voice was steady, stripped of the usual bravado he used in the ring.

Bethany stared at him for a heartbeat, the weight of that statement hanging in the air. For a man whose identity was forged in the fires of a brotherhood, the idea of walking away from the pack was a drastic admission. She didn't want him to actually quit—she loved the fire he brought to his work—but the willingness to do so was the most romantic thing he’d ever said to her. She reached out, grabbing the hem of his trousers to tug him back toward her, her eyes shimmering. "Don't actually quit, you idiot. I just want to know I'm the one who wins the tie-breaker."

"You win every fucking time," Dan murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a slower, more lingering kiss. He let the silence of the room stretch out, savoring the feeling of her heart beating against his chest before he finally stood up. The phone on the nightstand remained face-down, a silent, ignored monolith of professional obligation. For the first time in years, the looming threat of a disappointed coach or a mocking stablemate felt insignificant compared to the warmth radiating from the woman in his arms.

He spent the next hour in a state of domestic bliss that was entirely foreign to his usual routine. Instead of the sterile smell of gym mats and liniment, the apartment was filled with the rich, dark aroma of the coffee he finally managed to brew. He moved through the kitchen with a lightness in his step, humming a tuneless melody while he plated a few pieces of fruit and toast—not that they’d be enough to tide them over until the bakery opened, but it was the ritual of care that mattered. He looked at Bethany, who had finally emerged from the bedroom wrapped in a fluffy white robe that made her look like a cloud with purple-tipped edges.

"You look far too peaceful for someone who's about to be fed like a queen," Dan teased, sliding a plate of sliced mango and sourdough toast across the counter. He watched her lean into the scent of the coffee, her expression one of pure, unadulterated luxury. For a moment, the chaotic energy of their professional lives—the screaming crowds, the bruising impacts, the political minefields of the locker room—felt like a movie they had both watched a long time ago.

Bethany took a slow sip of the coffee, closing her eyes. "The coffee is acceptable. The company is marginally better," she replied, though she leaned her head against his shoulder, the softness of her robe brushing against his skin. "Especially when said company is only in his Calvin's".

Dan laughed, a deep vibration in his chest, and instinctively tightened his arm around her. He didn't mind the teasing; in fact, he preferred it. For too long, their relationship had been a battle of wills, a struggle to see who could bend the other first. Now, the competition had shifted into something collaborative. He looked down at her, noting the way her purple hair contrasted with the white terrycloth of the robe, and felt a surge of protective warmth.

"Behave. Jesus, usually you're the one threatening me with a cold shower. What's going on with you?". Dan teased, gently nudging her side. He felt a strange, exhilarating lightness in his chest, a feeling that the heavy armor he wore as 'Drilla' had finally been shed for the morning. He looked at the clock; it was barely ten. The world was waking up, the city of Tokyo was humming into its frantic, neon-lit gear, and somewhere in a gym, his stablemates were likely wondering if he’d been kidnapped.

"I'm just appreciating the view," Bethany countered, her voice still husky. She leaned back against the counter, the robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. "And the fact that for once, you aren't checking your watch or phone every five minutes to see if you're late for a meeting with a man who screams at you." She paused, her eyes searching his. "You're really doing this, aren't you? No 'just one quick check' of the group chat? No 'maybe I'll just send a text to let them know I'm alive'?"

Dan leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't just look at her; he looked through her, seeing the flicker of insecurity that occasionally haunted the "Baddest Bitch" when she wasn't in the ring. She was used to being a priority in the heat of a match, but in the quiet of a home, she was used to being the one who stepped aside for the business.

"Not a single glance, Beth," he promised, his voice steady. "The phone stays face-down until we’re back in this apartment tonight. If the world burns down because I’m eating a croissant with my girlfriend, then let it burn."

Bethany didn't respond with words at first. Instead, she stepped into his space, her hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of coffee and quiet conviction. It wasn't the predatory, challenging heat of the bedroom; it was something slower, a lingering press of lips that carried a genuine, shimmering weight. When she finally pulled back, she didn't let go, her forehead resting against his for a heartbeat.

"I really appreciate this, Dan," she murmured, her voice stripped of its usual jagged edge. "Seriously. Knowing you’re actually choosing this… it means more than the itinerary." She looked at him, the vulnerability in her eyes matching the softness of her expression. "It’s nice to actually be the priority for once."

Then, the spell of domestic silence was broken by a sudden, sharp memory of the world outside. Bethany pulled back just an inch, her eyes twinkling with a bit of practical mischief. "That being said," she added, a smirk returning to her lips, "you might want to send a quick group text. Just a 'still alive' or a 'don't bother calling.' Because knowing Gabe, he’s probably already coordinated a search party and he’s currently halfway to banging our front door down with his shoulder."

Dan groaned, the mental image of Gabe Kidd’s manic energy delivering a surprise visit being all too vivid. He could almost hear the frantic shouting and the thud of heavy boots in the hallway. With a theatrical sigh, he reached for the phone, the screen blindingly bright as it flared to life. He didn't engage with the fifty-odd notifications waiting for him; instead, he bypassed the chaos and fired off a single, blunt message to the War Dogs chat: I'm missing training for the next two days. It's Beth's birthday and she's the priority. Don't call me unless the building is literally on fire.

He didn't wait for the inevitable explosion of confusion or mockery that would follow. He flipped the phone back over with a satisfying clack, effectively severing the digital tether to his professional life.

The silence that followed the click of the phone was absolute, a rare commodity in their shared existence. For a few minutes, they simply stood in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only soundtrack to their mutual relief. Dan felt a strange sensation in his chest—a lightness that bordered on vertigo. He had spent the better part of his career operating under the assumption that the "pack" came first, that the brotherhood of the War Dogs was a non-negotiable contract written in sweat and blood. To consciously tear that contract, even for forty-eight hours, felt like jumping off a cliff without knowing if there was water at the bottom.

"You actually did it," Bethany whispered, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and genuine awe. She leaned back, her eyes scanning his face as if looking for a sign of immediate regret. "Drilla Moloney of the Dogs just went rogue. I can practically hear the collective gasp from the training center from here."

"I can practically hear the silence of their confusion," Dan countered, his voice brimming with a newfound lightness. He stepped closer, his large hand finding the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. "Let them wonder. Let them speculate. It’ll make them work harder in the ring when I finally get back. A little mystery keeps the Dogs hungry."

Bethany laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that lacked any of her usual professional cynicism. She leaned her head back, looking up at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated contentment. For a moment, they weren't two of the most feared athletes in their respective companies; they were just Dan and Beth, two people rediscovering the rhythm of a relationship that had once been frayed by the very ambition that now fueled them.

"So, what are we doing today then?". Beth asked, her voice trailing off as she began to wander toward the bedroom to find something that wasn't a robe to wear. "Since you've declared a state of emergency in the name of my birthday, I expect a full briefing on the itinerary. I want to know exactly how much spoiling I'm in for before I commit to this level of relaxation."

Dan watched her walk away, the white terrycloth swaying with her hips. He felt a surge of pride in the decision he’d made. "I'm not giving you shit Clark. Birthday surprises mean birthday surprises," he called out, his voice echoing through the apartment.

"Well I was going to get a new tattoo today". Bethany’s voice drifted back from the bedroom, punctuated by the sound of a drawer being slammed shut. "But since you've gone all 'romantic lead' on me, I suppose I can postpone the ink for a few hours."

Dan chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched her emerge, having traded the robe for a pair of high-waisted black jeans and a cropped vintage tee that hugged her frame. She looked effortlessly cool, the sharp contrast of her purple hair against the neutral tones of the clothes making her eyes pop. She approached him with a predatory sort of grace, stopping just inches away to inspect him with a critical, amused gaze.

"New ink huh. Did I mention that I love women with ink, or is that just a given?" Dan teased, his eyes tracing the existing art on her skin as he straightened up. He reached out, hooking a finger into the loop of her jeans to pull her closer.

Bethany smirked. "We could get matching tattooe—"

"Don't you dare," Dan interrupted, a laugh bubbling in his chest. "One of us has to remain the voice of reason, and since you're currently in a state of birthday delirium, that leaves me." He stepped back, breaking the contact just enough to gesture toward the door. "Now, move it. The croissants are calling, and if we don't get there before the eleven o'clock rush, I'm going to have to fight the queue, and that's a kind of violence I'm not in the mood for today."

"Fine, then you'd better put some clothes on that actually suggest you aren't planning to wrestle a bear in the middle of the street," Bethany teased, though she was already reaching for her boots.

As they stepped out into the crisp Tokyo morning, the city felt different. Usually, Dan navigated these streets with a focused, almost tunnel-vision intensity, his mind already simulating the next match or calculating the fastest route to the gym. Today, however, he found himself actually looking at the architecture, the neon signs fading under the brightness of the own sun, and the way Bethany’s hand felt entwined with his. There was a lightness to his stride that felt alien yet addictive. For a man whose life was measured in three-counts and bell-rings, the luxury of an unscheduled hour was a heady drug.

The bakery was a narrow, fragrant sliver of a shop tucked between a towering electronics store and a quiet tea house. As they stepped inside, the scent of caramelized butter and toasted almonds hit them like a physical wave, instantly erasing the last remnants of the morning's tension. The queue was already winding toward the door, but Dan navigated the space with a protective, guiding arm around Bethany’s shoulders, shielding her from the frantic energy of the mid-morning rush.

Bethany watched him from under her lashes, noting the way he didn't look at his wrist once. There was something profoundly grounding about seeing this man—a man known for his explosive volatility in the ring—patiently waiting in a line of salarymen and tourists. He seemed to be savoring the anonymity of it all. For the first time in months, he wasn't "Drilla," the heavy hitter of the War Dogs; he was just a tall, broad-shouldered man in a plain t-shirt, completely captivated by the woman beside him.

"Three almond, two plain, and a chocolate one just because you're a menace," Dan said to the cashier, his voice sounding relaxed and grounded. He didn't just order; he leaned into the experience, ignoring the impatient sigh of a businessman behind them. When the pastries arrived, golden-brown and glistening with a light glaze, they didn't even wait to get back to the apartment. They found a small, weathered wooden bench near a vending machine that sold exclusively canned corn soup, and there they sat, shoulder to shoulder, tearing into the flaky layers of pastry.

Bethany hummed in appreciation, a stray crumb of almond clinging to her lip. "You're surprisingly good at this, Moloney. The whole 'civilian' thing. I half expected you to try and intimidate the baker into giving us the best batch." She leaned her head on his shoulder, the same contentedness from the bedroom returning, now flavored by the sweetness of the butter.

"I'm not a monster, at least outside the ring," Dan replied, his voice a low rumble as he reached over to brush the crumb from her lip with his thumb. He didn't pull his hand away immediately, letting his fingers linger against her jawline. "Besides, intimidation doesn't work on pastry. You have to treat it with respect or it just falls apart."

He looked at her, and for a moment, the noise of the Tokyo street—the distant roar of traffic and the rhythmic chirping of the pedestrian crossings—seemed to fade into a dull hum. He felt a profound sense of victory, not the kind that came with a championship belt or a successful promo, but a quiet, internal win. He had successfully carved out a bubble of existence where neither the War Dogs nor the Oedo Tai politics could reach them. It was a fragile peace, but as he watched Bethany lean into him, he felt a fierce determination to keep it intact.

"So, seriously," Dan started, his voice cutting through the hum of the city as they began to wander away from the bakery, "this tattoo. What's the vision? Because if you tell me you're getting a giant portrait of yourself on your calf, I'm officially designating you a narcissist."

Bethany laughed, a sharp, genuine sound that drew a few curious glances from passersby. She slowed her pace, her expression shifting from playful to something more reflective. She stopped walking and turned to face him, her eyes searching his. "Not a portrait. Something… different. A line drawing. Minimalist. A phoenix."

Dan paused, his brow furrowing. He knew Bethany’s ink was usually bold, sentimental or loud—much like her persona. A minimalist line drawing was a departure from her usual style. "A phoenix? Bit on the nose for a rebirth innit?"

"Maybe," she admitted, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. "But not just any rebirth. This one. Us." She reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt. "We’ve spent a lot of time burning everything to the ground, Dan. The arguments, the distance, the way we used to treat each other like opponents in a match. I figured, if we're actually doing this—if we're actually making it work—it deserves a mark. A reminder that we survived the fire."

Dan looked at her, the weight of her words settling in his chest. He had always seen their relationship as a series of battles to be won, a power struggle that defined their intimacy. To hear her frame it as a shared survival, a collective rebirth, shifted something inside him. The "Baddest Bitch" wasn't talking about dominance or victory; she was talking about healing. He felt a lump form in his throat, a rare vulnerability that made him feel more exposed than being stripped bare in the center of a ring.

Dan didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at her, really looked at her, as the crowd of Tokyo commuters flowed around them like a river around a stone. He thought about the same fire she had mentioned—the scorched earth of their last breakup, the month of silence where they’d both pretended the other didn't exist while staring at the same social media feeds. He had always viewed himself as the hammer, the one who could break things and then fix them through sheer force of will. But looking at Bethany now, he realized that the "fixing" hadn't come from strength; it had come from the quiet, tentative surrender they had practiced over the last month.

"A phoenix," he repeated softly, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her forehead against his. "You're getting soft on me, Clark. Since when do you do 'minimalist' and 'sentimental'?"

Bethany shrugged. "I'm not getting soft, you idiot. I'm just evolving. Besides, a little subtlety is a weapon in itself. Not everything has to be a scream; sometimes a whisper is more terrifying." She gave him a mischievous wink, the sharp edge of her personality flickering back to life. "But if you tell any of the girls in Oedo Tai that I’m being sentimental, I will personally powerbomb you through a coffee table."

Dan laughed, the sound vibrating through both of them. "Your secret is safe with me, Beth. I’ve got enough of my own secrets to keep the Dogs guessing for a decade." He stepped back, sliding his hand down to lace his fingers with hers, pulling her back into their slow wander through the city. The morning had shifted into a lazy afternoon, the air growing warmer as they drifted away from the commercial hub and toward the quieter, leafier pockets of the ward.

As they drifted deeper into the quieter residential streets, the frantic energy of the city began to mellow into a soft, domestic hum. They passed small shrines tucked between modern concrete apartments and elderly women tending to meticulously pruned bonsai trees. It was a side of Tokyo that Dan rarely saw; his usual routes were a straight line between the hotel, the arena, and the gym. Here, the air felt thinner, less saturated with the urgency of a deadline or a match.

"Just a quick detour," Bethany announced, her grip on his hand tightening as she steered him toward a nondescript black door with a small, hand-painted sign of a koi fish. "If we're doing this, we're doing it now. I can't have the anticipation ruining the mood of the rest of the day."

Dan followed her lead, the chime of a bell announcing their entry into a space that smelled of green soap and sterile alcohol. The studio was a minimalist's dream, all white walls and polished concrete, a stark contrast to the cluttered, neon chaos of the streets outside. At the center of the room stood Kenji, a man whose silence was as heavy as the ink covering every visible inch of his forearms. He greeted Bethany with a slow, knowing nod; they had a rapport that transcended the language barrier, built on the shared precision of their crafts.

"Konnichiwa, Kenji-san. Ogenki desu ka?" Bethany’s voice shifted gears completely, the sharp, rhythmic cadence of fluent Japanese replacing her usual gravelly British tone. She sounded different—softer, yet more precise—as she stepped into the studio, her posture relaxing into a familiarity that Dan hadn’t seen before. Kenji responded with a low, guttural acknowledgment, a small smile cracking his stoic expression as he gestured toward the sterile chair.

Bethany turned back to Dan, a smug glint in her eye as she switched back to English. "See? I told you the 'Baddest Bitch' has layers. Now stop staring at me like I’ve grown a second head and go sit in that corner. Try not to look too menacing; you’re scaring the minimalist aesthetic of the room."

Dan let out a soft huff, leaning his broad frame against a white wall, his arms crossed. He watched in a strange, meditative silence as the process began. There was something hypnotic about the clinical precision of the studio—the rhythmic hum of the tattoo machine, the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, and the focused intensity in Kenji’s eyes. He watched Bethany’s face, expecting the usual grimace of pain, but she was unusually still. She didn't fight the needle; she leaned into it, her eyes closed, her breathing steady.

As the fine, black line began to take shape on the tanned skin of her inner bicep, Dan felt a surge of protectiveness that had nothing to do with the ring. He looked at the small, sweeping curve of the phoenix—a delicate, minimalist bird emerging from a stylized flame. It was a stark contrast to the violence of their profession. In a world where they were paid to break things and bleed for a crowd, this tiny, permanent mark of vulnerability felt like the most honest thing he had seen in years.

When Kenji finally stepped back and wiped the area clean, Bethany opened her eyes and looked down at the ink. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. She didn't even look at the mirror; she looked at Dan. "There," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the fading hum of the machinery. "Now it’s official. No matter how many times we burn the house down, we’ve got a map to get back."

Dan stepped forward, his hand hovering just an inch above the fresh ink, careful not to touch the sensitive skin. "It looks good, Beth. Really good." He caught her eye, and for a moment, the air between them felt thick with an unspoken promise. He realized that the "itinerary" he had planned—the fancy dinners and the sightseeing—felt secondary to this. The real celebration wasn't in the activities, but in the fact that they were both finally standing still, allowing themselves to be seen without the armor of their personas.

Dan stared at the delicate bird on Bethany's arm, and suddenly, the idea of being the sole "voice of reason" felt like a missed opportunity. He looked at his own skin—a canvas of heavy, aggressive ink and scars earned in rings from London to Tokyo—and felt a strange, impulsive pull. He didn't want a loud piece, something that screamed for attention like his persona. He wanted something secret, a quiet pact that belonged only to them.

"Kenji-san," Dan rumbled, his voice vibrating in the small room as he stepped toward the chair. "Can I have the same please. But on the ankle."

"Dan, what are you doing?" Bethany asked, her voice a mixture of shock and genuine amusement. She stood up, her bicep still stinging from the fresh ink, watching him as he practically stepped into the orbit of the tattoo chair.

"You said you wanted a map to get back," Dan replied, his gaze steady. "Figured it’s easier to find the way if we’re both carrying the coordinates." He looked at Kenji, who had raised a skeptical eyebrow at the sudden addition to the schedule. "Just the same line work. Keep it small. I don't need a mural."

"Are you sure you're not just having a mid-life crisis at twenty-something?" Bethany teased, though her voice lacked any real bite. She leaned against the white wall, crossing her arms as she watched Dan settle into the chair with a level of focus usually reserved for a championship match. He didn't look at her; he was too busy coordinating with Kenji, pointing to the skin just above his ankle bone. It was a strategic choice—a place where the ink would be hidden by a boot or a sock, a secret shared only with the floor and the woman currently smirking at him.

Dan was used to getting tattooed, he'd already had his ribs, a half sleeve from his wrist to his forearm and a side of his neck done, but the experience of sitting in Kenji's studio felt different today. As the needle began to buzz against the sensitive skin of his ankle, he didn't fight the sting with a grunt or a swear word. Instead, he watched Bethany. She was leaning against the wall, her eyes narrowed in a look of amused curiosity, watching the "Drilla" persona dissolve into a man who was willing to be as sentimental as she was. The tiny phoenix, a mirrored twin of the one on her arm, was being etched into his skin with the same surgical precision. It was a small, quiet act of surrender, a admission that he was just as invested in this "rebirth" as she was.

The irony wasn't lost on him as the tattoo progressed. In the ring, he was the disruptor, the man who broke the flow of the match with a sudden, violent burst of energy. But here, in the sterile silence of the studio, he was embracing a level of delicacy that would have made his stablemates laugh themselves into a stupor. He didn't care. As Kenji wiped away the excess ink, Dan felt a strange sense of completion. The mark was hidden, tucked away beneath where his wrestling boots would normally sit, a secret pact that wouldn't be seen by the crowds or the cameras. It was a private anchor, something that grounded him to the woman standing three feet away.

"Right, that's that," Dan said, hopping out of the chair and testing his weight on his ankle. The skin was humming with a dull, hot throb, a sensation that felt remarkably honest compared to the artificial adrenaline of a main event. He looked at Bethany, who was still leaning against the wall, her expression a complex mixture of pride and genuine surprise. She hadn't expected him to fold so quickly into the sentimentality of the day.

"You're a softy, Moloney," she whispered, stepping toward him. "I can't believe you actually went for it. I half expected you to chicken out and ask for a skull or a dog's head instead."

"Nah Beth, this is important to you and you're important to me," Dan countered, his voice dropping into a soft, uncharacteristic rumble. He didn't let the teasing detract from the moment; he simply reached out and pulled her into his space, his hand resting on the small of her back.

"You're so full of shit," Bethany laughed, though she leaned into him, the tension of the morning having fully dissolved into a warm, lingering comfort. "But you're a bit of a romantic, aren't you? Who would've thought? The terror of the War Dogs, secretly a poet."

"Don't go telling anyone," Dan warned, though he was smiling. "I've got a reputation to uphold".

Kevin Knight x OC (Freya Calder)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freya had a habit of counting the seconds between the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rattle of a passing garbage truck, a mental exercise in precision that usually calmed her during long flights over the Pacific. She was a woman of checklists and coordinates, someone who viewed the world as a series of strategic assets and potential liabilities. Even in her sleep, she tended to maintain a level of alertness that made her a nightmare for anyone trying to sneak up on her, though her current environment was devoid of any actual threats.

The sheets were a tangled mess of high-thread-count cotton, twisted around her ankles like a snare trap. She shifted, her shoulder blade clicking against the mattress, only to find her movement restricted by a heavy, warm weight draped across her midsection. Kevin was anchored to her, his breathing deep and rhythmic, one arm slung over her waist as if he were securing a precious cargo. He smelled of expensive sandalwood soap and the faint, lingering scent of the gym, his massive frame taking up two-thirds of the bed and leaving her to navigate the narrow strip of remaining space.

She tried to roll onto her left side, but the movement prompted a low, subconscious groan from Kevin. He didn't wake, but he tightened his grip, pulling her back against his chest with the effortless strength of a man who spent his weekends hoisting opponents over his head in front of thousands of people. Freya sighed, staring up at the dark ceiling where the faint glow of a streetlamp filtered through the blinds. Her mind was already wide awake, cycling through the logistics of the offer her brother had sent her—a position at his security firm that promised a different kind of stability than the Naval Intelligence world she was preparing to exit.

Six weeks. That was the countdown. The thought felt like a timer ticking down in the back of her mind, making it impossible to settle back into the heaviness of sleep. She looked at the digital clock on the nightstand, the red numbers pulsing in the dim light, and felt the familiar tension of a decision that couldn't be solved with a map or a briefing. She wanted to be sure that stepping into her brother's shadow wouldn't mean losing the autonomy she had fought so hard to build during her service.

The offer was tempting, Freya couldn't deny that. Her brother’s firm dealt in high-stakes corporate risk—the kind of work that would allow her to use her intelligence training without having to live out of a duffel bag in Hawaii. It was a steady paycheck, a defined hierarchy, equity after two years and a predictable commute. But predictability was a double-edged sword. To join the family business was to accept a specific role: the reliable sister, the tactical asset, the one who followed the plan. She worried that by sliding into a slot already carved out for her, she would lose the edge that made her feel like an individual.

As she stared at the ceiling, the logic of the job offer began to bleed into a deeper, quieter anxiety. Kevin was a man of constant momentum; his life was a series of spotlights, loud music, and the roar of a crowd that demanded he be larger than life every single night. He thrived on the intensity of the ring and the adrenaline of the chase. For the last year, she had been the enigma in his life—the mysterious intelligence officer with a level of clearance that made her a fascinating puzzle. She feared that once the mystery of the Navy evaporated and she became "the employee at the family firm," the edge that drew him to her would flatten.

The insecurity wasn't about the paycheck or the title, but about the perception of her own value. If she stepped into the safe, predefined role her brother had built for her, she worried she would become static. She imagined a version of herself that was too domestic, too predictable, a woman who fit perfectly into a box. She wondered if Kevin, who lived for the high-wire act of professional wrestling, would eventually find that version of her boring. The thought of him waking up one morning and realizing the thrill had gone—that the woman he loved had become just another stable fixture in his life—sent a cold spike of dread through her chest. What if he left?

Freya had hated showing vulnerability, but lying there in the dark, she felt the weight of the decision pressing down on her more heavily than Kevin’s arm. She shifted slightly, trying to disentangle herself from his grip, but the movement finally breached the threshold of his sleep. Kevin let out a long, rattling exhale and tightened his hold, his forehead resting against the nape of her neck. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with the remnants of a deep slumber.

"You're thinking too loud again," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

Freya froze, her heart skipping a beat as she realized her internal monologue had apparently leaked into the physical world. She tried to keep her breathing steady, though the tension in her shoulders remained coiled like a spring. "I'm not thinking loud," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the air conditioning. "I'm just… awake."

Kevin shifted, the mattress creaking under his bulk as he finally opened one eye. In the dim crimson glow of the digital clock, he looked less like the bombastic "Jet" who dominated the squared circle and more like the man who liked to spend Sunday mornings arguing about the best way to brew coffee. He didn't pull away; instead, he shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The sleepiness was still there, but the sharpness—the intuitive ability to read a room or a person—was already clicking back into place.

"You've got that look," Kevin said, his voice regaining its usual warmth. "The one where you're trying to map out a three-year plan for the next ten minutes. Is this about the offer from Connor?"

Freya let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She shifted, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. "Is it that obvious? I thought I was being discreet."

"Babe you been tossing and turning for like an hour," Kevin chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest. He shifted, pulling the duvet up to cover their shoulders as the early morning chill seeped through the apartment. "You don't do 'discreet' when you're stressed. You do 'strategic silence.' You get this little crease right between your eyebrows that says you're currently calculating the wind speed and trajectory of your entire life."

Freya let out a small, genuine smile, the tension in her neck finally beginning to ebb. She leaned her head back against the pillow, looking up at him. "It’s a good offer, Kevin. Really good. Connor isn't just offering me a job; he's offering a lifestyle. I wouldn't have to worry about where the next paycheck comes from or whether I'll be stationed in a place with no reliable internet for six months." She paused, her voice dropping. "But it feels like… a default setting. Like I'm just sliding into a slot because it's the easiest thing to do."

Kevin reached out, his large thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that contrasted the calloused skin of his knuckles. He didn't rush her, giving her the space to articulate the fear that had been keeping her awake. "You're worried that if you take the safe route, you'll stop being the woman who can handle herself in a blackout in the middle of the Pacific," he said softly. "You're worried you'll become 'the sister' instead of Freya."

The accuracy of his observation hit her harder than any physical blow. She felt a lump form in her throat, the vulnerability she usually kept locked behind a level-five security clearance finally surfacing. "I don't want to be boring, Kev. Your whole world is noise and adrenaline and lights. If I just become a corporate risk consultant for my brother, I feel like I’m fading into the background. I don't want to be the kind of person you look at and think, 'Yeah, she's great, but the spark's gone.'"

Kevin rubbed his eyes. "You seriously think our spark will go out because you’re working for your brother?" He paused, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face as he shifted closer, his voice dropping into a playful, teasing register. "Because if we're talking about the 'spark,' babe, I’m pretty sure we just spent two hours earlier this evening confirming it’s very much alive. I don't remember anyone being bored."

Freya felt the heat climb up her neck, a sudden flush of colour that had nothing to do with the early morning chill. She tried to maintain her professional composure, but the memory of the previous night—the intensity, the lack of restraint, the way the bed had practically shaken on its foundations—made her resolve crumble. She leaned her forehead against his chest, letting out a soft, defeated laugh. "That was… an outlier," she murmured, though she was already smiling.

"An outlier?" Kevin chuckled, the sound rumbling through his ribs and into her shoulder. "Freya, you’re a tactical genius in the field, but your logic is failing you here. The spark isn't about your job title or whether you're taking orders from Connor. It's about you. The way you challenge me, the way you see things no one else does, the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. None of that disappears because you have a 401k and a commute."

He shifted his weight, pulling her closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between them. For a man who spent his professional life playing a character for the masses, the intimacy of the moment was where he was most authentic. He didn't need the pyrotechnics or the championship belt here; he was just a man who deeply admired the woman in his arms. He looked her in the eyes, his expression softening. "You're terrified of becoming static, but you're the most dynamic person I know. Even when you're just sitting still, you're calculating a hundred different ways to improve the room. That’s not a job description, Freya. That’s just your soul."

He paused, his gaze searching hers, sensing that the job offer was merely the catalyst for a deeper, more jagged fear. "So tell me the truth. Forget the corporate risk and the family legacy. What are you actually scared of? Because you don't get this kind of tension over a paycheck, even for you."

Freya felt the walls she had built—the ones reinforced by years of naval discipline and strategic compartmentalization—begin to crack. It was a strange sensation, being seen so clearly in the dim light of an Atlanta bedroom. She tried to find a tactical way to phrase it, a way to frame the fear that didn't sound like a surrender, but the words came out raw and unplanned. "I'm scared that if I'm here instead of 4,500 miles away in Hawaii, you'll finally see the gaps," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm scared that once the distance is gone and the mystery of the mission is replaced by the mundane reality of a Monday morning, you'll realize I'm just… a person. And that I'm not enough to keep you interested when there's no longer a horizon between us."

She shifted her gaze away from him, unable to hold the intensity of his look. "I'm scared that the version of me you love is the one who is always leaving, always out of reach. If I take this job, if I settle into this city and this life, I'm not a strategic asset anymore. I'm just your girlfriend. And I'm terrified that the moment I stop being a challenge to be solved, you'll stop wanting to solve me."

Kevin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he shifted his massive frame, rolling onto his back and pulling her up so she was draped across his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. He didn't offer a quick platitude or a dismissive laugh. He simply held her, the steady, heavy thrum of his heartbeat echoing against her ear. The silence wasn't empty; it was supportive, like the heavy canvas of a ring canvas taking the weight of a fall.

"You've spent so much time analyzing the risk that you forgot to look at the reward," Kevin said, his voice vibrating through his chest. He squeezed her shoulder, his grip firm and grounding. "Freya, my entire life is a performance. I spend every night playing a part for people who only know me by a nickname and a finishing move. When the lights go down and the music stops, this—you, this room, the quiet—is the only thing that feels real. You aren't a puzzle I'm trying to solve, babe. You're the place I get to come home to."

"You told me about Lena and how it felt like the world stopped turning the day she passed," Kevin whispered, his voice shifting into that gentle, steady cadence he used when the world outside got too loud. "You told me about the years of ballet, the blisters and the blood and the way you used to feel like a ghost in a tutu because you were chasing a perfection that didn't actually exist."

He shifted slightly, tilting his head to catch her gaze. "You told me about the girl you were in college—the one who lived for the bass of the speakers and the blur of the party—and how that version of you crashed so hard in sophomore year that the only way to piece yourself back together was to enlist and run as far away from that wreckage as possible. You’ve shown me the cracks, Freya. You’ve shown me the parts of you that you think are messy or broken or too much."

Freya felt a sharp intake of breath, the memories surfacing not as liabilities, but as shared milestones. She had spent so much of her career scrubbing her history for the sake of security clearances that she had forgotten how liberating it felt to simply be known. Kevin hadn't just heard these things; he had absorbed them. He had taken the fragmented pieces of her identity—the grief, the failed artistry, the recklessness of her youth—and he hadn't blinked.

"And I'm still here," he added, his hand moving in a slow, soothing circle on her back. "I didn't walk away when I found out you weren't just a polished intelligence officer. If anything, that's the part I like best. The girl who survived the crash is the one who can handle anything the world throws at her. That’s the woman I’m in love with. Not the rank, not the clearance level, and definitely not some corporate version of you that works for your brother."

Freya let out a long, shuddering exhale, the kind that felt like a physical release of pressure from her chest. For years, her existence had been defined by the ability to curate the information she shared, managing her image like a classified dossier. To be seen—not just observed, but truly seen—felt like a luxury she hadn't known how to ask for. She shifted her weight, pressing her forehead against the warm skin of his collarbone, and felt the remaining tension in her limbs finally dissolve into the mattress.

"You're far too good at this," she murmured, her voice regaining its steadiness. "I come in here with a full tactical assessment of my failure as a partner, and you just… dismantle the whole operation in under ten minutes."

Kevin let out a soft, rumbling laugh that vibrated through her entire body. "That's because your intel was flawed, babe. You were operating on the assumption that I wanted a mystery. I don't want a mystery; I want a partner. Someone who can tell me when my ego is getting too big for the room and who knows exactly how I like my eggs in the morning. That's the stuff that actually matters when the spotlights are off."

He shifted slightly, tilting his head to look her in the eye, his expression turning thoughtful. "As for the job… look, if you take the position with Connor, you're not sliding into a slot. You're just changing the terrain. You're a shark, Freya. You can put a shark in a corporate office or a naval base, but it's still a shark. You'll find a way to make that firm yours. You'll be the one running the show within six months, and Connor will be the one wondering how he ever managed without you."

"If I were to take it, how would you feel? Y'know, me being around more?" Freya asked, her voice regaining its natural, crisp edge. "I’m not exactly known for my 'off' switch. I might start trying to optimize your training schedule or running risk assessments on your promo cuts."

Kevin beamed, a genuine, wide smile that reached his eyes. "Babe, I spend my life around people who tell me exactly what I want to hear because they're terrified of me or they want a piece of the belt. The idea of having someone in my corner who can actually tell me when my footwork is sloppy or my promo is leaning too hard into the melodrama? That sounds like a competitive advantage." He paused, a playful glint appearing in his gaze. "Besides, have you seen my gym bag? It’s a disaster zone. If you can bring some of that Naval Intelligence organization to my gear, you’ll be a saint in my eyes."

Freya laughed, the sound light and unrestrained, echoing softly in the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted her weight, propping herself up on her elbows to look at him. "I'll be a huge change and adjustment. We're use to seeing each other every few months for two weeks at a time. Now you're going to have to deal with me on a Tuesday afternoon when you've just had a bad day at the gym."

"I think I can handle the risk," Kevin replied, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a playful confidence. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Actually, I'm counting on it. I'm tired of the airport goodbyes, Freya. I love the 'mystery' and the long-distance longing as much as the next guy, but I'd much rather wake up and see that crease between your eyebrows every single morning."

The admission settled over her like a warm blanket. For so long, Freya had viewed her life as a series of strategic deployments, treating her relationships as ports of call between missions. The idea of a permanent home—not just a physical apartment in Atlanta, but a home in another person—had always felt like a vulnerability she couldn't afford. Yet, looking at Kevin, she realized that being known wasn't a weakness; it was the ultimate security.

"I'm not saying yes yet," she cautioned, though the edge in her voice had softened into something affectionate. "I still need to look over the contract. I want to make sure there's a clause about my autonomy. I'm not going to be Connor's glorified assistant just because we share a last name."

"Smart move," Kevin murmured, his eyes fluttering shut again as the emotional exertion of the conversation began to pull him back toward sleep. "Always read the fine print. That’s why you’re the brains of this operation."

"And I'd have to pack up my place in Hawaii," she added, her voice drifting as she felt the rhythm of his breathing begin to slow. "The logistics alone are a nightmare. Shipping a life across the ocean is basically an exercise in deciding what you actually care about and what was just filling space."

Kevin smiled. "I'll help. I'll even bring boxes. I might not be a logistics expert, but I can carry a bunch of boxes".

Freya chuckled, the sound muffled against his chest. The heavy, suffocating weight of the decision had shifted; it hadn't vanished, but it had transformed from a looming threat into a set of variables she could actually manage. "And I'd have to find a place here that isn't just 'The Jet's' apartment. As much as I love your taste in oversized leather sofas, I think I need a corner of this city that doesn't smell like gym chalk and protein shakes."

Kevin groaned playfully, his grip tightening slightly. "What, you don't want to live in the champion's palace? I’ll let you pick out a new rug. Something tactical. Camouflage, maybe?"

"Don't push your luck, Knight," she whispered, though she pressed a kiss to his collarbone. She lay there for a few minutes, listening to the silence of the apartment return. The red numbers of the digital clock continued their rhythmic pulse, but they no longer felt like a countdown to a deadline.

"We could look for a new place, together," Kevin murmured, his voice drifting toward the edge of sleep.

"Seriously?" Freya asked, her voice light but surprised. She shifted her head to look at him, but his eyes were already closed, his breathing returning to that deep, rhythmic cadence of a man who could sleep through a hurricane. "Together? You're suggesting we live together before I've even signed a contract?"

Kevin didn't open his eyes, but a small, smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Strategic… we get more space, build something together and I get back all my damn t-shirts and hoodies you've appropriated back," he mumbled, his words slurring as he sank deeper into the mattress. He let out a long, contented sigh that sounded like a balloon slowly deflating, his grip on her relaxing just enough for her to feel the sudden lack of tension. Within seconds, he was gone, drifted back into the heavy, dreamless sleep of an athlete whose body demanded total recovery.

Freya remained still, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. For the first time in months, the internal noise—the checklists, the contingency plans, the risk assessments—had gone quiet. The idea of a shared space, a home that belonged to both of them rather than a temporary sanctuary in his bachelor pad, felt less like a surrender of her autonomy and more like a new kind of mission. One where the objective wasn't survival or intelligence gathering, but simply being present.

She shifted slightly, glancing toward the window. The red numbers on the clock now read 4:12 AM. In the silence, she could hear the distant, muffled sound of a siren somewhere in the sprawl of Atlanta, a reminder that the world outside was still moving, still chaotic, still requiring the kind of precision she had spent her adult life mastering. But as she looked at Kevin—the man who could command an arena of people yet chose to spend his quietest hours making sure she didn't feel alone in her own head—she realized that the "edge" she feared losing wasn't tied to her job title.

"You're overthinking again," Kevin murmured, though his eyes remained shut, his voice a gravelly vibration against her temple.

Freya stiffened, her eyes snapping open. She had thought he was out cold, drifted back into the heavy recovery sleep of a professional athlete. "I wasn't overthinking," she whispered, though the lie felt flimsy even to her.

"You were. I can hear the gears grinding from here," he replied, his grip tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He finally cracked one eye open, the crimson glow of the digital clock casting a sharp shadow across his cheek. "If you're not comfortable us finding a place together, just say so. Don't run a covert operation in your head and then try to pretend the files don't exist."

Freya let out a huff of laughter, her forehead resting against his. "I'm not running a covert operation. I'm just… processing the data."

"The data is that I want you here," Kevin said, his voice losing the playfulness and returning to that grounding, steady rumble. "But only if you want to be here. Not because it's the easiest path to a paycheck, and definitely not because you think it's what I want. I don't need a trophy girlfriend, Freya. I need you."

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could look her directly in the eyes. The vulnerability in his gaze mirrored her own, a rare moment where the "Jet" persona was completely stripped away, leaving only the man who had seen her at her most fractured and hadn't flinched.

Freya felt the last remaining wall in her mind—the one labeled Operational Security—finally crumble. She didn't need to calculate the trajectory of this decision anymore because the destination was clear. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of a faded scar on his shoulder from a match gone wrong years ago.

"I want to be here," Freya whispered, the words feeling less like a confession and more like a confirmation. "And for the record, I’m not taking the job just because it’s easy. I’m taking it because I want to see the look on Connor’s face when I reorganize his entire filing system by efficiency rating in the first week."

Kevin laughed, a deep sound that shook the mattress. "There she is. There's the shark. I knew the competitive streak would kick in eventually." He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers, the space between them now completely gone. "So, we’re doing this? The big move? The shared closet? The inevitable arguments over whose turn it is to take out the trash?"

"I'll probably just hire a service to do the trash," Freya murmured, her voice warm. "Efficiency, Kevin. It's all about the overhead."

He groaned, though his eyes were full of affection. "See? You're already optimizing the household. We're doomed." He shifted, pulling the duvet tighter around them as the first hint of gray light began to bleed through the edges of the blinds, signaling the approach of dawn. He didn't try to fall back asleep immediately; instead, he stayed there, anchored to her, as if making sure she wasn't a projection of his own hopes.

Freya felt a strange sense of lightness, a liberation that didn't come from a successful mission or a promotion. It was the relief of no longer having to maintain a perimeter. For years, her life had been a series of strategic retreats and carefully guarded secrets, but here, in the quiet of an Atlanta bedroom, she realized that the most daring thing she could do was simply stay.

/*/

The following morning, the "strategic silence" had been replaced by the frantic clicking of a trackpad. Freya sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, her laptop perched precariously on a duvet that was still warm from Kevin’s body. She looked less like a woman relaxing on a Saturday and more like a commander in a war room, her eyes scanning Zillow listings with the intensity of a drone operator tracking a high-value target. Around her, the scattered remnants of their heart-to-heart—a discarded pillow, a stray gym sock, and an empty water glass—felt like debris from a previous life.

"Too small," she muttered, scrolling past a sleek mid-rise in Buckhead. "The floor plan is a bottleneck. If we’re both getting ready for work at the same time, the morning commute from the bedroom to the bathroom becomes a logistical nightmare. We need a minimum of two bathrooms and a dedicated space for a home office that doesn't double as a guest closet."

Kevin, who had just wandered back into the room wearing nothing but Nike basketball shorts and a look of profound confusion, stopped in the doorway. He watched her for a moment, admiring the way her focus had shifted from existential dread to architectural critique in the span of four hours. To him, she looked entirely in her element—the lethal combination of a high-powered intellect and a stubborn refusal to accept a mediocre layout.

"I thought we were just 'browsing,'" Kevin said, his voice still thick with sleep as he walked over and leaned over her shoulder. He peered at the screen, where a 3D render of a penthouse was currently being dissected by Freya's gaze.

"I am just browsing," Freya replied, her voice crisp, "but I am browsing with intent. Do you want us moving into a shoe box where your gym bags are a structural load-bearing element, or do you want a place with a proper mudroom?" She didn't look up, her fingers dancing across the keyboard to filter for 'square footage: 2,000+' and 'parking: secure.' To any outside observer, she looked like a woman simply shopping for a home, but Kevin knew the posture. This was the 'Operation: Relocation' phase. She had transitioned from the vulnerability of the pre-dawn hours into a full-scale logistical offensive, treating the Atlanta real estate market like a hostile territory that needed to be annexed.

Kevin let out a low whistle, squinting at the screen. "A mudroom? Babe, we live in Georgia. The only 'mud' we deal with is when the sprinklers go off at the gym."

Freya didn't blink, her eyes locked onto a listing for a converted industrial loft in West Midtown. She was currently operating in a state of hyper-focus, her mind mapping out the spatial flow of the apartment like a tactical insertion. To her, a floor plan wasn't just a layout; it was a series of vectors and choke points. She imagined the path from the front door to the kitchen, calculating the seconds it would take to transition from "work mode" to "home mode." If the layout was inefficient, the mental friction would accumulate, and a cluttered space led to a cluttered mind.

Kevin didn't just sit; he collapsed, the mattress sighing under his bulk as he sank beside her. He didn't look at the screen, instead opting to lean his head back against the headboard and watch the way her pupils darted across the high-resolution images of polished concrete floors. He looked like a man who had just finished a championship match and was content to let the world spin around him, while Freya was currently the axis the world spun on.

"Babe," he said, his voice a lazy drawl. "Walk me through the mission profile here. Why are we just looking at apartments? I thought the 'together' part of the plan started with the 'finding a place' part. You've got the filters set, the square footage locked in, and you're analyzing the flow of the hallway like you're planning a breach of a compound. Are we actually house hunting, or are you just running a simulation to see if Atlanta is habitable for you?"

Freya paused, her finger hovering over the trackpad. She blinked, the intensity in her gaze softening as she actually looked at him. He was leaning into her, his shoulder brushing hers, reminding her that while the logistics were a puzzle, the purpose of the puzzle was the man sitting next to her. She realized she had spent the last forty minutes treating the search as a military objective rather than a shared dream.

"I'm simulating," she admitted, her voice dropping the command-tone. "If I can find a place that works—a place that actually fits both of us without compromising my need for a structured environment—then the transition feels… real. It’s easier to say yes to the job and the move if the destination is already mapped out.

"Frey, try and turn off the intelligence side of your brain for ten seconds," Kevin murmured, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over her, his massive arm acting as a living barricade between her and the glowing screen. He didn't just sit next to her; he annexed her personal space, forcing her to look away from the listing of a West Midtown loft and into his amused, sleepy eyes. "It's just real estate".

"Hold on," Kevin murmured, his fingers surprisingly nimble for a man who spent his evenings slamming people into turnbuckles. He didn't just shift the filter; he deleted the 'apartment' checkbox entirely, sliding the toggle toward 'single-family homes.'

Freya watched, momentarily stunned, as the screen refreshed. The sterile, high-ceilinged lofts of West Midtown vanished, replaced by a sprawling array of Craftsman-style homes with wide porches, mature oak trees, and sprawling backyards. Kevin scrolled through them with a slow, deliberate curiosity, his eyes lighting up as he bypassed the modern glass cubes in favor of something with more character—places with actual walls and a bit of distance between the neighbors.

"A house?" Freya asked, her voice a mix of skepticism and genuine surprise. "Kevin, a house is a massive commitment. It’s a permanent anchor. We’re talking about lawns, gutters, and the sudden, terrifying responsibility of a homeowners association."

"Exactly," Kevin replied, his gaze lingering on a modest, brick-faced house with a deep porch and a garden that looked like it had been lovingly tended to for decades. "Anchors aren't always bad, Frey. They stop you from drifting. You spend your whole life moving from base to base, packing your existence into standardized crates. Don't you think it's time you had a place where you can actually plant something in the dirt? Somewhere that doesn't feel like a transit hub?"

"Now we're talking," Kevin said, his voice humming with a new kind of energy. "Look at that porch, Frey. You can sit out there with your coffee and a book, and I can actually have a place to put a squat rack without the neighbors complaining about the noise through the walls. Four bedrooms, a fenced-in yard… it’s not a 'unit,' it’s a home."

Freya stared at the image of the brick house, the sunlight filtering through the Georgia oaks in the photo, casting dappled shadows across a manicured lawn. For a moment, the "tactical" part of her brain tried to engage, calculating the commute time to her brother's firm and the vulnerability of a suburban perimeter. But as she looked at the wide porch and the quiet street, the calculations felt distant, like a language she was beginning to forget. The idea of a fence—not as a barrier to keep people out, but as a boundary for a private sanctuary—felt unexpectedly profound.

"Think about it Frey, there's a nook downstairs that could be a library". Kevin’s voice was a low, inviting rumble, his chin resting on her shoulder. "No more shared walls. No more listening to the guy in 4B practice his trumpet at midnight. Just us, a few thousand square feet of privacy, and a place where you can actually breathe without checking for exits."

Freya looked at the photo of the living room—a space with deep mahogany trim and a fireplace that looked like it had seen a century of winters. The military side of her mind, the part that had been conditioned to value agility and the ability to evacuate a location in fifteen minutes, felt a sudden, sharp pang of longing for the opposite. She wanted something that was difficult to move. She wanted a place that required a key, a deed, and a commitment to a specific set of coordinates.

"A library," she whispered, her fingers tracing the edge of the laptop. "I haven't had a bookshelf that wasn't a portable plastic bin in seven years."

"I'll build it for you," Kevin promised, his voice vibrating against her shoulder. "Hand-crafted shelves, floor-to-ceiling. I’ll spend my off-days sanding mahogany until my fingers bleed if it means you have a place for all those dossiers and textbooks you’ve been lugging around the world."

Freya let out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning back into him. The shift in her internal weather was palpable; the cold, analytical precision of the intelligence officer was being overtaken by something softer, something that felt like an actual future. She looked at the screen again, but this time, she wasn't looking for choke points or transit vectors. She was looking at the way the light hit the hardwood floors, imagining where her desk would go and how she would feel waking up in a room that didn't feel like a temporary assignment.

"Okay," she conceded, her voice warm. "A house. But we are not getting a homeowners association. I cannot spend my weekends reporting a neighbor for having the wrong shade of beige on their shutters. I've dealt with enough bureaucracy to last three lifetimes."

"Deal," Kevin chuckled, kissing the side of her neck. "No HOAs, no beige-policing. Just you, me, and a very large gym in the garage."

"So, we gonna schedule a viewing or are you still in 'analysis paralysis'?" Kevin asked, his voice vibrating against her skin. He was already starting to stir, the slow-burn energy of the morning finally kicking in.

Freya looked at the listing one more time, her eyes lingering on the garden. The "Intelligence" side of her brain tried to mount a final, desperate defense, bringing up the complexities of a mortgage, the lack of mobility, and the sheer audacity of owning land in a city known for its traffic. But the feeling of Kevin’s arm around her—solid, warm, and unchanging—outweighed the data. She closed the laptop with a decisive snap, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"I'll call the agent," she said, her voice regaining its command, though it was now laced with a level of excitement she usually reserved for successful extractions. "But if there's a leak in the roof or if the foundation is shifting more than two percent, I'm vetoing the whole operation. I’m not moving into a money pit, Kevin."

"Yes, ma'am," he teased, finally rolling off her and stretching his massive frame. He let out a yawn that seemed to take up half the room, his muscles rippling as he reached for the ceiling. "I'll go get the coffee started. You handle the diplomacy with the realtor, and I'll handle the caffeine. That's a fair division of labor."

As Kevin made his move toward the door, his stride confident and full of purpose, Freya felt a sudden, sharp spike of reluctance to let him go. The logistical momentum of the morning—the Zillow listings, the phone calls to agents, the mental mapping of a new life—was exhilarating, but it was also fast. It was a sprint toward a future that was still just a series of pixels on a screen. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his shorts and tugging him backward with a strength that caught him off balance.

"Wait," she murmured, her voice dropping back into that low, intimate register from the pre-dawn hours. She didn't let go, pulling him back toward the center of the mattress until he tumbled back beside her with a heavy, startled thud. "The realtor can wait thirty minutes. The coffee can wait. The mission can be delayed for a tactical pause."

Kevin blinked, his eyebrows shooting up in a look of amused surprise. He looked down at her, seeing the way her eyes had softened, the 'commander' of the morning replaced by the woman who was still savoring the rarity of being completely still. He didn't fight the pull; instead, he let himself sink back into the linens, his large frame creating a warm valley that she immediately slid into.

"A tactical pause, huh?" he whispered, his voice a low vibration as he wrapped his arms around her, pinning her gently to the sheets. "Since when do you suggest a tactical pause in the middle of an offensive? You're usually all about the momentum."

Freya smiled, her fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart. "I've decided that the most efficient way to start a new chapter is to celebrate the end of the current one," she murmured, her voice a playful contrast to the strategic tone she'd used moments before. "The real estate market isn't going anywhere".

Freya didn’t just lean into him; she shifted the entire gravity of the room. The laptop was forgotten, a dormant piece of plastic on the edge of the bed, as she moved with a slow, deliberate precision that had nothing to do with military drills and everything to do with the man beneath her. She traced a line from his collarbone down to the center of his chest, her touch light, barely there, creating a trail of heat that made Kevin’s breath hitch. She watched the way his pupils dilated, the way the playful smirk on his lips slowly dissolved into something hungrier and more focused.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below his jawline, not quite kissing him, but promising it. It was a calculated escalation. She could feel the tension in his muscles—the coiled strength of an athlete—straining against the desire to remain still for her. When she finally shifted her weight, sliding her leg over his hip to anchor herself against him, she felt his heartbeat accelerate, hammering a frantic rhythm against her own. The "tactical pause" had shifted from a suggestion to a demand.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Calder," Kevin rasped, his voice sounding like gravel and velvet. His hands, large and calloused, found the small of her back, pulling her flush against him with a sudden, possessive urgency.

"I'm an intelligence officer, Kevin," she whispered against his ear, her breath warm and teasing. "I know exactly how to handle a high-value target."

She shifted her focus, her kisses becoming slower and more deliberate, mapping the terrain of his neck and shoulder with a hunger that had been simmering since she first woke up in the dark. Every touch was an invitation, every sigh a confirmation. She felt the way he surrendered to her, the champion’s bravado melting away into a raw, honest need. In this space, there were no titles—no Navy Lieutenant, no TNT Champion—just the heat of their skin and the heavy, electric silence of a Saturday morning.

Eventually, the world outside the bedroom door ceased to exist. The Zillow listings, the shipping containers in Hawaii, and the looming shadow of her brother's security firm were all drowned out by the sound of their shared breathing. It was the only kind of operation Freya ever truly enjoyed: one where there were no contingencies, no exit strategies, and no need for a debrief. Just the visceral, grounding reality of being wanted.

An hour later, the same room looked vastly different. The air was thick with a lingering warmth, and the sunlight had finally managed to pierce through the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Freya lay sprawled across Kevin’s chest, her head resting on the same spot where she had listened to his heart in the pre-dawn hours. The urgency of the morning had evaporated, replaced by a profound, heavy contentment.

Kevin’s arm was draped over her, his fingers idly tracing patterns on her shoulder. He looked completely dismantled, his expression one of sheer, unadulterated peace. For a man who spent his professional life fighting for dominance and applause, this kind of stillness was the only true victory he cared about.

"I could get use to this". Kevin's voice was a low, satisfied rumble that vibrated through Freya's cheek. "The whole 'tactical pause' thing. Maybe we should make it a standard operating procedure."

Freya let out a soft, sleepy laugh, her eyes remaining closed. "Don't get greedy, Knight. It was a one-time incentive to get you to agree to a house with a library."

"I'd agree to a house with a moat if you kept this up," he joked, though he didn't move a muscle. The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, anxious quiet of the previous night; it was a shared space, a comfortable void. For Freya, the transition felt like a physical weight had been lifted from her chest. The fear of being mundane—the worry that her stability would make her a ghost in his exciting world—had been replaced by a different realization: Kevin didn't want a mystery to solve. He wanted a partner to come home to.

Eventually, the biological reality of hunger began to override the bliss of the aftermath. Kevin's stomach let out a loud, demanding growl that sounded like a small engine starting up. He chuckled, the sound shaking them both.

"That," Kevin murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "is the sound of a champion requiring fuel." He leaned up, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her forehead—a soft, grounding seal on the morning's truce—before he shifted his weight to break the gravity of their tangle. He didn't just get up; he launched himself from the bed with a sudden burst of athletic energy, landing on the hardwood with a dull thud that made the bedside lamp rattle.

"Alright," he announced, standing tall and stretching his arms wide, his silhouette momentarily blocking out the Georgia sun. "I'm gonna make us breakfast. What do you fancy, Lieutenant? High-protein omelets? Pancakes? Or do you want to just order a mountain of tacos and call it a day?"

Freya didn't move. She remained sprawled across the sheets, propped up on one elbow, watching the way the morning light played over the muscle of his back. A slow, mischievous smile crept across her lips, the kind of look she usually reserved for when she’d successfully baited a source into revealing more than they intended.

"Actually," she murmured, her voice honey-thick and dripping with mock contemplation, "I think I’ve developed a sudden, intense craving for something high-protein. Something lean, well-built, and preferably wearing nothing but basketball shorts."

Kevin paused mid-stride, his hand already reaching for the door handle. He looked back over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in a mix of amusement and faux-exasperation. He knew that tone; it was the sound of Freya operating in 'disruptive' mode, shifting the objective just to see how he’d react. He let out a short, huffing laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Behave yourself, Calder," he replied, his voice a playful rumble. "You've had your 'tactical pause,' and now the champion needs his fuel or he's going to crash before we even get to the brunch stage of the day." He pointed a finger toward the laptop still resting on the duvet. "Now, while I handle the kitchen, you handle the logistics. Contact the realtor. Get us a time slot for that brick house before some other 'efficiency-obsessed' couple snaps it up."

"I'm just stating a dietary preference, Kevin. It's practically a health requirement," Freya called out, her voice trailing after him as the smell of heating cast iron and sizzling butter began to drift back into the bedroom. She didn't move for a few minutes, simply lying there and savoring the way the room felt. For the first time in her adult life, the silence wasn't a void she needed to fill with a plan or a backup strategy. It was just… silence.

She eventually rolled over and reached for the laptop, the screen having gone dark in her absence. As she woke the device, the image of the brick house flickered back into view. She looked at the wrap-around porch again, then at the distance between the street and the front door. Her mind instinctively started calculating the sight-lines and the blind spots, but she consciously forced herself to stop. She didn't need to secure the perimeter of her own living room.

With a small, satisfied smile, she opened a new email tab. Subject: Showing Request - 1422 Oakwood Lane. She wrote the message with a level of brevity that would have made her commanding officer proud, though she added a polite note about their flexibility on Sunday afternoon. As she hit 'send,' she felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest—a mixture of nervousness and anticipation that felt entirely foreign to her professional identity. She wasn't just deploying to a new station; she was choosing a home.

"Breakfast is served! And by 'served,' I mean I put it on the table and now it's your turn to walk ten feet," Kevin shouted from the kitchen, his voice booming with the kind of effortless volume that made him a natural in a wrestling ring.

The cotton was oversized and smelled faintly of cedarwood and the gym, a fabric sanctuary that swallowed her whole. Freya pulled the shirt over her head, the hem falling halfway down her thighs, effectively erasing the boundary between her skin and the world. It was a garment of surrender, a soft, oversized armor that signaled the official end of her operational readiness for the day. As she stepped into the hallway, her bare feet padding softly against the cool hardwood, the sudden chirp of her laptop back in the bedroom cut through the aroma of sizzling bacon.

She pivoted, sliding back into the room to find the screen illuminated. The notification was a crisp, digital confirmation from the realtor: Today at 2:00 PM. The words felt less like a scheduled appointment and more like a set of coordinates for a new life. Freya didn’t immediately move to reply; instead, she reached for the garment she’d claimed as her morning uniform.

Kevin’s t-shirt was a gargantuan slab of charcoal-grey cotton that smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive laundry detergent. As she pulled it over her head, the fabric didn't just clothe her; it consumed her. The hem swept down past her mid-thigh, transforming the shirt into an accidental dress that erased the boundary between her skin and the world. It was a garment of total surrender, a soft, oversized armor that signaled the official end of her operational readiness for the day. She caught her reflection in the mirrored closet door—a tiny, pale-limbed woman drowned in the remnants of a professional wrestler's wardrobe—and felt a sudden, grounding sense of belonging.

"Two o'clock today. We’re officially on the books for Oakwood Lane." she called out, her voice echoing through the hallway as she padded toward the kitchen.

Kevin was standing over a cast-iron skillet, a spatula in one hand and a look of triumph on his face as he flipped a stack of golden-brown pancakes. He turned, his eyes sweeping over her in the oversized shirt, and a slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. "Look at you. Already blending into the local population. If you keep wearing my clothes, people are going to start thinking you're my very small, very intense bodyguard."

Freya rolled her eyes "Asshole," she murmured, though the word lacked any bite, landing instead with a warm, familiar affection.

/*/

The drive to Oakwood Lane was a study in contrasting energies. Kevin steered his oversized truck with a loose, one-handed confidence, humming along to a bass-heavy playlist that made the rearview mirror vibrate. Beside him, Freya sat in a state of disciplined anticipation, her fingers drumming a rhythmic cadence on her thigh. She wasn't analyzing the route for ambush points anymore, but she was mentally cataloging the neighborhood’s demographics—the well-kept hedges, the lack of security cameras on every corner, the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy of ancient oaks. It was too quiet, too peaceful, and for the first time in a decade, that didn't make her feel exposed.

When they pulled up to the curb, the house didn't just meet the listing's description; it exerted a gravitational pull. It sat back from the road, buffered by a sprawling front lawn and a row of azaleas that looked like they’d been sculpted by a master gardener. The brick was a deep, weathered crimson, and the porch was wide enough to accommodate a full-sized outdoor dining set and a very lazy dog. Kevin killed the engine, the sudden silence of the suburban street wrapping around them like a blanket. He looked over at Freya, his expression uncharacteristically soft.

"Still thinking about the perimeter, or are you seeing the library?" he asked.

Freya stepped out of the truck, the humid Georgia air clinging to her skin. She looked at the house—really looked at it—and felt the last vestige of her tactical armor crack. "I'm seeing the library," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "And the way the morning light hits that bay window. It’s… it’s actually perfect, Kevin."

Kevin chuckled. "We still need to check out the rest of it Frey. You can't just claim the library as your sovereign territory before we've even stepped over the threshold."

The realtor, a woman named Sarah who seemed to be composed entirely of blonde highlights and high-energy enthusiasm, met them at the sidewalk with a smile that felt like a sales pitch. "Hi, I'm Sarah. You must be Kevin and Freya! Welcome to Oakwood Lane. I’ve had a few calls on this one since this morning, so let’s get you inside before the neighborhood vultures realise the sign is still in the yard."

As they crossed the threshold, the interior of the house hit Freya like a physical wave of nostalgia for a life she had never lived. It didn’t smell like the sterile, lemon-scented void of a modern apartment; it smelled of old wax, cedar, and the faint, lingering ghost of a wood-burning stove. The floors were wide-plank heart pine, polished to a deep, honeyed glow that seemed to hold the afternoon sun. Freya found herself walking slowly, her footsteps sounding hollow and rhythmic, her eyes tracking the crown molding with a level of appreciation that replaced her usual focus on exit vectors.

"And here we have the heart of the home," Sarah announced, swinging open a pair of double doors into the kitchen.

Kevin let out a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes immediately locking onto the oversized center island. He walked over and gave the granite countertop a tentative rap with his knuckle, testing the solidity of it. "Now we're talking," he murmured, imagining the sheer volume of meal-prep containers he could fit on that surface. "Frey, look at the clearance in here. I can actually move without knocking over a lamp."

Freya didn’t respond to the kitchen’s scale immediately; instead, she drifted toward the periphery of the room, her eyes tracking the way the sunlight carved jagged gold rectangles across the pine flooring. She felt a strange, humming dissonance in her chest—the part of her that still wanted to check the lock on the back door was losing a war against the part of her that wanted to lean against the counter and just exist in the silence. She watched Kevin, who was currently treating the kitchen island like a piece of gym equipment, leaning his weight onto it with a grin that suggested he had already claimed the space for late-night protein shakes and chaotic midnight snacks.

"When was the kitchen last remodeled?". Freya asked, her voice returning to that clipped, analytical tone as she slid a finger across the underside of the granite island. She wasn't looking for aesthetics; she was checking for the tell-tale sign of a DIY patch-job or a hidden leak in the cabinetry.

"About five years ago," Sarah chirped, her voice a high-frequency contrast to the heavy silence of the house. "The previous owners were meticulously clean. They practically lived in a vacuum."

Kevin didn't care about the vacuum. He was already drifting toward the pantry, a walk-in space that was practically a room of its own. He stepped inside and looked back at Freya, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway. "Frey, look at the shelving. I can fit the bulk-buy rice, the gallon jugs of water, and still have room for a dedicated snack station. It's a logistical masterpiece."

Freya followed him, but her eyes weren't on the shelving. She was noticing the way the house breathed. In the military, "space" was something you managed—a series of sectors to be secured or a volume of air to be conditioned. But here, the space felt additive. The high ceilings didn't feel like a vulnerability; they felt like a luxury. She found herself trailing her hand along the wallpaper of the hallway, the floral pattern slightly faded but elegant, feeling the physical history of a place that had been lived in, loved, and eventually vacated.

"What's the neighborhood like?". Freya asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked out the window toward the street. She wasn't looking at the curb appeal; she was calculating the response time of the local precinct and the density of the tree cover that could provide cover for an intruder.

Sarah, the realtor, beamed, sensing a potential closing. "Oh, it's simply divine! Very quiet, very established. The neighbors are mostly retirees and young professional couples. It’s the kind of place where people still wave to each other from their porches and leave their welcome mats out."

Kevin let out a soft snort, glancing at Freya. He knew that "quiet" to a civilian meant peace and quiet, but to Freya, "quiet" often meant a lack of sensory data, which made her instinctually twitchy. He stepped closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers—a subtle, grounding anchor.

"I noticed an out building in the garden. What's it's current use?". Kevin asked, his voice echoing in the hallway. He wasn't asking about the architecture; he was already mentally mapping out the layout for a home gym that wouldn't result in the main house smelling like a locker room on a Tuesday afternoon.

Sarah led them toward the rear of the house, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the pine. "Oh, it's a converted carriage house! Currently used as a home gym".

"So, why are the current owners leaving?". Freya asked, her voice dropping into that low, investigative register that usually preceded a formal interrogation. She wasn't interested in the realtor's polished script; she wanted to know if the house had a secret, if there was a reason a "meticulously clean" home was sitting on the market on a Tuesday.

Sarah didn't miss a beat, her smile remaining perfectly symmetrical. "The owners husband is being deployed to Canada and they've decided to relocate so they can be together with their children. It's pretty sweet, really. They're heartbroken to leave the garden."

Freya didn't respond. She was already drifting away from the conversation, her boots clicking softly on the floor as she moved toward the back of the house. She wasn't listening to the realtor's narrative; she was listening to the house's silence. She stopped in a narrow corridor that led toward the master suite, her eyes scanning the ceiling. There was a slight discoloration in the crown molding—a pale, watery stain that looked like a map of a forgotten archipelago.

"Stop right there," Freya commanded, her voice snapping back into 'Officer' mode. She pointed a precise finger at the ceiling. "Sarah, the structural integrity of this ceiling is compromised. Either you have a slow leak in the upstairs bathroom, or the roof flashing is failing at the gable."

Sarah’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Oh, that? The owners mentioned a small drip during the last big storm, but it's been handled. The roof is being fully replaced. The contractor starts work tomorrow and it'll be completed in two days. That's why we're not doing any showings until it's completed".

Kevin let out a low whistle, glancing up at the stain and then back to Freya. He didn’t look at the ceiling with the eye of an engineer, but he looked at Freya with the eye of a man who knew her "mission mode" had been fully triggered. While Sarah began a high-velocity explanation about contractors and warranties, Kevin stepped in, his large frame creating a physical barrier between the realtor’s sales pitch and Freya’s analytical intensity. He knew that once she started spotting "structural compromises," the house ceased to be a home and became a target of investigation.

"Alright, Sarah, let's pause the roof talk," Kevin said, his voice warm but firm, steering Freya gently by the shoulder away from the damp spot. "My girl here can find a hairline crack in a diamond from across the room. Let’s finish the tour, and then we can talk about the 'contractor's schedule' over some paperwork."

He led her toward the back of the house, where the hallway opened into a sun-drenched sanctuary that stopped Freya in her tracks. It was the library. It wasn't just a room with bookshelves; it was a double-height atrium with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelving, a rolling ladder that looked like it belonged in an old university, and a massive bay window that looked out over a sea of ancient, weeping willows. The air in the room felt different—cooler, stiller, smelling of old paper and beeswax.

Freya felt the air leave her lungs. She didn't think about the roof, the HOA, or the response time of the local police. She simply saw a place where her scattered collection of intelligence journals and historical biographies could finally live without being crammed into plastic bins. She walked toward the center of the room, her footsteps muffled by a thick Persian rug, and felt a strange, sudden prickle of emotion in her throat. For a woman who had spent her career erasing her footprint from every place she visited, the idea of owning a room this permanent felt like a revelation.

"This is the newest edition to the house," Sarah announced, her voice trailing off as she stepped back to let the couple fully absorb the room. "The previous owners were avid collectors of first editions. They really leaned into the 'academic sanctuary' vibe."

Freya didn't hear her. She was already halfway across the room, her fingertips grazing the spines of the remaining books—the ones the sellers hadn't taken. She reached the rolling ladder and gave it a tentative tug, watching it glide with a smooth, oiled precision across the mahogany rail. It was a tactile, analog kind of luxury that didn't require a password or a security clearance. In this room, the silence wasn't the tactical void of a stakeout; it was a heavy, welcoming blanket that seemed to mute the noise of the outside world.

Kevin watched her from the doorway, his massive frame leaning against the doorframe, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He saw the way her shoulders, usually held with a rigid, military discipline, had finally dropped an inch. He saw the way she looked at the shelves—not as a set of coordinates to be managed, but as a place to belong. He didn't interrupt the moment, knowing that for Freya, this was the first time the "mission" had shifted from a set of requirements to a genuine feeling of desire.

"You can almost smell the ink," Freya whispered, her voice devoid of the clipped command she used with the realtor. She turned to Kevin, her eyes bright with a sudden, vulnerable intensity. "Imagine the archives here, Kev. Not in a reinforced filing cabinet in a windowless office, but right here. I could actually have a place where things just… stay."

Kevin didn't just walk through the house; he navigated it like a man who had spent his life measuring the dimensions of a ring. He was constantly assessing the clearance, his broad shoulders brushing against the doorframes not out of clumsiness, but as a way of claiming the space, marking the territory with a slow, rhythmic curiosity. To him, the house was a series of possibilities—a place for a massive sectional that could swallow them both, a kitchen where he could meal-prep for the week without feeling like he was in a cockpit, and a backyard that could handle the chaotic energy of a celebratory barbecue. He moved with a loose, rolling gait, his presence filling the rooms in a way that made the high ceilings feel intimate rather than imposing.

Freya, by contrast, moved through the viewing like a ghost in a machine. While Kevin was feeling the "vibe," Freya was conducting a silent audit. She noticed the slight dip in the floorboards near the dining room—a sign of a settling foundation that wasn't critical but would require a professional look.

"So, the owners are hoping for a quick sale. They've found their dream home in Canada," Sarah added, her voice trailing after them as they moved toward the master bedroom.

"Okay, hit us with it. What are they asking?" Kevin asked, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious master suite. He had already claimed the walk-in closet as his personal armory for suits and athletic gear, standing in the center of the room with an expression of quiet victory.

Sarah beamed, her eyes scanning the room as if she could see the commission already landing in her bank account. "The owners are asking seven hundred and eighty thousand. It’s a competitive price for this square footage, especially given the upgrades to the kitchen and that stunning library."

Freya stopped in her tracks. Seven hundred and eighty thousand. The number registered in her mind not as a price tag, but as a series of risk-assessment variables. It was a significant investment, a tether that would bind her to this specific patch of Georgia soil more firmly than any military contract ever had. She looked at the master bedroom—the expansive windows, the soft, muted tones of the walls, and the way the afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the carpet.

She felt Kevin's gaze on her. He wasn't pushing her; he was waiting. He knew that for Freya, the leap from "this is a great house" to "this is our house" required a mental shift from tactical analysis to emotional commitment.

"Like I said they're looking for a quick sale so the price can be negotiated," Sarah added, sensing the sudden stillness in the room.

Freya didn't answer immediately. She walked toward the window, her eyes tracking a small, determined spider spinning a web in the corner of the frame. In her world, a commitment of this magnitude was usually preceded by a three-hundred-page dossier and a risk-mitigation strategy. But as she looked back at Kevin, she saw the way he was leaning against the wall, his posture open and trusting. He wasn't just buying a house; he was offering her a destination.

"Seven eighty," Freya murmured, the number finally settling. "With a roof that needs a full replacement."

Sarah’s smile wavered. "As I mentioned, the roof is being handled—"

"The roof is being handled by a contractor who hasn't actually finished the job," Freya interrupted, her voice regaining its sharp, authoritative edge. She pointed back toward the hallway. "A 'handled' roof doesn't leave a watermark on the ceiling of the first floor. That's an active leak, Sarah. That means the flashing wasn't just 'failing'—it was compromised. If the contractor is starting tomorrow, the damage to the interior drywall and insulation is already a variable."

Sarah opened her mouth to retort, but Kevin stepped in, his large hand resting comfortably on the small of Freya's back. He knew this look; the "Intelligence Officer" had officially taken the wheel, and while she was terrifying to realtors, she was a godsend when it came to not overpaying for a lemon.

"We love the house," Kevin said, his voice a low, soothing rumble that tempered Freya's intensity. "And we love the library. But my girl here doesn't do 'hope' as a structural strategy. If the roof is a work-in-progress, the price needs to reflect the risk of what’s hiding behind that ceiling."

Sarah sighed, her high-energy persona dipping for a moment. She knew she was dealing with a power couple—one who could bench-press the house and another who could find every flaw in the foundation by scent alone. "I can call the sellers. They’re anxious to move. If you're willing to waive the inspection period in exchange for a price reduction to cover the roof and a credit for the interior repairs… they might bite."

Freya didn't blink. The idea of waiving the inspection was anathema to her; it was the equivalent of jumping into a dark lake without checking for depth. She looked at the watermark on the ceiling, then back at Sarah. The realtor was betting on their emotional attachment to the library to override their logic. It was a classic leverage play, and Freya’s instincts screamed that it was a trap.

"We aren't waiving the inspection," Freya stated, her voice flat and final. "But we are willing to move fast. If the sellers provide a certified report from the roofing company confirming the scope of the work and a guarantee on the flashing, we’ll keep the inspection on the table for forty-eight hours. That gives us enough time to check the foundation and the HVAC without delaying their timeline by weeks."

Kevin looked at Freya, a flash of genuine pride crossing his face. He loved the way she operated—like a surgeon with a scalpels-edge precision. He shifted his weight, his massive frame casting a shadow over the hardwood. "She’s being generous, Sarah. We’re not looking to kill the deal, but we’re not buying a mystery box. Call your clients. Tell them we’re interested, but we’re not blind."

Sarah sighed, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of frustration. She knew she had lost the upper hand. "I'll make the call. Give me ten minutes. Why don't you two take one last look around? See if there's anything else you'd… change."

Sarah retreated to the foyer, her phone already pressed to her ear, leaving the couple in a heavy, expectant silence. Kevin didn't follow her. Instead, he looped his arm around Freya’s shoulders, pulling her back against his chest. He was a mountain of warmth, his heartbeat a steady, rhythmic thrum against her shoulder blade.

"You're terrifying," he murmured, his voice vibrating through her. "I love it when you get that look in your eye. It's like you're about to dismantle the entire real estate market with a pen and a clipboard."

Freya leaned back into him, the tension in her neck finally beginning to dissipate. "They were trying to play the 'emotional attachment' card, Kev. The library is a powerful lure, but it doesn't make the roof waterproof." She turned her head slightly, glancing at him. "Did I go too hard? Was the tone too… 'interrogation room'?"

Kevin laughed, a deep sound that seemed to echo in the high ceilings of the master suite. "Frey, you're a Naval Intelligence officer. Your 'too hard' is usually the only way to get the truth out of people. Besides, Sarah knows the house is a bit of a gamble. She just didn't expect someone to actually notice the watermark. You didn't just find a flaw; you found the lever."

"Come on, I wanna take another look at the four bedrooms upstairs," Kevin said, nudging her gently toward the staircase. "I need to figure out which one is the 'Guest-of-Honor' room and which one becomes our master-suite-annex."

Freya followed him up the stairs, her mind still half-occupied by the logistics of the roof, but her heart was beginning to synchronize with the rhythm of the house. The upstairs felt more intimate, the hallways narrower and the air warmer.

Freya stopped in the doorway of the smallest bedroom, a cozy space that bathed in the soft, filtered glow of the afternoon sun. Her eyes didn’t immediately land on the beige carpeting or the dated built-in shelving; instead, she saw a phantom image of a white crib tucked against the far wall, the kind with sturdy rails and a soft, cream-colored mobile spinning slowly above it. She imagined a small, chaotic pile of plush toys in the corner and the scent of baby powder mingling with the smell of cedar and old books from the library downstairs. For a woman who had spent her adulthood living out of duffel bags and secure-site lockers, the thought of a room dedicated to something as fragile and permanent as a child felt like a sudden, breathtaking shift in her own internal geography.

She didn’t realize she had stopped walking until she felt Kevin’s presence behind her. He leaned over her shoulder, his chest a solid wall of warmth against her back. "This one's a bit small for a gym, huh?" he joked, though his voice trailed off as he followed her gaze. He saw the way she was looking at the empty space—not as a room to be audited, but as a possibility to be cherished. He didn't push her to voice it, but he squeezed her shoulder, his large hand grounding her in the present moment while they both stared into a future that suddenly felt tangible.

"It's a good size," Freya whispered, her voice lacking its usual tactical precision. "For… something."

"And what would that 'something' be?" Kevin asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble that vibrated through her spine. He didn't move, giving her the space to let the thought breathe, his presence a steady anchor as she drifted in the quiet of the small room.

Freya didn't answer immediately. She let her eyes trace the trajectory of the sunlight as it crawled across the beige carpet, imagining the exact spot where a rocking chair would sit—something heavy and wooden that would creak rhythmically in the middle of the night. She saw the void of the corner not as wasted square footage, but as the perfect place for a dresser overflowing with tiny, mismatched socks and cotton onesies. In her mind, the sterile silence of the house was replaced by the imagined sound of a soft, insistent babble, a noise that didn't require a translation key or a decrypted signal. It was a vision of a life where the only 'intel' she needed to gather was whether a sleeping infant had finally drifted off or was just pausing for breath.

The image was so vivid it felt like a physical weight in her chest, a sudden, sharp contrast to the nomadic, high-stakes existence she had led for the last decade. For years, her world had been defined by the temporary—rental apartments in foreign capitals, secure houses with no names on the mailboxes, and a career built on the art of leaving no trace. But as she stared at the empty space, the desire to leave a trace—a permanent, breathing, laughing trace—hit her with a force that made her breath hitch.

Kevin shifted, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. "You're doing that thing again," he murmured. "The 'thousand-yard stare,' but you're looking at a closet instead of a horizon."

"I was just thinking," Freya began, her voice sounding small against the heavy silence of the room, "that this would make a pretty ideal nursery."

The confession hung in the air, a sudden, high-stakes gambit that shifted the entire energy of the house. For a moment, neither of them moved. Freya braced herself for the shock—the sudden realization that she was projecting a future they hadn't explicitly mapped out, the potential panic of a man who lived his life in the spotlight and the gym. She waited for the 'slow down' or the 'maybe one day,' the cautious retreat of a man who didn't want to be cornered by a hypothetical.

Instead, Kevin let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through her shoulder. He didn't pull away; he leaned in closer, his arm tightening around her in a way that felt less like a hug and more like a claim.

"Well," he said, his voice brimming with a playful, competitive edge, "if we're talking about a future 'Jet' running around this place, we definitely can't let this house slip away. A kid with my genetics is going to need a high-clearance ceiling and a dedicated zone for toy-based chaos. This room is practically built for it."

"Seriously? You're not freaked out?" Freya asked, turning in the circle of his arms. She looked up at him, her analytical mind momentarily stalled. Usually, when she introduced a new variable—especially one as life-altering as a child—people reacted with a flurry of questions or a sudden need to check the timeline.

Kevin just grinned, the expression reaching his eyes and softening the rugged angles of his face. "Frey, I’ve spent half my life in rings and the other half in gyms. My entire existence is built on the 'unexpected.' You think a little human is going to scare me? Besides," he added, his voice dropping into that warm, intimate register, "I’ve seen how you handle a crisis. You’re the only person I know who could keep a toddler’s schedule as organized as a Naval task force. We’d be the most efficient parents in Georgia."

Freya felt a laugh bubble up in her chest, a genuine, light sound that echoed through the small room. The tension she hadn't even realized she was carrying—the fear that her need for stability might be too much, or that her vision of the future was too premature—simply evaporated. She leaned her forehead against his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the steady thrum of his heart. For the first time in years, she wasn't calculating an exit strategy; she was imagining how to stay.

Their moment was interrupted by the sound of clicking heels returning down the hallway. Sarah appeared in the doorway, her expression a complex blend of professional relief and a slight, lingering wariness. She looked at the couple—Kevin’s arm still draped over Freya, the atmosphere between them thick with a quiet, shared understanding—and realized the dynamic had shifted. They weren't just buyers anymore; they were a unit.

"Good news!" Sarah announced, her voice regaining its high-frequency chirp, though it was now tempered with a genuine sense of respect. "The sellers are feeling the pressure of that Canada deadline. They’ve agreed to the certified roofing report and the credit for the interior repairs. They'll also accept the price of seven hundred and forty thousand, provided we can close in twenty-one days."

Freya stepped back from Kevin, her mind instinctively clicking back into a tactical grid. The number was fair—almost too fair. She glanced at the ceiling of the nursery-to-be, then back to Sarah. The reduction in price covered the roof and then some, but the twenty-one-day closing window was a pressure tactic designed to stop them from second-guessing the structural integrity of the rest of the house.

"Twenty-one days is aggressive," Freya noted, her voice cool and measured. "But if the sellers are truly heartbroken over their garden, they probably want the keys handed over as fast as the bank can process the wire."

Kevin beamed at her, his chest swelling. He didn't care about the closing timeline; he was already imagining the massive, oversized leather sofa that would fit in the living room. "We'll take it," he said, his voice booming with a finality that echoed through the hallway. "On the condition that the roofing report is in our inbox by tomorrow morning. If it's clean, we sign."

Sarah didn’t even try to negotiate. She had seen the way Freya dissected the house; she knew that if she pushed too hard, the officer would find a reason to walk away based on a faulty water heater or a crooked joist. "Consider it done," Sarah chirped, already tapping her phone to notify the listing agent. "I'll send over the initial contract for your review."

"Twenty-one days," Freya repeated, the phrase rolling around her mind like a tactical objective. "Right. High tempo, minimal friction. I can work with that."

El Phantasmo x OC (Sam Taylor)

Warnings: Language | TW: Mentions of Cancer and Surgery

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The toaster popped, but the bread stayed stuck. It was the third time that week.

Riley stared at the blackened edges of the rye toast, wondering why the machine always seemed to have a personal vendetta against his breakfast. He reached for a butter knife, then paused, his hand hovering mid-air as he looked at the calendar on the fridge. It had been five days since his thirty-seventh birthday, a milestone that had felt celebratory until the doctors had delivered the news that shifted the axis of his world.

Sam walked into the kitchen, still wearing her scrubs from a double shift at the children's hospital. She didn't say anything at first; she just stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder blades. Riley leaned back into her, the tension in his neck easing just a fraction. They had spent six years building a life together, a life defined by the chaotic travel schedule of a professional wrestler and the grueling hours of a pediatric nurse. They were a team, and the silence between them in the morning was usually the kind that didn't need filling.

"The toaster is officially retired," Riley muttered, finally prying the charred bread out with a sigh. "I think it’s protesting my life choices."

Sam chuckled, the sound muffled against his back, and kissed the fabric of his t-shirt. "It’s a sign, love. Looks like we'll be stopping for a new toaster on the way back from the hospital."

Riley grumbled something about the unfairness of kitchen appliances while staring at the blackened toast, but Sam was already stepping back, her hands lingering on his hips for a second longer than usual. "Right," she said, her voice shifting into that efficient, gentle nurse-mode that usually only appeared at the hospital, "before I go get out of these scrubs and into something that doesn't smell like antiseptic and apple juice, tell me: is the bag actually packed, or are you planning to improvise your recovery wardrobe from the hospital linens?"

Riley paused, the butter knife still in his hand. He hadn't actually zipped the bag yet. He had spent the last twenty minutes staring at his gym bag, mentally debating whether he needed a specific kind of soft pyjama pant or if the oversized sweats he’d worn since 2018 would suffice. He gave her a sheepish look, the kind that usually got him out of trouble when he forgot to take the bins out. "I've got the basics. I’m a professional at this Sammy. I can pack a go-bag."

"You’re a professional at pretending you have a plan," she teased, leaning in to peck his cheek. "I got you a few bits of 'professional' gear in that bag three days ago while you were still debating the merits of your favourite sweatpants. Just check."

Riley blinked and looked toward the hallway. The gym bag sat there, looking deceptively slumped, but as he stepped closer, he noticed the zipper was slightly open. Tucked inside, resting atop his old, grey-worn cottons, was a neat stack of fabrics that looked like they belonged in a high-end lounge catalog rather than a wrestler’s travel kit. He reached in and pulled out a pair of boxers made of a modal blend so soft it felt like a cloud, followed by a set of oversized, heavy-weight fleece sweats in a deep charcoal that felt substantial yet gentle.

"You bought me the 'luxury' version," Riley said, feeling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He looked back at Sam, who was already halfway to the bedroom, her voice trailing back with a smirk.

"I did a quick analysis of the post-op friction levels," she called out. "Standard cotton is a lie, Riley. You want the seamless, high-stretch, 'don't-touch-me-unless-you're-holding-my-hand' variety. I’m a pediatric nurse; I know exactly which fabrics don't aggravate a surgical site."

"Damn Sammy, you've been busy," Riley murmured, digging deeper into the bag. Beneath the luxurious fabrics lay a small, neatly organized pouch. He zipped it open to find a brand-new, ten-foot braided charging cable for his phone—the heavy-duty kind that wouldn't fray after three months of being shoved into a gym bag—and a small, handheld gaming console he’d mentioned wanting six months ago but had forgotten he’d even brought up.

It was a calculated kindness, a sequence of small comforts designed to bridge the gap between the sterile reality of a surgical ward and the warmth of their living room. Sam didn’t just provide the gear; she provided the distraction. She knew that for a man who lived his life in the loud, high-energy spotlight of a wrestling ring, the silence of a recovery bed could be the hardest part of the fight.

"Fuck me Sam, you've actually thought of everything," Riley said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at the meticulously packed bag. He felt a strange lump form in his throat—not of fear, though that was always there, humming like a low-voltage wire in the background—but of a profound, grounding gratitude. He had spent his career taking bumps on hard canvases and fighting through joint pain, treating his body like a tool to be used until it broke. But this was different. This wasn't a torn ligament or a bruised rib; this was an intrusion, a cellular betrayal that required a surgeon’s blade to excise.

"What can I say? I'm a professional," Sam replied, returning to the kitchen with a fresh change of clothes and a smile that didn't quite hide the flicker of anxiety in her eyes. She stepped closer, resting her hand on his chest. "Now, let's get you to the car. If we leave now, we can beat the morning rush and get you checked in before the surgeons start their coffee run."

The drive to the hospital was quieter than their usual trips, the kind of silence that felt heavy but not suffocating. Riley watched the Canadian landscape blur by, his mind drifting toward the ring—the roar of the crowd, the snap of the canvas—and wondering how his center of gravity would feel once he returned to the squared circle. He didn’t bring it up, and Sam didn’t push; she just kept one hand firmly on his thigh, a constant, grounding presence as they navigated the sterile labyrinth of the surgical wing.

"Hi, I'm scheduled for surgery".

“Name and date of birth, please,” the receptionist said, her voice possessing that particular, clipped efficiency of someone who had spent eight hours treating every human being like a barcode. She didn't look up from her monitor, her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose.

Riley shifted his weight, feeling the sudden, oppressive cold of the hospital air conditioning. He leaned over the counter, surgery the scent of industrial lemon cleaner hitting him like a physical wall. “Riley Vigier. October 24th, 1986,” he answered, his voice sounding smaller than it ever did when he was cutting a promo in front of three thousand screaming fans.

The receptionist’s fingers flew across the keyboard with a rhythmic, clicking precision. She didn't look up, but she slid a clipboard across the laminate surface. It was a thick stack of pre-op forms, the kind of paperwork that felt less like medical history and more like a deposition. There were questions about everything from family allergies to the last time he’d eaten a piece of toast—which, given the morning, was a conversation he wasn’t in the mood to have.

“Fill these out in blue or black ink, please,” she added, finally glancing up. Her eyes softened just a fraction when she saw the way Riley was gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. “Wait in the seating area. A nurse will call you when their ready".

Sam took the clipboard from him before he could actually start, her fingers brushing his in a silent I’ve got this gesture. As they walked toward the waiting area, Riley watched the other patients—a woman with a bandaged wrist, an old man leaning heavily on a walker. He felt like a fraud among them, a man whose body was built for war but was now trembling at the thought of a quiet room and a sharp knife. He sank into one of the molded plastic chairs, the material sticking to the back of his neck, and felt the weight of the silence settle over them.

“Okay, that's all the routine shit. Oh, they want your emergency contact,” Sam murmured, the phone en stalling. "Do you want your mum?"

"Why would I want my mom when I've got you?" Riley replied, leaning his head back against the plastic chair. He reached out and squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing the familiar line of her knuckles. "Just put you down. You're the only emergency contact I need."

Sam smiled, a genuine, soft expression that smoothed out the worry lines around her eyes. She finished the form with a quick flick of her pen and set the clipboard aside. For a few minutes, they just sat there in the hum of the waiting room, the sound of distant paging systems and the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum filling the gaps between them. Riley felt a sudden, sharp surge of affection for her—for the way she could navigate the clinical coldness of a hospital while remaining the warmest thing in his life.

"I don't think my mom would cope in an emergency situation," Riley added with a dry chuckle, leaning his head back against the wall. "She'd probably try to direct the surgeons on how to hold the scalpel."

The humor was a shield, and they both knew it.

"But she's family. We're not married or anything so technically I have no legal standing".

Riley smiled. "It's got to reflect my views and wishes, doesn't it?" He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "You're the one who knows how to handle the paperwork and the panic attacks. We've been together for six years, you moved from fucking England here for me Sammy. You've got more legal standing in my heart than a marriage certificate provides."

"Okay, enough of the romance, you're getting soft," Sam teased, though she leaned her head on his shoulder, letting the moment linger. "Now, let's talk about the actual plan. Once you're out, you're staying in bed for at least three days. No 'just checking if I can still do a moonsault' or 'I think I can handle a light squat.' If I see you trying to wrestle a cat, I will actually call your doctor and tell him you're being non-compliant."

Riley laughed, a genuine sound that echoed slightly in the sterile corridor, though it ended in a sharp intake of breath as he shifted his weight. "Whatever you say".

Once the form was completed, Sam returned it to the receptionist. A quiet silence stretched between them.

"Do you think the surgeon has a favourite song?” Riley asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the sterile quiet. “Like, something he listens to while he’s in there? Maybe some high-energy synth-wave to keep the pace up?”

Sam let out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Knowing my luck, it's probably some incredibly niche 1970s folk music. Something with a lot of flute and very depressing lyrics about sheep."

The levity was interrupted by a door swinging open with a heavy thud. A nurse with a bright smile and a clipboard that looked like it had seen a thousand shifts stepped into the hallway. "Riley Vigier? We're ready for you."

"Right this way," the nurse said, her voice a gentle guide through the maze of white corridors. She led them into a small, private prep room that smelled faintly of ozone and citrus. It was a claustrophobic little space, dominated by a vinyl-covered exam table and a curtain that didn’t quite meet the ceiling, leaving a gap where the fluorescent lights hummed with a persistent, electric buzz.

The nurse handed Riley a folded bundle of pale blue fabric that felt more like a suggestion of clothing than an actual garment. "The surgeon will be in shortly to do the final walkthrough and answer any last-minute questions," she explained, her smile remaining professional yet warm. "Go ahead and change into this. Everything off from the waist down, please. Tie the strings in the back—or have your partner help—and just wait right here. All your personal belongings can go into the side cubbie".

As the door clicked shut behind her, Riley looked down at the gown. He had worn a thousand costumes in his career—spandex, leather, masks—but this was the first time a piece of clothing made him feel truly exposed. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the waistband of his trousers.

"The great El Phantasmo, defeated by a piece of hospital linen," Sam whispered, her voice brimming with a playful warmth that grounded him. She stepped in close, her hands reaching out to help him navigate the awkward transition. As he stepped out of his clothes and into the drafty openness of the room, the silence shifted. The air felt colder, the stakes felt higher, and the reality of what was about to happen settled into the marrow of his bones.

He fumbled with the thin strings of the gown, his fingers suddenly feeling like oversized thumbs. Sam stepped behind him, her touch steady and sure as she tied the knot at the nape of his neck. For a moment, he leaned back against her, the thin fabric of the gown offering no protection, but her presence acting as a shield. He felt her forehead press against the back of his head, a silent anchor in the sterile sea of the prep room.

"You're shaking," she murmured, her voice barely a breath.

"Just the cold," he lied, though they both knew he had been shaking since the moment he received the biopsy results. He turned around to face her, the gown flapping loosely around his legs. He looked ridiculous—a six-foot-plus athlete reduced to a pale blue rectangle—and the absurdity of it finally broke the tension. He let out a short, jagged laugh. "I feel like a giant grape."

Sam smiled, reaching up to straighten the collar of the gown. "A very muscular grape," she corrected, her eyes searching his. "You're okay, Riley. You're just in the 'waiting for the curtain to rise' phase. Once you're under, you're just skipping to the part where you get to be pampered and eat popsicles."

The door opened with a soft click, and a man in navy scrubs stepped in, carrying a tablet and a level of calm that seemed to lower the room's temperature. Dr. Aris didn't look like a man who dealt in life-and-death stakes; he had a soft face and a way of speaking that felt like a steady hand on a shoulder.

"Mr Vigier, I'm Dr Aris," the surgeon said, his voice a smooth, unobtrusive baritone. He didn't rush the introduction, instead taking a moment to look at Riley—not as a patient on a chart, but as a man standing in a drafty gown. "I've reviewed your scans. Everything is straightforward, but I want to make sure we're on the same page before the anesthesiologist comes up. Any final thoughts, or are we just hoping I'm a fan of synth-wave?"

Riley blinked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You heard about the music, huh?"

"The nurses' station is a hub of gossip, and you've got a very distinct voice," Aris replied with a wink.

"How long will it take?" Riley asked, the question finally escaping. He tried to keep his voice steady, but the confidence of the ring was nowhere to be found.

"About an hour and a half," Dr. Aris replied, stepping closer to review the tablet. "The procedure itself is efficient. The most tedious part is actually the waking up—that's where the grogginess hits. But as far as the surgery goes, it's a clean, focused job. We get in, we remove the affected tissue, and we get you back to your partner."

"When will he be discharged?". Sam asked, her voice shifting back into that quiet, clinical curiosity she used when chatting with colleagues about post-op protocols. "Will you have to keep him in overnight for observation, or can we get him home before the traffic hits the 401?"

Dr. Aris glanced between them, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Given the nature of the procedure and Mr. Vigier’s general health, we’ll likely keep him until tomorrow morning. I want to monitor the site and make sure the pain management is dialed in before he attempts to navigate a car seat. Trust me, the 401 is a nightmare regardless of the hour, and you’ll both be happier if he’s had a full night of sleep and a few more doses of something to take the edge off."

Riley felt a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety at the mention of staying overnight, but Sam’s hand slid into his, her grip firm. "He’s not going anywhere without me," she said softly, glancing at Riley.

"We can bring in an extra bed for you, Sam, if you can convince the night shift nurse to look the other way," Dr. Aris joked, though his eyes remained focused and professional. He gave Riley a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Everything is ready. I'll leave you two for a few minutes to say your goodbyes to the waking world."

As the door clicked shut, the room plummeted back into a heavy, ringing silence. Riley looked at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny perforations in the acoustic foam. He felt the weight of the gown, the strange vulnerability of being stripped of his identity and reduced to a medical case. He wasn’t El Phantasmo here; he wasn't the high-flyer or the crowd-favorite. He was just a man about to lose a piece of himself.

"Hey," Sam whispered, stepping into his space. She reached up, her thumbs brushing the hollows of his cheekbones. "Look at me."

Riley lowered his gaze, meeting her eyes. They were wide and shimmering, reflecting a mixture of professional composure and raw, personal terror.

"Fuck. I'm terrified," Riley admitted, the words barely a whisper. The confession felt like a physical weight leaving his chest, making his shoulders slump. "Not just of the surgery, but of… everything after. Who am I if the map of my body changes?"

Sam didn't offer a platitude or a rehearsed medical reassurance. Instead, she stepped closer, pressing her forehead against his, closing the gap until they were breathing the same air. "You're the man who makes me laugh until I can't breathe," she whispered. "You're the man who forgets where he put his keys three times a day but remembers exactly how I like my tea. You're Riley. The parts that matter aren't the ones the doctor is looking at."

The door opened again, and this time it was the anesthesiologist, a woman with a bright floral scrub top and a smile that felt genuinely sunny. She moved with a brisk, rhythmic energy, carrying a tray of equipment that clinked softly. "Alright, Riley, time for the magic ride," she said, her voice light. "We're going to move you to the bed, get you comfortable, and then we'll start. Have you ever had anesthesia before?"

"Only once, for a shoulder dislocation in 2014," Riley replied, his voice sounding distant even to himself. He let the nurses guide him onto the gurney, the transition from the cold floor to the padded surface feeling like a sudden drop in altitude.

"Okay, so I'm going to insert a canula a bit here in your arm," the anesthesiologist explained, her movements efficient and practiced. "You're going to feel a little pinch, and then I'll administer the anaesthetic. You'll start to feel very heavy, very warm, and then I'll ask you to count back from ten."

Riley looked up at the ceiling, then back at Sam, who was standing just beyond the reach of the surgical equipment. She looked smaller than usual against the backdrop of the towering monitors and stainless steel trays, but her eyes were locked onto his with an intensity that felt like a physical tether. He tried to say something—maybe a joke about the floral scrubs or a final, desperate request for a specific kind of popsicle—but the words felt thick in his throat.

"I love you," he managed, the voice not even a whisper, but a vibration of the heart.

"I love you more," Sam replied, her voice steady, though she was gripping the edge of her own coat so tightly her knuckles were white. "See you in a few hours, Riley. I'm not going anywhere."

Then the world began to dissolve. The floral scrubs of the anesthesiologist blurred into a smudge of bright color, and the hum of the ceiling lights shifted into a low, rhythmic thrum that sounded like a distant crowd. Riley felt a sudden, heavy warmth bloom in his arm, spreading through his chest and into his head. He tried to count—ten, nine, eight—but by the time he reached seven, the numbers lost their meaning, turning into soft, abstract shapes that drifted away into a velvet blackness.

/*/

"Surgery was a success," Dr. Aris announced, though to Riley, the doctor's voice sounded like it was being played through a tunnel.

"Thank god"

The return was less linear. Riley woke up to the sound of a rhythmic beep-beep-beep and the sensation of a very dry mouth. He felt as though he had been submerged in warm syrup, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. For a few seconds, he didn't know where he was, only that the light above him was too bright and his brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. He could feel a slight throbbing in his groin, a dull, localized heat that signaled the absence of what had been there.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," a voice whispered.

He tilted his head, a slow and laborious movement, to find Sam sitting in a plastic chair that looked entirely too small for her. She looked exhausted; her eyes were rimmed with red, and her hair was slightly mussed, as if she had spent the last few hours running her fingers through it. But the moment she saw him blink, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washed over her. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, her breath smelling faintly of the vending machine coffee she must have been leaning on for survival.

"Thank you for rejoining us Mr Vigier. How do you feel?" Dr. Aris had returned, his presence a calming anchor in the groggy haze. He stood at the foot of the bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, monitoring the vitals on the screen.

"Like a very confused marshmallow," Riley croaked. His voice was a dry rasp, a far cry from the booming projections he used in the ring. He tried to shift his hips and immediately regretted it; a sharp, insistent tug of pain flared in his groin, reminding him that he was now structurally different. He let out a soft hiss of air through his teeth.

"Easy there, champion," Aris said with a small smile. "The anesthesia is wearing off, and the surgical site is tender. You've had a successful orchiectomy. The margins were clear, and everything went exactly as planned. I’ve already sent the specimen to pathology for the final confirmation, but based on what we saw, you're in the clear."

The word clear echoed in Riley's mind, vibrating with a weight that seemed to lift several hundred pounds off his chest. He looked at Sam. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were glistening, a shimmering layer of moisture that mirrored the sterile lights of the recovery room. She reached out and took his hand, her grip firm, anchoring him to the present.

"Do I get to keep it after?". Riley asked, his voice still thick and raspy. It was a sudden, impulsive question, the kind of dark humor that usually served as his primary coping mechanism during a bad match.

"Riley! Oh my god, I'm so sorry". Sam let out a laugh that was half-sob, shaking her head as she squeezed his hand.

Dr. Aris didn't even blink; he’d likely dealt with a decade of patients asking to keep their excised organs. "Standard protocol is that it goes to the lab for pathology," he explained with a professional, yet amused, tilt of his head. "But unless you want to carry around a jar of formaldehyde in your gym bag, I'd suggest leaving it with the scientists."

Riley let out a soft, ragged chuckle that turned into a wince as his abdominal muscles protested. He sank back into the pillows, the same beeping monitor tracking the slight spike in his heart rate. The humor was fading, replaced by a heavy, quiet clarity. "Damn, it would've been a good ice breaker or a conversation starter," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "‘Hey, look at this thing that tried to kill me.’"

Sam didn't laugh this time; instead, she leaned in, her forehead resting against his shoulder. "You're an idiot," she whispered, though the words were drenched in a tenderness that made his chest ache. "A complete and utter idiot, and I'm very glad you're still here to be one."

Dr. Aris stepped back, giving them a moment of privacy as he checked the IV drip. "I'll leave you two to settle in. The nurse will be by shortly with some fluids and, if you're lucky, a very cold popsicle. Just remember, Riley: no sudden movements."

Once the doctor had exited, the room fell into a comfortable, dim silence. The same fluorescent hum remained, but it no longer felt oppressive. Riley turned his head to look at Sam, really looking at her—the way her clothes were wrinkled from hours of anxious waiting, the way she refused to let go of his hand. The fear hadn't vanished completely; it had just shifted. It was no longer the sharp, jagged fear of a diagnosis, but a softer, more contemplative uncertainty about the road ahead.

"So," Riley whispered, his voice gaining a bit more clarity as the chemical fog receded. "About the popsicles. Do you think they have the red ones? Because if I’m losing a part of my anatomy, I feel like I’ve earned the top-tier flavor."

Sam laughed, a genuine, bright sound that seemed to push the remaining sterile gloom out of the room. "I'll fight the nursing staff for a red one if I have to, though knowing this ward, you'll probably get a sugar-free lime one that tastes like soap." She shifted in the chair, leaning closer to him. "How are you actually doing? And don't give me the 'I'm fine' wrestler answer. Give me the 'I'm lying in a hospital bed' answer."

Riley looked down at the white sheets, then back at Sam. He felt a strange, hollow lightness, a phantom sensation that didn't quite match the physical pain. "It feels… weird," he admitted softly. "Not just the pain. It's like I can feel the space where it used to be. It’s a very specific kind of quiet in my head right now. Like the match is over, the music has stopped, and I'm just waiting for the referee to tell me who won."

Sam didn't offer a quick fix or a medical statistic. She just squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. "You won, Riley. That's the answer. You won by a knockout."

He let out a long, slow breath, the tension in his jaw finally beginning to dissolve. "What about the ring, Sammy? I mean, the balance, the movement… I’m a high-flyer. If my center of gravity is off by even a fraction, does that change how I land? Do I have to relearn how to take a bump?"

Sam’s expression shifted, her nurse-brain clicking into gear, though her eyes remained soft. "You're overthinking the physics of a nut, love. You've spent years adjusting to different ring tensions and different opponents. Your body is a map of adaptations. This is just another one. Besides," she added with a small, playful smirk, "you've survived falling off a ten-foot ladder onto a concrete floor. I think you can handle a slight shift in symmetry."

Riley looked at her, the absurdity of the comparison settling in. He had indeed survived a dozen "near-death" spots for the sake of a pop from the crowd, but this was the first time the stakes weren't scripted. The silence of the room felt less like a vacuum and more like a sanctuary. He shifted his gaze to the window, where the harsh Canadian sunlight was beginning to dip, casting long, amber shadows across the linoleum.

"I think I might have to change the gimmick," he murmured, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "The 'Phantasmo' thing. Maybe something a bit more… streamlined. Aerodynamic."

Sam let out a soft, melodic laugh and leaned over to kiss his forehead. "God forbid you lose your branding. But seriously, Riley, the only thing that's changed is a few grams of tissue. You’re still the same idiot who tries to convince me that pineapple belongs on pizza."

"It provides a necessary acidity to the fat of the cheese, Sammy. It’s culinary science," he retorted, though the effort of the argument left him feeling pleasantly drained. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythmic beep of the monitor lull him. The pain was returning as the anesthesia fully retreated, a dull, throbbing ache that felt honest and manageable. He felt the weight of her hand still anchored to his, and for the first time in weeks, the humming wire of anxiety in his chest had finally gone silent.

The next morning arrived with the sterile, rhythmic efficiency of a hospital dawn. Riley woke to the sound of a curtain being whipped back and the sight of a nurse with a clipboard who looked like she had been awake since the dawn of time. He felt stiff, his body reacting to the surgical site with a dull, persistent ache that felt like a deep-tissue bruise. Beside him, Sam was fast asleep in the awkward, folded-up chair, her head tilted at an angle that looked agonizing, her hand still loosely gripping the edge of his mattress. She looked fragile in her sleep, the professional armor of the pediatric nurse stripped away to reveal the exhaustion of a woman who had spent twenty-four hours holding her breath.

"Morning, Mr. Vigier," the nurse murmured, checking his vitals with a practiced, barely-there touch. "Doctor Aris wants to see you one last time before we process your discharge papers. How are we feeling?"

"Like I've been hit with a folding chair," Riley croaked, though he managed a small, tired smile. He looked down at Sam, feeling a surge of protective tenderness. He reached out, his fingers brushing her shoulder. "Sammy. Wake up. We're escaping."

She jolted awake with a startled gasp, her eyes snapping open and frantically searching the room before landing on him. As the fog of sleep cleared, she let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned her forehead against his arm. "Did the doctor come back? Are you…?"

"I'm still here, you lunatic," Riley whispered, his voice a bit stronger now that he'd had a few hours of actual sleep. "And the doctor is probably just coming back to make sure I haven't tried to do any gymnastics in the bed."

Sam sat up, rubbing her eyes and stretching with a groan that echoed the stiffness in Riley's own joints. She looked at him, her gaze scanning his face for any signs of distress, the nurse in her momentarily overriding the girlfriend. Satisfied that he was stable, she leaned in and kissed him, a lingering, deep breath of a kiss that felt like they were both finally exhaling for the first time in a month.

Dr. Aris entered the room shortly after, carrying the final discharge summary. He didn't look at the chart as he spoke; he looked at Riley. "You look a bit more human today, Riley. Less like a grape, more like a man who needs a very long nap in his own bed." He handed the paperwork to Sam, his tone shifting into the specific, detailed instructions she was used to. "The dressings stay on for forty-eight hours. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for two weeks. And for the love of God, no wrestling for at least a month. That means no 'light sparring' in the living room."

"You're talking to the right person," Sam said, her voice regaining its authoritative edge. "I've already prepared a recovery nest that is basically a high-security prison. He won't see a gym bag until I've signed off on it."

The process of leaving the hospital was a slow, choreographed dance of fragility. Riley felt a strange disconnect between his mind—which was already mentally mapping out his return to the gym—and his body, which protested every single movement with a sharp, insistent reminder of his new geography. As Sam helped him navigate the transition from the bed to the wheelchair, he felt the sudden, jarring reality of his vulnerability. He was a man whose livelihood depended on his ability to take a hit, yet here he was, leaning on a nurse for support just to reach the elevator.

The ride to the car was a blur of grey concrete and the crisp, biting air of the Canadian morning. The wind hit him, and for a moment, the shock of the cold seemed to wake up his nervous system, clearing the last remnants of the surgical haze. Sam drove with a cautious precision, avoiding every pothole as if Riley were made of fine porcelain. He watched the familiar sprawl of the city unfold, the sight of the skyline bringing a sense of normalcy that felt almost alien. He was going home, but he was returning as a slightly different version of himself.

Once inside the house, the "recovery nest" Sam had promised became an immediate reality. She had transformed the living room into a sanctuary of orthopedic pillows, weighted blankets, and a curated mountain of snacks. As she guided him toward the sofa, Riley felt a sudden, sharp pang of gratitude. He looked at the effort she had put into this space—the way the lighting had been dimmed and the remote controls placed within an arm's reach—and felt the weight of her love in a way that felt more tangible than any physical touch.

"Right," Sam announced, her voice returning to that efficient, nursing tone as she helped him settle into the cushions. "Phase one: total immobilization. You are now the King of the Couch. Your only responsibilities are hydrating, sleeping, and telling me if you feel any sudden spikes in temperature. If you even think about a push-up, I’m confiscating your gaming console."

"You'd make a great mom Sammy, because you're already this bossy," Riley murmured, sinking into the plush fabric of the sofa. He let out a long, shuddering exhale as his body finally accepted that the ordeal was over. For the first time since the diagnosis, the silence of the house didn't feel like a countdown to something terrible; it felt like a ceasefire. He looked up at her, the soft light of the living room blurring the edges of the room, and felt a wave of exhaustion that had nothing to do with the surgery and everything to do with the mental marathon of the last month.

Sam didn't argue the point. Instead, she moved with a quiet, practiced grace, arranging a pillow beneath his hips to take the pressure off the surgical site. As she stepped back, she caught his gaze, and the authoritative mask she’d worn since they entered the hospital finally cracked. A single tear escaped and tracked a slow path down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. She just stood there, her shoulders shaking slightly, the weight of her own terror finally catching up to her now that he was safely within their four walls.

Will Ospreay x OC (Aliana Caddel)

Warnings: Language | Moderate Violence

A/N: I only own the OC and idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aliana Caddel, her brunette hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, took a deep breath as she left the bathroom and walked into the adjoining locker room of her boyfriend, United Empire leader and REVPRO Undisputed British World Champion Will Ospreay.

"Well? How do I look?".

Will gazed at his girlfriend. His eyes roamed her ensemble for the evening. An emerald green sparkly top that accentuated her figure and black leather pants that were as sleek as her confidence.

He couldn't help but smile. "You look absolutely stunning," he said, walking over to give her a gentle kiss. "You're going to knock 'em dead out there."

"Really? You don't think it screams, 'I'm in bed with the United Empire?".

Will smirked. "I mean, it is true. You were literally in bed with the leader of the United Empire this morning."

They both laughed, but the lightness of the moment was short-lived. The sound of the crowd grew louder, and the air thick with anticipation as they called a five minute warning before the show started.

"Guess that's my cue," Aliana said, her smile fading slightly.

"Don't be sad. You get to announce me in seven matches time." Will joked, trying to ease the tension.

"Yeah, I'm just nervous," Aliana admitted, fidgeting with the hem of her top.

"You've got this, Al," Will said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You're the best ring announcer out there, and everyone loves you. Keep doing exactly what you're doing. "

Aliana nodded, took one last look in the mirror, and with a deep breath, she left the locker room, her heart racing. She walked down the corridor, the sound of wrestlers warming up echoing through the walls. The energy was palpable, a mix of excitement and tension that only heightened her nerves.

As she approached the gorilla position, the other performers offered her nods and words of encouragement. She felt a warm hand squeeze her shoulder. It was Kyle Fletcher, one of Will's closest allies in the United Empire and one of his beat friends. "You got this, Ali," he said with a reassuring smile. "And if anyone tries anything, you know we've got your back."

The main event of the night was a six-man tag team match, with the United Empire's Will Ospreay and Aussie Open taking on Destination Everywhere and the enigmatic Luke Jacobs The crowd was a sea of faces, a mix of excitement and anticipation, with the occasional boo or cheer piercing the air. Aliana took her place in the centre of the ring, as Kyle and Davis made their entrance first.

"It is now time for the main event of the evening!" Aliana's voice boomed through the arena, steady and confident. The lights flashed in sync with her words.

She'd already announced Destination Everywhere and their surprise partner, Luke Jacobs, which only left the United Empire team.

"Introducing their opponents, first, representing United Empire, they are the REVPRO Tag Team Champions, Aussie Arrow Kyle Fletcher, Dunkzilla Mark Davis, they are Aussie Open." Aliana announced as Kyle and Davis made their way down to the ring.

The crowd roared with excitement as the duo strutted to the ring, pumping their fists and acknowledging the fans. Their entrance music was a mix of heavy rock and electronic beats, a sound that never failed to stir the blood of the audience. Once they were in the ring, Kyle tried to make Aliana laugh, a usual game the Aussie liked to play in an attempt to make her crack up as the silence enveloped the arena.

As soon as Will's music started, the fans erupted into loud cheers and boos.

"And their tag team partner, representing United Empire. From Essex, England, weighing in at 231 pounds, he is the REVPRO Undisputed British Heavyweight Champion, The Commonwealth Kingpin, Will Ospreay".

The arena vibrated with the bass of Will's theme song as he strutted out, the crowd's reaction a deafening mix of cheers and jeers. Aliana's eyes followed him as he made his way down the ramp, his confidence unshaken despite the chaotic reception. She couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. He looked every inch, the champion, his muscles rippling under the lights, his gaze sharp and focused.

Aliana made her way out of the ring, Kyle holding the bottom rope for her.

"Thank you," she murmured, her eyes meeting Will's for a brief second as he climbed in.

The match began, a blur of bodies and flying limbs. The crowd was alive, their cheers, and boos a constant symphony that accompanied every move. Aliana watched with bated breath, her heart in her throat as Will flew through the air, landing moves with a grace that seemed almost superhuman. She knew he was in his element, but she couldn't shake the fear that something could go wrong.

As the action grew more intense, a commotion erupted from the front row. A fan, clearly intoxicated, had decided it was a good idea to lean over the barricade and touch her. Aliana's eyes widened in shock, and before she could react, the fan's hand grazed her arm.

'Hey love, how about it?".

The fan's lecherous voice sent a cold shiver down Aliana's spine. She tried to ignore him, but he was insistent, his hand reaching out again. Suddenly, Will's eyes snapped to the fan, his focus shifting from the match to the disturbance at ringside.

Without missing a beat, Will leapt from the ring, his expression a mask of pure fury. The crowd erupted as he landed a swift, precise kick that sent the unruly fan stumbling back into his seat. Security rushed over to restrain the man, but Will's message was clear: no one messed with his girl.

"You fucking twat. I'll kill you". The fan threatened.

Will was suddenly joined by Davis and Kyle.

"Come and fucking try it. Drunk cunt". Will spat back as security dragged the fan away.

Wills eyes turned to Aliana who was physically shaking almoat frozen in place due to the shock. "You okay?".

Her voice quivered. "Yeah… yeah, I'm okay."

The crowd roared in approval of Will's swift action, their energy swirling around the ring like a tornado. Aliana took a step back, trying to compose herself. The fan's touch had left a slimy feeling on her skin, one she desperately wanted to wash away.

"You sure you're okay?". Will asked his eyes searching hers. The look of concern on his face was palpable.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Aliana lied, a faint tremble in her voice. She didn't want to distract him from the match, but the unwelcome touch had left her feeling violated and unsettled.

"Let's go, mate," Kyle said, grabbing Will's arm and pulling him back towards the ring. "We've got a match to win."

She sent a thankful look to Kyle, who nodded in acknowledgement. The match resumed, but Aliana couldn't shake the feeling of fear that had crept into her bones. Her eyes remained glued to the ring, but her mind was racing. The fan's touch had been a stark reminder of the darker side of the job, the lack of respect and boundaries that sometimes came with fame.

The match grew more intense, with each team trading blows and maneuvers that showcased their individual talents and collective strategies. Will, ever the showman, was pulling out all the stops, pushing himself to the limit to put on a performance that would leave the crowd breathless. Aliana watched him with a mix of admiration and anxiety, her heart in her throat every time he took a risk. The fan's threat unsettled her.

As the match approached its climax, Destination Everywhere and Luke Jacobs began to gain the upper hand. The crowd's anticipation grew to a fever pitch, the tension in the air thick and palpable. Aliana's eyes darted from the action to the timekeeper, the seconds ticking away on the clock. She could see the sweat glistening on Will's forehead, the determination etched into every line of his body as he fought to keep his team in the game.

The fan's touch still lingered in the back of her mind, a sour note in an otherwise exhilarating evening. She took a deep breath, pushing the fear aside and focusing on the task at hand. She had a job to do, and she wouldn't let a drunk fan ruin the moment for the people who had come to see their favourite wrestlers.

The match continued, with the teams going back and forth, each trying to gain the advantage. Aliana's eyes remained glued to the action, her heart pounding in time with the slams and near-pinfalls. The air was electric with tension as the fans on their feet, cheering and chanting for their favorites.

A sudden turn of events saw Will thrown out of the ring, and the fan from earlier was back on his feet, leaning over the barricade again, his eyes gleaming with malice as he jeered at the fallen champion. Aliana's fear spiked, and she took a step towards him, ready to intervene, but Kyle and Davis blocked her path. "You stay here," Kyle murmured firmly. "We've got this."

Their opponents took the opportunity to gang up on Will, raining down punches and kicks. Aliana watched in horror as he struggled to get back to his feet, the taste of fear bitter in her mouth. But Will was made of sterner stuff, and with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the venue, he fought back with a ferocity that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

As the match spilt outside the ring once more, the fan took a step closer to the barricade, his eyes never leaving Aliana. She could feel his gaze on her like a physical weight, and she took a step back, feeling vulnerable and exposed. The smell of sweat and alcohol wafted over from him, making her stomach turn.

The match was a blur of chaos, with wrestlers flying in and out of the ring, the steel steps and barricades becoming extensions of the battleground. Aliana's eyes searched for Will, her heart racing as she watched him fight off his attackers. The fan's leer grew bolder, and she felt his eyes on her like a predator stalking its prey.

But the tide of the match was turning. Will had managed to tag in Davis, and the momentum shifted in their favour. The crowd roared as Davis and Fletcher executed a series of high-impact moves that sent Destination Everywhere reeling. Aliana's fear was slowly replaced with hope as she watched the match unfold, her gaze darting back to the fan every few seconds.

The fan had noticed her vigilance and took every opportunity to taunt her, his words slurred and vile. The bile rose in her throat, but she held her ground, refusing to let him ruin the night for her. The match reached its climax with all six men in the ring, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination.

The fan leaned closer, his hand reaching out again, but this time Kyle saw it and swiftly stepped in, his own hand wrapping around the fan's wrist like a vice. "Not a good idea, mate," he growled, his Australian accent thick with menace.

The fan's smirk faltered, and he took a step back, his bravado waning in the face of the wrestler's unyielding grip. "Get the fuck off me".

The fan's protest was cut short by Kyle's warning glare. Aliana took a shaky breath, her eyes never leaving the man who had dared to touch her. She felt a strange mix of anger and fear bubbling inside her, but she knew she had to stay focused. The match was reaching its peak, and she couldn't let the fan's behavior overshadow the incredible performance unfolding before her.

"It's not my fault she's a prick tease look at her! I bet she's fucking all of you".

The fan's words were slurred and vicious, and the colour drained from Aliana's face. She had never experienced such a direct and personal attack during a show before.

"Take it back," she murmured, her voice trembling.

The fan's eyes narrowed, his grin turning into a sneer. "What'd you say, sweetheart?"

Before he could say another word, Will had scaled the barricade, his eyes ablaze with fury. He didn't bother with moving the railing. Instead, quickly jumping over it, landing in the aisle with a thud that sent a shockwave through the arena. The fan's bravado vanished, his eyes going wide with terror as the reality of his situation set in. Will's hands were around his throat in an instant, lifting him off the ground.

"Come on, big man, say it again. I fucking dare you". Will's grip tightened around the fan's throat, his voice low and dangerous. "You think it's good to touch a woman, do you? How do you fucking like it huh?".

The fan's eyes bulged, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red as he gasped for air. The crowd was silent, every eye in the arena transfixed on the scene unfolding at ringside. Aliana's heart was racing, but she knew she had to intervene before things got out of hand.

"Will let him go".

Her voice cut through the tension like a knife, and for a moment, the fan's eyes flicked from the rage in Will's to the fear in hers. Will's grip loosened, and the fan dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Aliana stepped in, placing a gentle hand on Will's arm. "Please, you're going to get disqualified."

"I don't care," Will said through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the fan's cowering form. "No one talks to you like that."

Aliana's eyes filled with tears, her hand tightening on Will's arm. "Please, Will. For me. Just leave it. Go back to the match"

The words seemed to pierce through Will's rage, and with a final, menacing look at the fan, he leapt back over the barricade and into the ring. The fan stumbled away, his eyes wide with fear and his face red with embarrassment. The match continued, the crowd now more rabid than ever, the energy feeding off the tension at ringside.

Aliana watched as Will dove back into the fight, his movements more precise and calculated than ever. The anger from the fan's touch had fueled him, and he was a force to be reckoned with. The match was a whirlwind of high-flying action and brutal strikes, each move more jaw-dropping than the last.

The fan slithered away, disappearing into the crowd, but Aliana couldn't shake the feeling of unease. She knew he was out there, watching her, waiting for another chance. Kyle and Davis remained at her side, a silent barrier between her and the man who had tried to ruin her night.

The match grew more intense, the moves more daring, and the stakes higher with each passing second. Aliana's eyes were glued to the ring, her heart in her throat as she watched Will, her boyfriend and champion, push his body to the limit. The fan's words echoed in her mind, a dark whisper that threatened to drown out the cheers of the crowd.

Suddenly, Will leapt from the top rope, performing his signature OsCutter, but Michael had anticipated the move and countered with a brutal lariat that sent him crashing to the mat. The crowd gasped, and Aliana's knees buckled slightly. She could see the pain etched on Will's face, and she knew he was in trouble.

"Come on, Will," she murmured, her eyes never leaving the ring. The match had become a battle of wills, each team pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Aliana's heart was in her throat as she watched the fluid dance of muscle and skill unfold before her.

Her eyes darted back to the spot where the fan had been standing, but he was gone, swallowed by the sea of people. The feeling of vulnerability remained, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled spectacle in the ring. The match continued, the thud of bodies on the mat echoing through the venue.

The fan's voice had left a sour taste in her mouth, but she couldn't let it ruin the moment. This was Will's night, and she would be there for him, no matter what. She took a deep breath, pushing the fear down, and focused on the match.

In the ring, the pace had reached a fever pitch. Will had tagged in Kyle, and the crowd was on their feet as the Aussie Arrow went to town on their opponents. Aliana's eyes never left the action, her heart racing with every near fall and close call. The fan's touch had shaken her, but she was determined not to let it overshadow the excitement of the main event.

The match neared its climax, with each team throwing everything they had into their offense. The crowd was a symphony of cheers and boos, their energy pulsing through the air like electricity. Aliana felt the tension in her chest ease slightly as the United Empire gained momentum, the crowd's energy bolstering her own.

But just as it seemed victory was within reach, Luke Jacobs tagged himself in, a sneer on his face as he approached Will, who was already winded from the punishment he'd taken. Jacobs' eyes flicked to Aliana, and she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. He knew what he was doing, playing with the crowd's emotions, and with Will's.

The fan's earlier touch had left her feeling exposed, and now, with Jacobs' knowing smirk, she felt like the target of his sadistic game. But she couldn't let it show. Instead, she leaned forward, her eyes locked on the ring, willing Will to get up, to fight back.

The arena was a cacophony of noise as the match reached its crescendo. Jacobs had Will in a submission hold, the crowd counting along with every desperate escape attempt. Aliana's heart pounded in her chest, her fingers digging into the steel barricade. This was it, the moment that would define the match.

But Will wasn't going down without a fight. With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the venue, he summoned the last of his strength and broke free, tagging in Mark Davis. The crowd erupted as the fresh man of the United Empire charged into the fray, delivering a series of powerful blows that sent their opponents reeling.

Aliana's heart swelled with pride as she watched Will and his teammates work in perfect harmony, their moves a testament to their skill and teamwork. The fan's earlier attempt to unsettle her had backfired; instead, it had only served to make her more determined to support Will.

The match reached its climax, with all six men in the ring, each fighting for their team's victory. The fan was long gone, but the memory of his touch lingered, a stark reminder of the unsavory elements that sometimes came with their line of work.

Aliana's eyes darted to the timekeeper, the minutes ticking away. She could feel the anticipation in the air, a mix of excitement and dread. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, their chants growing louder with each passing second.

"This is it," she murmured to herself, her knuckles white as she gripped the barricade.

The match reached a crescendo, with each wrestler fighting for the pivotal moment that would secure victory. Aliana's eyes darted between Will, Kyle, and Mark, her heart in her throat with every high-flying move and devastating slam. The fan's touch had transformed from a mere annoyance to a white-hot anger that fueled her desire to see the United Empire triumph.

Davis hoisted Connor Mills high in the air, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before he slammed him down with a thunderous powerbomb. The crowd erupted, and Aliana felt a surge of pride as the team she loved so dearly fought with everything they had. Will tagged in, his eyes gleaming with determination, and the match took on a new level of intensity.

The fan's earlier touch was a distant memory now, drowned out by the roar of the crowd and the thunderous impact of bodies colliding in the ring. Aliana's eyes never left Will as he danced around his opponents, his every move a symphony of skill and grace. Her heart was in her throat, her body tense with anticipation.

In the ring, the tide of the match swelled in the United Empire's favor. Will and Aussie Open's seamless coordination was a sight to behold, a stark contrast to the chaos that had almost overwhelmed them earlier. The crowd's energy was a tangible force, lifting the trio higher and pushing them to their limits.

Aliana watched as Will executed a stunning springboard cutter, the crowd erupting in a mix of cheers and gasps. The fan's touch was a distant memory, replaced by the exhilaration of the match's crescendo. Her eyes darted to the timekeeper, the seconds ticking down.

The match reached a fever pitch, with each wrestler fighting for the final pinfall. Aliana's heart was racing, her eyes never leaving the ring as the action unfolded before her. The fan's earlier taunts had only served to make her more determined to see Will and his teammates emerge victorious.

In a flash of speed and precision, Will tagged in Kyle, who immediately climbed the ropes. Aliana's heart raced as he launched himself into the air, his body a perfect arc as he executed a breathtaking 450 splash. The impact was deafening, the crowd's roar a physical force that seemed to propel Kyle even higher. The opponent lay crumpled beneath him, and the referee's hand slapped the mat three times.

The bell rang out, clear and triumphant, and Aliana's knees nearly buckled with relief. The United Empire had won, and the fan's earlier attempt to ruin her night had only made their victory sweeter. The wrestlers in the ring embraced, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the rush of adrenaline and victory.

"Here are your winners, Mark Davis, Kyle Fletcher and Will Ospreay. United Empire".

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar as the trio stood tall in the center of the ring, their hands raised in victory. Aliana's eyes searched for Will, a smile spreading across her face as he turned to the barricade, his eyes finding hers. The look he gave her was one of pure love and triumph, and for a moment, all the tension of the evening melted away.

As the wrestlers made their way backstage, the fan's touch still lingered in the back of Aliana's mind, but she pushed it aside. Tonight was about celebrating Will's victory, about the camaraderie and the sport that she had come to love. She took a deep breath, letting the excitement of the match wash over her.

Backstage, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and victory. The wrestlers were all high-fiving and slapping each other on the back, the adrenaline still pumping through their veins. Aliana searched for Will among the sea of faces, her heart skipping a beat when she finally found him, his chest heaving as he took in deep breaths, a grin spreading across his face as he saw her.

"You okay?". Will asked, his voice gruff with exhaustion as he approached her, his eyes scanning her face for any lingering signs of fear.

"Yeah," Aliana replied, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked. "Thanks to you guys."

"It's nothing Ali". Kyle smiled, Davis mirroring his tag team partner.

"We've always got your back. Come hell or high water". Davis added.

Will pulled her into a tight embrace, his warmth and strength enveloping her. "Don't you ever doubt it," he murmured into her hair.

The warmth of his words and the solidity of his arms around her helped to soothe the lingering fear from the fan's touch. Aliana leaned into him, her head resting on his broad chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. She could feel the tremors of adrenaline slowly subsiding. The couple shared a moment when REVPRO owner and lead commentator Andy Quildan approached, his face a mix of concern and pride.

"Are you two okay?". Andy's voice was filled with genuine concern, and Aliana pulled away from Will's embrace to nod. "Yeah, we're fine."

"You sure?" Andy's question hung in the air as he studied Aliana's face, the concern etched into his features. Will stepped aside, giving her space to speak.

"Yes, thank you," she said, her voice stronger now. "It was just…unexpected."

Andy nodded. "I know this is hard, especially reliving something traumatic, but if you can tell me exactly what happend it'll help when the police get here".

Aliana took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. "It was just before the main event," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "This guy, he was in the front row, had had too much to drink. He kept making comments, and then he reached out and…touched me."

She felt Will tense. "I saw the whole thing," Will said, his voice tight with anger. "I took care of it."

"I saw. What exactly did this bloke say that made you choke him Will?".

"It was nothing, just some drunken shit," Will said, his jaw clenched tightly.

Andy raised his eyebrow. "How long have I known you? What eight years? I think I know you better than that. I know for a fact you don't usually react like that, not without it being something bad".

"He called me a prick tease, propersitioned me and accused me of sleeping with Will, Kyle and Davis". Aliana's voice was small, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Will wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I get fan's pay their money, they can say what they want and if it's calling me anything they want, fine. But that doesn't sit right with me. All Al was doing was her job, she doesn't deserve to be touched, propersitioned or being talked about like that. I know my reaction might not have been the best. It might have been an over reaction and over the top, but my first thought was Al".

Andy nodded solemnly. "I understand, but we can't have this happening at our shows. I'll make sure he's banned for life, and if you want to press charges, I'll support you all the way."

"You're not upset Andy? I thought you'd be pissed and you'd fine me or worse". Will's voice was filled with concern as he looked at Aliana, the events of the night still fresh in their minds.

"Will, you're my champion, but more importantly, she's your girlfriend and a member of our REVPRO family. We protect our own," Andy said firmly, his gaze flicking to Aliana. "And as for you, young lady, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come to me or any of the staff. We're here for you okay."

Aliana felt a weight lift from her shoulders, and she managed a small smile. "Thank you, Andy. I appreciate it."

Andy nodded. "Now, why don't you two go and clean up and head out. Tonight's been very traumatic for you, Aliana. You don't need to deal with any more of this."

The couple made their way to the locker room, the echoes of the match still resonating in their ears. Aliana felt a mix of emotions: fear, anger, and a profound sense of relief. As they stepped into the locker room, the atmosphere was a blend of camaraderie and exhaustion.

"You were amazing out there," she whispered to Will, her eyes shining with pride.

Will kissed the top of her head, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without you."

The locker room was a whirlwind of activity as the wrestlers showered and changed, the adrenaline of the match still palpable. Aliana took a moment to compose herself in the bathroom, the water from the showerhead pounding against the tiles, drowning out the sounds of the locker room. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, the earlier fear replaced with a steely resolve. She looked down at the forming bruise on her arm and sighed. A lingering reminder of what happened.

When she emerged, Will was waiting for her, a concerned look on his face. He pulled her into a gentle embrace, whispering reassurances into her ear. "You okay?"

Aliana nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I just… I don't know why it got to me so much."

"It's not your fault," Will said, his grip on her tightening. "It's those scumbags who think they can do whatever they want just because they pay money to attend shows".

Aliana nodded, taking comfort in his words. "Thank you for standing up for me," she murmured, her voice still shaky.

"Always," Will said fiercely, kissing her forehead. "You're not alone in this."

The locker room grew quieter as the wrestlers finished up and left. Aliana felt a sense of vulnerability wash over her as she and Will remained, the echoes of the night's events still resonating in her mind. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "I know, but I don't want this to affect us, or the team."

Will cupped her cheek gently. "It won't," he assured her. "But we'll deal with it together. You're not alone in this."

Alian nodded as Will softly examined her arm. The red and purple marks from the fan's grip stood out starkly against her skin, a physical reminder of the violation she had felt. Despite the pain, she was more concerned about Will and his team. "What about the main event?" she asked, her voice still trembling slightly.

"Apart from the incident I think it went well. It was Mike who told me to go and check on you. They were just as worried and pissed as I was".

"I know," Aliana said, her voice a little stronger now. "You guys are always looking out for each other".

"The entire roster and crew, we're a family. Like Andy said, you're one of our own".

Aliana felt a warmth spread through her at Will's words. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm just sorry I couldn't keep it together better."

"Don't you dare apologise Al. None of that was your fault. You tried to reamin professional until that fucker started'. Will's eyes searched hers, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. "You're stronger than you think," he said, his voice low and soothing. "And we're all here for you."

Aliana took a deep breath, steeling herself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "I know," she said, a hint of determination in her voice.

Their moment was interrupted when their phones buzzed. Exchanging a look, they both picked up their phones to find a notification from REVPRO's official Twitter account. Tapping on the notification, they were redirected to an official statement.

Unfortunately, tonight's event has been marred by an incident involving a fan and our ring announcer, Aliana Caddel. The individual has been identified and permanently banned from all future REVPRO events, and events of our partners New Japan Pro-Wrestling (NJPW) and Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre (CMLL). We do not condone such behavior and are taking this matter very seriously. Police are investigating and criminal charges will be brought against the fan.

If it wasn't for the quick reactions of our security team, our Undisputed British Heavyweight Champion Will Ospreay, Rev Pro Tag Team Champions Kyle Fletcher and Mark Davis then the situation could have been much worse. Aliana is shaken but okay. Thankfully, she is surrounded by the love and support of the enitre REVPRO family.

While we encourage fan participation in all of our events, we remind everyone that there is a line that should never be crossed. To all our fans, please remember to treat everyone with respect and dignity, regardless of their role or position.

~Andy Quildan ~ RevPro owner and matchmaker ~

Reading the statement, Aliana felt a mix of relief and anger. The fan had not only disrespected her but had also jeopardized her relationship with Will and the entire REVPRO family. She knew that the wrestling community was tight-knit, but the level of support she was receiving was overwhelming. Her eyes filled with tears as she read through the messages of solidarity and love from fans and colleagues alike. She watched as all the REVPRO wrestlers replied in support and retweeted the statement to add their comments.

Michael Oku @THEOJMO: To the unruly fan who thought it was okay to touch @AlianaCaddel tonight, let me make it clear: you're not welcome at REVPRO or in our wrestling community. Your behaviour is disgusting, and we stand by Aliana. To Aliana, you're so strong for handling this. We're with you every step of the way.

Kyle Fletcher @KyleFletcherPro: What happened to @AlianaCaddel tonight is absolutely unacceptable. We're here to entertain, not to be subjected to that kind of treatment. I'm glad she's okay and that scumbag's been banned. We stand together, and no one messes with our family.

Mark Davis @DUNKZILLADavis: To the lowlife who thought he could touch @AlianaCaddel without consequences, you've messed with the wrong one. Our locker room is a family, and we protect our own. I'm glad you're okay, Ali. I am proud to share the ring with you every night.

Alex Windsor @HailWindsor: Sending love and support to the incredible @AlianaCaddel. What happened tonight is despicable. Thank you to @ WillOspreay, @KyleFletcherPro, and @DUNKZILLADavis for protecting her. REVPRO is a family, and we do not tolerate disrespect or assault. #WeStandWithAliana

Francesca Oliver @Franc3sca_mc: As a fellow mc and a woman in professional wrestling, I stand with @AlianaCaddel. No one deserves to be harassed, especially not while doing their job. The wrestling community is a family, and we won't stand for this. Here's to hoping justice is served, and this never happens again.

Luke Jacobs @LukeJacobs00_YG: I despise almost everything the United Empire stands for, except their ring announcer and their chivalry in dealing with this situation. @AlianaCaddel is a queen, and nobody should ever lay a hand on her without her consent. I'll be watching her back if she ever needs it. #RespectWomenInWrestling

Gisele Shaw @GiseleShaw08: What happened to @AlianaCaddel is disgusting. No one should ever have to go through that. Proud of the @RevProUK family for standing up and supporting her. This behaviour is not welcome in our sport. #WrestlingIsRespect

Zoe Lucas @ZoeLucasPro: Sickening to hear what happened to @AlianaCaddel. You're a class act, girl. Don't let one lowlife ruin your night. Here's to the strongest woman in wrestling, both inside and outside the ring. #WeAreAllAliana

Mariah May @MariahMayX: I was there tonight, and I just want to say how much respect I have for @AlianaCaddel. She handled that disgusting fan with such grace. And to @ WillOspreay, @KyleFletcherPro, and @DUNKZILLADavis, you guys are heroes. Thank you for protecting our girl. #WrestlingAgainstHarassment

Jamie Hayter @jmehytr: Can't believe what I just saw. @AlianaCaddel is a queen and should be treated as such. What that fan did was uncalled for and disrespectful. I'm glad she's okay and the right measures are being taken. #WrestlingIsForEveryone

Session Moth Martina @mothfromdaflats: Absolutely horrified to hear about @AlianaCaddel. The ring is no place for that kind of behaviour. You're a legend, Ali, and the whole wrestling world has your back. Stay strong, love from your Irish pal.

Greg Burridge @GregBurridge1: What happened to @AlianaCaddel is a disgrace. As a wrestler and a human being, I'm appalled. Thankfully, the @REVProUK family had her back. Proud to be part of a community that stands against such behaviour. Special shout out to my star student @ WillOspreay for teaching that piece of shit that no one messes with our own. #RespectTheAnnouncers

The outpouring of support was overwhelming, and Aliana felt a newfound strength in the face of the harassment. The wrestling community had rallied around her, and she knew she wasn't alone. Aliana's phone buzzed again with a new response

Will Ospreay @ WillOspreay: Tonight's victory was for you, Al. Proud of how you handled that situation. I don't regret what I did, and I'd always do it again. To the fan who thought it was okay to disrespect @AlianaCaddel, you've made an enemy of the entire wrestling world. We stand with her, and we won't tolerate this. Pray to God I never see you again. #WrestlingIsRespect.

The tweet from Will sent a wave of support through the wrestling community, with fans and wrestlers alike echoing his sentiments. Aliana felt a warmth spread through her, knowing she was surrounded by so much love and protection.

"Thank you, Billy Goat." Aliana smiled softly, feeling a sense of unity and protection from the people she had come to call her wrestling family. She knew that the road ahead would not be easy, especially with the inevitable media storm that would follow. However, with Will and the REVPRO family by her side, she felt more than ready to face whatever was to come.

Will matched her smile. "There's no need to thank me, Al. I've always got your back, and I always will." He kissed her gently. The locker room had emptied out now, leaving them in relative quiet.

"Let's get out of here," Will said, his eyes scanning the locker room before returning to hers. "You've had enough for one night."

Aliana nodded in agreement, feeling drained but also a strange sense of camaraderie. As they exited the building into the cool London night, the reality of the evening's events began to sink in. The fan's touch had left an imprint on her, but the love and protection from her wrestling family had etched an even deeper mark.

The ride home was quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. Aliana's mind replayed the night's events, the fear and the anger, but also the overwhelming support from Will and the others. She knew she had to be strong, not just for herself, but for all the women in the industry who had experienced similar situations.

"Mine or yours?". Will asked as he momentarily took his eyes from the road ahead.

"Yours," Aliana said without hesitation. She didn't want to be alone right now. She needed the comfort and safety of Will's arms around her.

Once they arrived at Will's house, the silence grew heavier, a stark contrast to the chaotic buzz of the venue. Will helped Aliana out of the car, his hand firmly in hers as they made their way inside. The warmth of the house was a welcome reprieve from the cool night air, but it couldn't entirely chase away the lingering sense of unease that clung to her. They were immediately greeted by Will's pugs Norbit and Hagrid. The two little pugs wagged their tails and danced around their legs, eager for attention.

Aliana couldn't help but smile, crouching down to greet them. The dogs' unconditional love and affection helped to ease the tension, if only for a moment. Will watched her with a soft smile, knowing that the pugs had a way of bringing comfort when words couldn't. "They're always happy to see you," he said, stroking Norbit's head.

Once inside, Will led her to the living room, dimming the lights and starting a fire in the hearth. He poured her a glass of wine, and she took it gratefully, the warmth of the liquid spreading through her as she sipped it. They sat together on the couch, the crackling fire casting a gentle glow across the room.

"I'm sorry," Will said again, his voice thick with emotion. "I should've kept a closer eye on you."

Aliana took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the wine and the fireplace seep into her bones. "It's not your fault," she replied, stroking one of the pugs curled up beside her. "I know you guys had a match to focus on. It's not your job to focus on me."

"But you're part of our team too," Will said, his eyes intense. "We protect our own."

Aliana felt a lump form in her throat at his words. "Thank you," she whispered, taking a sip of wine.

Will wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. "We're going to make sure that no one ever tries something like that again."

Aliana leaned into him, the warmth of his embrace providing a much-needed sense of security. She knew that the incident was not something that could easily be forgotten, but the outpouring of support from the wrestling community had given her a newfound strength. "I know. I'm lucky to have you guys. "

For a while, they sat in silence, the only sound being the crackling of the fire and the occasional snore from one of the pugs. Aliana felt the tension slowly draining from her body, the comfort of Will's arms around her like a shield against the outside world.

"So if I'm a part of the team, does that mean I get the United Empire officiation?"

Will chuckled at her attempt at humour, kissing her forehead. "If you want one. I wonder if I can persuade Andy to make you the official United Empire announcer. "

Alina laughed. "You've already got Gideon on commentary, aren't you satisfied?".

"Never. Not until I have full domination of REVPRO," Will teased, his voice rumbling with affection. "But in all seriousness, if you ever want to get more involved, you know we'd have your back."

Aliana's smile grew as she leaned into him, the warmth of his words and the fireplace surrounding her like a blanket. "I might just take you up on that one day."

The conversation drifted to more mundane topics, a welcome distraction from the heavy events of the evening. They talked about the dogs, their families, and their upcoming matches. As the fire burned low, Will suggested they get some rest. He helped her to her feet, and they made their way to the bedroom, the pugs trotting behind them.

In the quiet of the room, with the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains, Aliana felt the weight of the night's events press down on her once more. She turned to Will, her eyes searching his. "Thank you for tonight," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Will brushed a lock of hair from her face, his thumb lingering on her cheek. "You don't have to thank me, Al. You're more than just a team member. You're my everything." He leaned in and kissed her gently, a promise of support and protection in the softness of his touch.

Aliana felt a rush of love and gratitude for Will and the entire REVPRO family. Despite the horror of the night, she knew she was surrounded by people who cared for her deeply. "I know," she murmured, her voice still shaky. "But I do. I can't imagine going through this without you."

They settled into bed, and Will held Aliana close, his arms a protective cocoon around her. Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her as her mind replayed the events of the night. She could still feel the phantom grip of the fan's hand on her arm, the fear and violation that had coursed through her body. Will sensed her tension and whispered soothing words, his gentle strokes on her back trying to coax the anxiety away.

"You know," Aliana said after a long silence, "I never thought something like this would happen to me."

Will's hand paused on her back, his grip tightening briefly before resuming his soothing motions. "It's never okay, Al," he murmured. "But you're not alone. We're all here for you."

Aliana took a deep breath, willing herself to relax into Will's embrace. "What if it happens again?" she asked, her voice small.

"It won't," Will said firmly, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room. "We'll make sure of it."

Aliana nodded, taking comfort in the conviction of his words. She knew that Will and the others would do everything in their power to protect her. The thought was reassuring, but the fear remained, a lingering spectre at the edge of her consciousness.

"I'm just so tired of feeling scared," she whispered. "I love what I do, and I don't want this to change that."

Will's arms tightened around her. "It won't," he said, his voice a mix of reassurance and steel. "We're going to make sure that little fucker gets what's coming to him. And if anyone else tries anything, they'll have to deal with all of us too."

Aliana felt a surge of emotion, her eyes filling with tears. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," Will promised, his voice gruff with emotion. He leaned in and kissed her forehead gently. "Now, try to get some sleep".

Aliana nodded, her eyes drooping with exhaustion. She knew she needed rest, but the thought of facing tomorrow was daunting. The fan's actions had cast a shadow over her love for the sport she had dedicated her life to. As she lay there, her mind racing with thoughts of what the future held, Will remained vigilant, his eyes never leaving hers until she finally drifted off to sleep.

"I love you Al. I promise you I'll never let anything happen to you".

Callum Newman x OC (Sienna Cooper)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the plot

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Callum leaned his head against the chilled plastic of the window frame, watching the wing of the Boeing. He hated flying, not because of the altitude or the turbulence, but because of the way time seemed to liquefy in the cabin, turning a twelve-hour haul into a surreal loop of lukewarm pasta and the rhythmic hum of engines. He shifted his weight, feeling the unfamiliar pull of a muscle in his quad that had been acting up since his final farewell match back home. He was twenty-one, in the best shape of his life, and yet he felt like a fraud pretending to be a professional. Wrestlers twice his senior were still grinding on the UK indies all itching to reach a bigger stage and here he was, handpicked by his mentor Will Ospreay to be his protégé with a spot in the United Empire waiting for him.

The cabin was a sea of dimmed lights and snoring passengers, but Callum couldn’t sleep. He kept glancing at his duffle in the overhead bin, the one packed with his gear and mementos from home. He was "The Prince of Pace" back home, a name earned through lightning-fast transitions and a reckless disregard for his own joints, but as the plane crossed over the Siberian tundra, that title felt small. He was heading toward the Noge Dojo, a place where "pace" was earned through thousand-reps of squats and the grueling patience of a Young Lion.

He'd been dreaming of working for New Japan Pro Wrestling since he was fifteen, but as the flight crossed into its eleventh hour, the glamour had been replaced by a persistent, itching dryness in his sinuses. He found himself staring at the back of the seat in front of him, tracing the worn fabric with his eyes and wondering if he had packed enough grip tape for the first month. Every time the plane dipped, his stomach performed a slow, nauseating roll, a reminder that while he could handle a high-flying 450 splash in a ring, thirty thousand feet of empty air felt like a personal affront. Usually Sienna would distract him with a series of increasingly absurd 'who would win in a fight between' or a shared pair of headphones, but the silence of the cabin only amplified the humming anxiety vibrating in his chest.

He spent the final three hours of the journey in a state of hyper-focused mental rehearsal, visualizing the layout of the Noge Dojo. He knew the stories: the endless repetitions, the scrubbing of mats, the hierarchy that demanded humility before it granted respect. He imagined himself as a ghost in those halls, a British interloper trying to prove he belonged. Every time the flight attendant passed with a tray of water, he felt a sudden, sharp urge to ask if they had any proper tea, then immediately felt foolish for the thought. He was moving across the world to be a warrior, not a tourist, yet the sheer distance of the trip made him feel untethered, as if he were floating in the void between two versions of himself.

The descent into Narita felt like a slow-motion crash. As the wing sliced through a thick, pearlescent layer of clouds, the sprawling grid of Chiba and Tokyo revealed itself, a shimmering motherboard of grey concrete and neon veins. Callum pressed his forehead against the glass, the cold surface shocking his skin. He watched the landscape shift from the deep greens of the Japanese countryside to the dense, suffocating geometry of the city. It was the first time the reality of the contract actually sank in; he wasn't just visiting for a tour, he was relocating his entire life to a city where he didn't speak a word of the language.

The conveyor belt was a slow, rhythmic purgatory of black rubber and slapping luggage. Callum stood among a crowd of exhausted travelers, his eyes scanning the parade of suitcases like a hawk searching for a field mouse. When his gear finally emerged—the heavy-duty duffle bag scarred with duct tape and the oversized suitcase that barely cleared the belt—he felt a sudden, grounding surge of ownership. He lunged for them, the familiar weight of his wrestling boots and knee pads inside the bag acting as an anchor, dragging him out of the clouds and firmly onto Japanese soil. He didn't just carry luggage; he carried his entire professional identity, packed tight in nylon and zippers.

Navigating the terminal felt like learning to walk again. The signage was a dizzying blend of kanji and English, and the air was thick with a polite, focused energy that made Callum feel uncannily loud, despite his silence. He navigated the customs line with a tentative smile and a series of clumsy bows, his heart hammering against his ribs as the officer stamped his passport. That single, ink-heavy thud sounded to Callum like a starting gun. He was no longer a prospect in Essex; he was a foreign entity in the heart of the wrestling world.

The ride to the Noge Dojo was a blur of grey highways and towering billboards. He watched the city unfold through the window of the taxi, the urban sprawl shifting from the sterile efficiency of Narita to the dense, humming chaos of Tokyo. He spent the journey clutching his phone, glancing at the lock screen—a photo of him and Sienna laughing after a show in London—and wondering if the "Prince of Pace" would survive the first week of being a Young Lion. The transition from the luxury of a taxi to the austere reality of the dojo happened in a heartbeat; one moment he was in a climate-controlled bubble, and the next, he was stepping onto a concrete lot that smelled of old sweat and discipline.

The Noge Dojo didn't look like a temple of combat; it looked like a warehouse that had seen a few too many winters. As Callum hauled his suitcases toward the entrance, the silence of the facility was broken by the rhythmic, distant thwack of bodies hitting mats. He stood at the threshold for a moment, his grip tightening on the handles of his bags. The humidity of September clung to his skin, making his shirt stick to his shoulder blades. Pushing open the door he slowly made his way inside.

"Hold the door, for the love of god, it’s actually freezing in here!"

Callum stood in the drafty corridor of the Noge Dojo, clutching the handles of two overstuffed suitcases that felt like they were filled with lead bricks. He wasn’t talking to a person, but rather shouting at the heavy sliding wooden door that had just slammed shut behind him, cutting off the humid September heat of Tokyo. The air inside the dojo smelled of old cedar, liniment, and a century of dried sweat—a scent that managed to be both welcoming and terrifying.

As he stepped further into the cavernous hall, the floorboards groaned under his trainers. Waiting for him, standing with an almost statuesque stillness, was Satoshi Kojima. The veteran looked Callum up and down with an expression that was impossible to read—part professional curiosity, part skepticism. Beside him stood Hiroshi Tanahashi, the "Ace" of New Japan. Tanahashi didn’t look like a man who had spent decades being slammed into turnbuckles; he looked like a movie star who happened to know how to execute a perfect dragon sleeper.

"You’re right on time," Kojima said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. He didn’t offer a handshake, but rather a sharp, discerning nod. "The luggage is too heavy. You’ve packed for a decade, not the dojo."

Tanahashi let out a soft, melodic chuckle, stepping forward to bridge the gap with a warmth that softened the room's intensity. "Ignore him, Callum. Welcome to the madness. I am Tanahashi. We have watched your matches—you have a certain rhythm, a speed that is rare for someone your size. But here, speed is nothing without a foundation. In this dojo, you are not a 'Prince.' You are a student. You will scrub the mats until your fingers bleed, you will cook the rice, and you will learn to fall before you are allowed to fly."

Callum swallowed hard "Understood, Tanahashi-san" he managed, though the weight of the suitcases felt like they were trying to pull him right back into the floorboards. Kojima didn’t wait for a second confirmation; he simply pivoted on his heel and gestured for Callum to follow. They navigated a labyrinth of sliding shoji screens and narrow corridors that smelled of incense and old wood, moving deeper into the heart of the dojo. The silence of the building was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a distant training tool hitting a mat, a sound that felt like a countdown to the hardest months of Callum's life.

"Your life is now divided into three pillars: cleaning, eating, and training. You will wake before the sun to scrub these floors. You will cook and eat what is provided. You will train until you cannot stand. If you fail in one, you fail in all." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the young Brit. "There is no room for 'The Prince' here. There is only the work."

Tanahashi stepped in, leaning against a wooden pillar with a knowing smile. "Kojima-san likes the drama, but the point is simple: you are a Young Lion. Your gear will be plain, your matches will be short, and your ego must be smaller than a grain of rice. You are part of the United Empire, yes, but that is a destination, not a starting line. You will earn the right to wear those colours every single day through sweat and submission."

Callum looked at the sparse layout of the room, the sheer austerity of it making his Essex upbringing feel like a different lifetime. He felt a surge of nerves, but also a spark of excitement. He knew the reputation of the Noge Dojo; it was a forge where the soft edges of a wrestler were hammered away until only the steel remained. The silence that followed Tanahashi’s words was heavy, but not unkind. It was the kind of silence that demanded an answer not in words, but in action.

"The United Empire is a privilege, not a shield," Kojima added, his voice cutting through the stillness. "Will Ospreay may be your mentor, but he is not your protector here. If he sees you slackening in the ring, he will be the first to tell you to start over. In this dojo, the only shortcut is the one that leads you back to the start of your laps."

Callum nodded, feeling the weight of the expectation settle onto his shoulders. He began to unpack his suitcases, carefully folding his few remaining luxuries into the small locker provided. As he tucked away a photograph of Sienna, he realized that the distance between the "Prince of Pace" he was in England and the student he had to become in Tokyo was a gap that could only be closed with grueling work. He wasn't just fighting for a spot on a card anymore; he was fighting to prove he belonged in the same room as the men standing before him.

"Follow me. Up." Kojima’s command was clipped, leaving no room for questions.

By the time they reached the upper landing, Callum was breathing hard, his chest heaving. Kojima stopped abruptly in front of a sliding door that looked barely wider than Callum’s shoulders. With a sharp flick of the wrist, the veteran slid the screen open, revealing a space so compact it felt less like a bedroom and more like a carefully curated storage closet.

"This," Kojima announced, stepping aside to let Callum peer in, "is where you will sleep."

Callum stared. The room consisted of a thin futon laid out on a tatami mat, a small wooden chest for clothes, and a ceiling that seemed to hover just a few inches above where his head would be if he stood fully upright. It was a masterclass in minimalism, bordering on the oppressive. Callum blinked, glancing back at the expansive, echoing hallway they had just left.

"It’s… cozy," Callum ventured, his voice cracking slightly.

Kojima’s lips didn't quite curl into a smile, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "It is the smallest room in the dojo. Tradition dictates it is always reserved for the Gaijin—the outsider. It is designed to remind you that you are a guest in this country and a novice in this ring. If you can find peace in a space this small, you will find focus in the center of the ring."

"This room has housed Gaijin's like Devitt, White, Tonga and HENARE," Kojima added, his voice softening just a fraction as he stepped back to let Callum enter. "They all complained about the size. Every single one of them. And every one of them became a monster because they stopped looking at the walls and started looking at the target."

Callum stepped inside, the tatami mats giving a muted, organic crunch under his trainers. He felt like a giant in a dollhouse; if he stretched his arms out, he could practically touch both walls without leaning. It was a humbling geometry, a physical manifestation of his new rank. He looked at the thin futon and then back at the door, realizing that for the first time in his life, he had absolutely nowhere to hide. There was no space for procrastination in a room this small.

"Enjoy your last day of peace, kid. Tomorrow, the screaming starts. 5am".

"Right, let's see if I can actually fit all this in here without creating a landslide," Callum muttered, his voice echoing oddly in the cramped space. He knelt on the tatami, the scent of woven grass mixing with the lingering metallic tang of the dojo's gym equipment. He started with the essentials—the black trunks, the wrist wraps, the spare boots—tucking them into the small wooden chest with a precision that bordered on obsessive. The chest was barely deep enough for his gear, and he realized with a start that his life in Tokyo was now measured in centimeters.

He reached into the side pocket of his suitcase and pulled out a small, leather-bound album and a handful of loose polaroids. He paused, the silence of the room suddenly feeling less like a challenge and more like a sanctuary. He picked up a photo of himself and Sienna from last summer in Essex; she was laughing, her arm slung over his shoulder, her "Badass Blade" persona replaced by a wide, genuine grin that always made his chest feel tight. Beside it was a shot of his parents and brothers, all squinting against the English sun during a seaside trip, looking proud and terrified all at once. He carefully balanced the photos on the edge of the wooden chest. Looking at them, the distance between the Essex coast and the heart of Tokyo felt like a physical weight, but seeing Sienna's face reminded him why he had endured the flight and the frosty welcome from Kojima.

"If you can fit a giraffe in a shoebox, you can fit a career in a closet."

That was the internal mantra Callum used as he stared at the sheer volume of his belongings compared to the square footage of the room. He was currently playing a high-stakes game of Tetris with a gym bag and a winter coat, realizing that his ambition in packing had been vastly overestimated. He reached for his phone, the screen illuminating the dim room, and snapped a wide-angle photo of the space—essentially a wooden cube with a mattress—and sent it to Sienna.

Callum: Is the offer of storing some of my crap at your place still on the table?

He didn't even have to wait ten seconds. His phone buzzed with a level of confidence that only Sienna Cooper possessed.

Si (Mrs) 👑💜⚔️: Jesus Christ! I'm getting claustrophobic just looking at that photo. Please tell me you're not actually sleeping in a glorified pantry.

Callum stared at the screen, then looked back at the four walls that seemed to be inching closer every time he blinked. He hadn't even mentioned the dimensions, but Sienna had an uncanny ability to sniff out a struggle from three wards away.

Si (Mrs) 👑💜⚔️: You’ve been given the Gaijin room, haven't you? The legendary 'Wooden Box of Humility.' I’ve heard the horror stories from the other Brits. Course my offer still stands, babe. I'll swing by after the show and grab the stuff you can't possibly fit in that cupboard of a bedroom.

Callum let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a small, relieved laugh escaping him. He leaned back against the wall—which required him to lean exactly four inches—and felt a sudden, sharp longing for her presence. He could almost hear the smugness in her tone, the way she’d be smirking as she typed that. She was already established in the Tokyo scene with STARDOM, a seasoned vet in the eyes of a newcomer, and she knew exactly how the NJPW machine ground down its young lions.

Callum: You're the best Si. Thanks darlin. Love you.

Si (Mrs) 👑💜⚔️: Love you too, loser. See you in a few hours! 💋

The final battle was the winter coat. It was a heavy, fleece-lined beast of a thing that seemed to possess its own gravitational pull, stubbornly resisting the vacuum-seal bag Callum had shoved it into. He wrestled with the plastic, his face flushing a deep red as he fought to squeeze the last bit of air out, eventually rolling the bag into a tight, dense cylinder that looked more like a piece of industrial piping than outerwear. With a triumphant grunt, he slid it under the futon, effectively turning his bed into a slightly elevated platform. He stepped back—or rather, shifted his weight two inches to the left—and surveyed the result. It was a miracle of spatial engineering; his life was now compressed into a series of neat piles and strategic gaps, leaving just enough room for him to lie flat without hitting a wall.

He had just reached for the polaroids to secure them to the wall with a bit of tape when a sharp, rhythmic rapping sounded against the sliding door. It wasn't the heavy, authoritative thud of Kojima, but something faster, more energetic.

"Oi, kid! You still breathing in there, or has the room finally swallowed you whole?"

Callum recognized the voice instantly. It was a high-voltage blend of confidence and mischief that could only belong to Will Ospreay. Callum slid the door open, and Will practically spilled into the room, his presence alone making the tiny space feel like it had shrunk by another twenty percent. Will was dressed in a sharp, stylized track jacket, looking every bit the modern face of the United Empire, and he looked at Callum’s meticulously packed corner with a raised eyebrow.

"Fuck me lil bro, it’s like a fucking shoebox, innit" Will exclaimed, leaning against the doorframe because there simply wasn't enough room for him to actually enter. He looked at the vacuum-sealed coat under the futon and let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Proper start, that. Kojima’s got you in the 'Box of Humility.' Welcome to the real world, Cal. Hope you’re ready for the ego-death, because the NJPW machine doesn't care how many matches you won back home."

Callum smiled, feeling the tension in his shoulders dip. Will had a way of making the daunting nature of the situation feel like an inside joke. "I think I've got the humility part sorted," Callum replied, gesturing to the three-inch gap between his shoulder and the wall. "I'm currently calculating if I can actually turn around without knocking over my gear."

"At least when we hit the road you'll actually have a bigger hotel room," Will joked, finally stepping back into the corridor to give Callum some breathing room. "Right, enough moping about your square footage. The rest of the Empire are waiting in the lounge. Come on, let's get you properly introduced to the lot of 'em before the dojo masters decide you need another five hours of floor-scrubbing as a welcome gift."

Callum followed Will through the labyrinthine hallways, his footsteps sounding lighter now that the suitcases were dealt with. As they entered the wider common area, the atmosphere shifted. The austere silence of the dojo was replaced by the low hum of conversation and the smell of strong coffee. Three men were lounged across the low tables: the powerhouse presence of Great-O-Khan, the towering, imposing figure of HENARE, the assessing gaze of TJP and Francesco Akira.

They didn't stand immediately; they didn't have to. In the United Empire, respect wasn't given—it was a currency you earned in the ring. They looked at Callum—slight of build but lean and coiled like a spring—with a mixture of curiosity and professional detachment.

"Ease up boys, he’s barely been in the country twenty-four hours yet," Will joked, clapping a hand on Callum’s shoulder and steering him toward the center of the room. "Meet the new addition to the chaos The Prince of Pace, Callum Newman."

Great-O-Khan was the first to speak, his voice a refined, haughty drawl. He didn't move from his seated position, merely tilting his head to study Callum like a piece of art he wasn't quite sure he wanted to purchase. "The Prince of Pace," Khan repeated, the words tasting like a mild insult. "A bold title for someone who has yet to survive a single week of the Young Lion diet. I hope your speed translates to the ring, boy, and not just to running away from your responsibilities."

Callum felt a flicker of the old Essex spark—the urge to snap back—but he remembered Tanahashi’s words about the grain of rice. He bowed, a sharp, precise movement that he’d practiced in the mirror for three days before leaving England. "Honoured to be here, Khan-san. I'll let my work do the talking."

Khan’s eyebrows climbed a fraction of an inch higher. He didn't smile, but the sharpness of his gaze softened into something resembling approval. He gave a singular, slow nod, shifting his weight to lean back against the cushions. "At least he knows how to bow. That’s more than I can say for some of the others who’ve cycled through this dojo."

HENARE let out a low, rumbling chuckle that seemed to vibrate in his chest. He stood up, his massive frame momentarily blotting out the light from the nearby window. He stepped forward and extended a hand that looked like it could crush a bowling ball, gripping Callum’s shoulder with a firm, grounding pressure. "Don't let him intimidate you kid. Khan just likes the sound of his own voice. Welcome to the madness."

The greeting was brief and efficient, the kind of camaraderie that existed in a group of men who spent their lives hitting each other for a living. They didn't offer a tour or a welcoming banquet; instead, they gave him the silent acknowledgment that he was, for the moment, acceptable. Will Ospreay, sensing the tension was reaching a comfortable plateau, stepped back into the center of the group, his energy shifting back to the high-gear enthusiasm that defined him.

"Right then!" Will announced, his voice bouncing off the cedar beams. "Enough with the formal bits. We’ve got a schedule to keep and a certain someone who’s probably wondering why her boyfriend hasn't texted her back in the last ten minutes. Let's get moving. We’re heading over to the STARDOM show."

Callum felt a sudden electric jolt of adrenaline. He had been in Tokyo for less than a day, and the disorientation of the dojo was still clinging to him like a layer of dust, but the mention of the show snapped everything into focus. He hadn't seen Sienna in person since she'd said goodbye to him at Heathrow three weeks ago when she'd left for her latest tour. Over the last year they'd been use to the logistics of a long distance relationship. The endless FaceTime calls and time-zone math were a chore, but the thought of actually standing in the same room as her again made the tight chest of the "Box of Humility" feel like a distant memory.

The ride to the venue was a chaotic blur of Japanese traffic and Will’s relentless commentary on the current state of the heavyweight division. The other members of the United Empire settled into a comfortable, quiet rhythm, the silence of the car acting as a buffer against the growing noise of the city outside. As they approached the venue, the street was already pulsing with fans, the air thick with the sound of chanting and the rhythmic beat of drums. It was a sensory assault that reminded Callum that while the dojo was a sanctuary of discipline, the ring was a place of war.

The venue was a cavern of noise and neon, the air inside thick with the scent of popcorn, expensive perfume, and the electric anticipation of a crowd that treated professional wrestling like a religious experience. Callum followed the United Empire through the backstage maze, his eyes wide as he navigated the narrow corridors lined with taped-up mirrors and racks of glittering sequins. Even as a newcomer, the energy here was different from the halls back home; it was a focused, high-tension vibration that made the hair on his arms stand up.

"Stay close, kid," Will cautioned, though he was barely walking, instead bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he were already in the ring. "STARDOM backstage is a different beast entirely. Half the locker room is pure gold, and the other half would probably kick your teeth in if you looked at them wrong. Just keep your head down until we find the Venus girls."

"Too late for 'head down' with you, isn't it, Billy boy?" a sharp, feminine voice cut through the noise.

Callum froze, the sound hitting him like a physical impact. He turned to see a woman leaning against a stack of equipment trunks, her arms crossed over an oversized hoodie that caught every flicker of the overhead fluorescent lights. It was Sienna. Up close, the "Badass Blade" persona was in full effect; her eyes were lined with aggressive, winged liner, and her expression was one of practiced, regal boredom. But as her gaze shifted from Will to Callum, the mask didn't just slip—it vanished.

The "Badass Blade" didn’t just step forward; she detonated. In one fluid, explosive motion, Sienna launched herself from the equipment trunks, her purple oversized hoodie billowing around her like a comet’s tail. She hit Callum with the force of a spear, her arms wrapping around his neck and her legs locking around his waist before he could even blink. The impact sent him stumbling backward, his heels skidding on the concrete floor, but he caught her with a grunt of effort, his muscles locking as he hoisted her high. For a moment, the "Prince of Pace" was just a human pedestal for the most dangerous woman in the room.

Sienna squeezed him tight, burying her face in the crook of his neck and letting out a muffled, joyful shriek that completely contradicted the intimidating image she’d cultivated for the crowd. "You actually made it! You’re actually here!" she exclaimed, pulling back just enough to pepper his face with quick, frantic kisses. Callum laughed, the sound breathless and genuine, feeling the tension of the last twenty-four hours—the freezing corridors, the terrifying gaze of Kojima, and the claustrophobia of the wooden box—simply evaporate.

"Guess you missed me huh?" Callum managed to choke out, his voice muffled by her hoodie. He tightened his grip on her, feeling the familiar, grounding presence of her against him. The chaos of the STARDOM backstage—the shouting referees, the frantic producers, the distant roar of the crowd—faded into a dull hum. For the first time since landing at Narita airport, the air felt like it was actually reaching his lungs.

Sienna finally slid down, though she kept her arms looped firmly around his neck, her eyes scanning his face with a protective intensity. "You look exhausted," she noted, her voice softening from her ring-persona snarl. "Did Kojima already put you through the wringer? Or did you just spend six hours trying to figure out how to fold a t-shirt in a room the size of a shoebox?"

Callum let out a huff of laughter, leaning his forehead against hers. "He didn't even let me unpack before telling me I was a guest in a country that wanted me to suffer. And the room… Si, it’s a cupboard. I’m pretty sure I’m officially living in a piece of IKEA furniture."

Sienna beamed, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and pride. She reached up to ruffle his hair, a gesture that would have earned her a glare from any other wrestler in the building, but Callum just leaned into it. "The Gaijin room. Classic. Every legend who ever set foot in that dojo started by questioning their life choices in that little box. It’s a rite of passage, Cal. Now you just have to survive the 'morning screams' without crying into your rice."

"Morning screams? Please tell me that's a figure of speech," Callum muttered, though the way Will Ospreay was already grinning told him exactly how literal it was.

Sienna laughed, finally letting him breathe as she stepped back, though she kept a possessive hand locked around his forearm. She looked him over—really looked over him—noting the slight tremor in his hands and the way he seemed to have shrunk a few inches under the weight of the NJPW expectation. "You've got that look, Cal. The 'I've seen the abyss and the abyss told me to scrub the floors' look. It's cute. It suits you."

"Cute? I'm a professional athlete, not a golden retriever," Callum joked, though he didn't pull his arm away. The warmth of her hand was the only thing keeping him anchored in the whirlwind of the backstage area.

Sienna gave his arm a playful squeeze, her eyes glancing over toward Will and the rest of the United Empire. The group had paused a few feet away, watching the reunion with varying degrees of amusement. "Right, enough of the mushy shit," Will called out, checking his watch with a flourish. "Si, you've got a match in twenty".

"I hate him so much". Sienna shot Will a look of pure venom, though the corners of her mouth were twitching. She didn't let go of Callum’s arm, instead pulling him closer as she began to pace in a small, tight circle, a pre-match ritual that looked more like a predator pacing its cage than a warm-up.

"Twenty minutes. Just enough time for me to get my head right and for Callum to tell me exactly how much of his luggage is currently acting as a mattress."

Callum laughed, the sound feeling lighter than anything he’d experienced since landing. "It's a very supportive mattress, Si. Very firm. Great for the lower back."

Sienna laughed. "Well just remember you survive and graduate the dojo, there's a proper bed, decent sized apartment and me waiting for you".

"That sounds fucking incredible right now," Callum admitted, his voice dropping as he leaned in. He felt the familiar electric current that always hummed between them, a grounding force that made the looming shadow of the Noge Dojo feel less like a death sentence and more like a challenge. He didn’t want to let go, but the backstage environment was shifting; the distant roar of the crowd was peaking, and the atmosphere was tightening like a pulled drawstring.

Sienna stepped back, her expression snapping back into the "Badass Blade" mask with a precision that always fascinated him. The softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. She wasn’t just a wrestler; she was an athlete who treated the ring as a canvas for violence. "Stay right here," she commanded, though the tone was playful. "Watch from the curtain. See how it’s done Newman. Maybe you’ll pick up a few tips on how to actually handle a crowd."

"Cheeky brat," Callum murmured, though he stepped back and leaned against the cold concrete wall, crossing his arms. He watched as Sienna stepped away, her walk transforming from a casual stroll into a predatory glide. She didn’t look back, her focus already locked onto the curtain. The transition was jarring; one moment she was the girl who teased him about his luggage, and the next, she was a weapon of the STARDOM ring.

Will Ospreay leaned in next to him, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You two never change, do you? Absolute chaos." He gestured toward the curtain, where the muffled bass of the arena speakers began to thump, vibrating through the floorboards and into the soles of Callum's shoes.

"I knew you two would be trouble together, ever since I met you at your seminar when you were both fifteen. You've been giving me shit ever since". Will shook his head but the smile never left his face. The expression of a proud parent watching a train wreck.

Callum shrugged. "You were the one that convinced our parents not to let us quit after. Everything after that is your fault".

/*/

Sienna basked in the applause from the Japanese fans as she and Club Venus stablemate Mina Shirakawa celebrated their victory, but the moment the curtain fell behind them, the "Badass Blade" dissolved. The adrenaline of the match was still humming in her veins, leaving her breathless and glistening with sweat, but her eyes were scanning the backstage corridor with a desperate, focused hunger. She didn't stop to celebrate with the rest of the locker room; instead, she tore through the chaos of the backstage area like a storm, ignoring the nods of respect from passing veterans, her priority shifted entirely from the win to the boy leaning against the concrete wall.

Callum hadn't moved an inch. He had watched her match from the curtain, mesmerized by the way she controlled the ring—a blur of purple and aggression that seemed to command the very air around her. When she finally spotted him, she didn't walk; she sprinted, sliding across the floor on her heels before colliding with him in a second, less explosive but more lingering embrace. She smelled of vanilla, hairspray, and the salt of a hard-fought win, a combination that felt more like home than any room in Tokyo.

"You did fucking amazing Si". Callum breathed the words into her shoulder, his arms locked around her as if he were trying to fuse their center of gravity. The roar of the crowd was still echoing through the concrete tunnels, a distant thunder that felt worlds away from the quiet intensity of their embrace. Sienna didn't pull away immediately; she let her head rest against his chest, her chest heaving with the remnants of her match-tempo breathing. The "Badass Blade" had retreated, leaving behind a girl who looked at Callum with a softness that would have shocked her opponents.

"Of course I did," she whispered, though there was no arrogance in it, only a tired, genuine warmth. She finally stepped back, her eyes scanning his face as if checking for any new bruises the dojo might have inflicted in the last hour. "I bet you're starving aren't you? Let me get changed, grab my shit and we can go eat or I can cook you something that isn't a bowl of white rice and a prayer."

Callum chuckled. "Relax Si. I'm good with anything. I'll stay here, you get changed and grab your stuff. I'm not going anywhere."

Sienna gave his cheek a quick, lingering squeeze before disappearing into the locker room. As she left, Callum felt the sudden return of the surrounding noise. The backstage area was a hive of activity; wrestlers were cooling down, producers were shouting directions for the next block, and the United Empire were lingering nearby, watching the exchange with varied expressions.

Sienna didn't just walk to the Club Venus locker room; she navigated the backstage chaos with the focused precision of a soldier returning to base. The air in the corridor was thick with the static of a closing show, but as she slid the door shut behind her, the noise of the arena collapsed into a sudden, muffled silence. The locker room was a sanctuary of velvet, glitter, and the sharp, sterile scent of rubbing alcohol. It was a space designed for the transition from goddess of the ring to a human being, and Sienna moved through it with a practiced, frantic efficiency.

She peeled off her ring gear—the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to her skin like a second skin—and tossed the gear into a mesh laundry bag with a satisfying thump. There was no hesitation in her movements; she had mastered the art of the "two-minute transition," a skill born from years of juggling tight television schedules and unexpected wardrobe malfunctions. She stepped into a steaming shower for thirty seconds—just enough to rinse the salt and grit from her shoulders—before sliding into a pair of oversized cargo pants and a cropped black t-shirt. She swept her hair back into a loose, messy bun, wiping away the remnants of her aggressive winged liner with a damp cloth, effectively scrubbing the "Badass Blade" away and leaving only Sienna.

"Slow down Sienna. Where are you rushing off too?". Xia Brookside’s voice drifted over the top of a makeup mirror, the fellow Brit leaning back in her chair with a knowing smirk. She had been watching Sienna’s frantic transition with the sort of amusement only a teammate could manage.

Sienna didn't even look back as she snatched her phone from the vanity, her movements a blurred sequence of efficiency. "I've got a date".

"I take it Callum's arrived safely then". Mariah May added, her voice dripping with a playful irony as she leaned against the lockers. She watched Sienna practically vibrate with anticipation, the focused intensity that usually went into a high-angle suplex now being channeled into the frantic search for a clean pair of socks.

"It's cute seeing you all in love and shit". Mariah grinned, though she was already stepping out of the way as Sienna zoomed past her, nearly knocking over a rack of sequined robes. Sienna didn’t offer a retort.

"Who's Callum?". Mina Shirakawa asked with a playful lilt, though she already knew the answer, her eyes tracking Sienna’s whirlwind movements.

Sienna didn’t answer with words; she answered with the sound of a zipper being yanked shut with violent speed. She was a blur of motion, her muscle memory taking over as she shed the persona of a combatant and stepped back into the role of a girlfriend.

"The love of her life and the United Empire's new young lion," Xia answered for her, laughing as the locker room door swung shut behind Sienna's whirlwind exit. "And if we’re lucky, he might actually be the only person in this building who can keep her from accidentally burning down a building when she's in a mood."

"Bye guys". Sienna shouted over her shoulder, her voice trailing off as she burst back into the corridor. She didn't just walk toward Callum; she practically lunged, sliding into his space and hooking her arm firmly around his. The shift in her energy was palpable—the predatory focus of the match had been replaced by a restless, humming excitement. She looked up at him, her eyes scanning the tired lines of his face with a softness that would have made her STARDOM rivals scoff. "Right. Operation: Feed the Starving Young Lion is officially in effect."

Callum felt the tension in his chest finally unravel as she leaned into him, her warmth radiating through his clothes. "I'm not that starving," he lied, his stomach betraying him with a loud, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet of the hallway.

"Right, like I believe that. Anyway, my apartments not far away. We can grab your other suitcase from the dojo, eat at mine and can give you some of my vast knowledge that'll help you in the dojo. Don't worry, I'll get you back to the dojo before you turn into a pumpkin".

Callum felt the familiar pull of her energy, a magnetic force that made the exhaustion of the last few days feel manageable. As the group made their way back to the transport, Will Ospreay caught Callum’s eye, giving him a knowing wink. The United Empire members were an eclectic mix of egos and intensities, but in moments like this, there was a silent, professional understanding. They knew the toll the NJPW system took on a newcomer; having a tether to something human—something that didn't involve scrubbing floors or taking bumps—was the only way to survive the first few months.

The second suitcase had become a third member of their party, an awkward, oversized plastic monolith that Callum had to lug up the stairs of Sienna’s apartment complex like a piece of salvaged wreckage. It was stuffed with the remnants of his Essex life—the heavy hoodies and winter clothes that made no sense in the humid Tokyo air—and as he heaved it over the threshold, the suitcase let out a heavy, definitive thud that seemed to echo the finality of his move. He stood in the entryway, breathless and slightly sweaty, staring at the suitcase as if it were a foreign object.

"Careful with that, or it'll take out the skirting boards," Sienna teased, stepping back to give him room. She didn't wait for him to settle; she practically danced around him, her energy still humming from the match, and guided him into the living space.

"Right, I'll put this in the bedroom, make yourself at home," Sienna said, but she didn't let him actually move. She leaned her weight against him, effectively pinning him to the doorframe for a moment while she looked at him with a playful, assessing squint. "You've got that look again. The 'I'm not sure where to put my hands because I'm in a girl's flat' look. Relax, Cal. It's just me, not a royal audience."

Callum laughed, finally shifting the heavy suitcase into the hallway. The apartment was a curated blend of chaos and comfort; a few stray wrestling magazines lay on a low table next to a meticulously organized set of skincare products, and a single, oversized beanbag chair dominated the corner of the room. It smelled faintly of jasmine and old gym bags—a scent that, to him, was more comforting than any five-star hotel. He let the suitcase slide against the wall, the sound of the plastic hitting the floorboards signaling the end of his transit. For the first time in forty-eight hours, he wasn't in a corridor, a car, or a wooden box; he was in a place where he was allowed to simply exist.

The first thing he immediately noticed was Sienna had finally got around to hanging some pictures. The last time, when he'd visited to tell her about the United Empire young lion offer, they'd been stacked on the floor propped up near the wall. Now, a few candid shots of the two of them in England were taped haphazardly to the wall above the kitchen counter—grainy, laughing photos from a rainy day in Southend. It was a small, domestic detail, but it hit Callum with a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness that was instantly softened by the presence of the girl currently humming a pop song while rummaging through her fridge.

"Right, the menu tonight is 'Whatever is in the freezer that doesn't look like a science experiment,'" she announced, pulling out a small package of frozen gyoza and some pre-cut vegetables. She didn't ask him to help; she knew he was essentially a ghost in the room right now, still processing the transition from the rigid, military silence of the Noge Dojo to the lived-in warmth of her sanctuary. She moved through the kitchen with a casual, rhythmic confidence, the "Badass Blade" completely replaced by the girl who used to steal his hoodies and argue about who was better at Mario Kart.

"You've put up some pictures," Callum noted, his voice sounding small even to him as he drifted toward the counter. He reached out, his finger hovering just inches from a photo of them at a pier in Essex, both of them drenched in rain and grinning like idiots. The contrast was staggering; in that photo, he was a teenager with a dream, and now he was a professional in the most prestigious dojo in the world, yet he felt exactly the same—utterly out of his depth.

Sienna paused, a handful of gyoza mid-air, and looked at him. The teasing glint in her eyes softened. "Thought the place needed a bit of home. Besides, if I had to look at these white walls any longer, I’d have started painting murals of my opponents being pinned." She stepped closer, leaning her hip against the counter, the domesticity of the moment grounding them both. "Plus Jess gave me some of Blake and Libby's drawings to put on the fridge. I couldn't be that mean to my sister, nephew and niece."

Callum let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "It’s just… everything is so fast, Si. One minute I’m in the box, and the next I’m here, and I feel like I’m still waiting for someone to tell me I’m in the wrong room." He looked around the small apartment, the dim, warm lighting a stark contrast to the fluorescent glare of the dojo. "The silence at the dojo is different. It’s a heavy silence. Here, it’s actually quiet."

"Okay, talk to me," Sienna said, her voice dropping into a gentle, attentive register as she stepped toward him. "You look like you're still waiting for a coach to scream at you for standing still. Tell me what's nagging you".

Callum leaned back against the counter, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. "It’s the feeling of being a guest," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kojima didn't just tell me I was a guest in Japan; he made me feel like I was trespassing on a sacred ground. Every time I move, I feel like I’m breaking a rule I haven’t even learned yet. Then I walk into the lounge and I’m the 'Prince of Pace' to Will, but to Khan, I’m just another kid who might be too loud for his own good. I feel like I’m constantly switching channels between being a professional and being a complete idiot."

Sienna didn't interrupt. She didn't offer a platitude or tell him it would be fine. Instead, she stepped into his space, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his chest. She knew the psychological grind of the Japanese system; she’d navigated the pressures of STARDOM, where the expectation of perfection was just as suffocating as the discipline of the dojo. "That's because you're trying to solve the puzzle all at once, Cal," she murmured. "You aren't supposed to fit in yet. The dojo isn't designed to make you feel comfortable; it's designed to strip you down so they can build you back up into whatever they want. Just stop trying to be the 'Prince' for a few hours. Be the idiot. Be the guest. Just be here."

"O-Khan and HENARE were both Young Lions. They've been in a similar position. Granted, yours is a bit different, but don't be afraid to pick their brain," Sienna added, stepping back to let the gyoza sizzle in the pan. The rhythmic hiss of the food hitting the hot oil filled the silence, a comforting, domestic soundtrack that anchored Callum to the present. He watched her move, the way she navigated her small kitchen with an ease that made the space feel expansive. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine this as his permanent reality—no shared dorms, no morning screams, just the smell of searing dumplings and the sound of Sienna’s voice.

"The 'brain-picking' part is the tricky bit," Callum admitted, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. "I think if I ask Khan too many questions, he'll just tell me to go scrub a toilet with a toothbrush." He leaned over the counter, watching the steam rise. "Though, to be fair, I’ve seen the toilets in the dojo. They’re probably the most technologically advanced things in the building. I spent ten minutes accidentally triggering a melody that sounded like a rainforest symphony."

Sienna laughed. "He won't. O-Khan may look intimidating, but he's got a heart of gold uunderneath it all. I remember when he was on excursion at RevPro, the guy couldn't navigate himself from the tube to the venue for the first two months. He's just as much of a fish out of water as you are; he just learned how to pretend he's the ocean."

She slid the steaming gyoza onto two small ceramic plates and pushed one toward him. As Callum sat at the small dining table, the food tasting like the most luxurious meal he’d ever encountered, the conversation drifted toward the logistics of his new life. He told her about the shared responsibility of the dojo chores and the terrifyingly precise way the veterans looked at his posture. He spoke about the weight of the United Empire's expectations, and how Will’s confidence in him felt like both a lifeline and a heavy anchor. After they'd eaten Sienna produced a green bound notebook and pen, sliding them towards Callum.

"Now, school's in session," Sienna said, leaning her chin on her hand and looking at him with a playful, academic intensity. "Since I've already survived the 'foreigner's gauntlet' in STARDOM, I'm going to give you the cheat codes. The dojo is a game of observation. If you're always looking, you'll notice when the mood shifts before the veteran even opens his mouth to yell."

Callum looked at the blank green pages of the notebook, then back at her. "Cheat codes? I thought the whole point was to suffer until I'm a shell of a man."

"Like I'd let you suffer when I can help. Right part one, dojo chores. Okay, so you'll be told to clean everything, carry your senpai's bags, do laundry and cook for the group. The trick isn't doing it fast—it's doing it right the first time. If you do it fast but mess up, you'll do it three more times. If you do it slow but perfect, they leave you alone," Sienna explained, her voice dropping into a focused, instructional tone. She began sketching a rough diagram of a typical dojo layout in the notebook. "And for the love of god, Cal, don't ever let them catch you complaining about the food. Even if it's just plain rice and fermented beans, you eat it like it's a Michelin-star meal. Gratitude is the only currency they value more than a good dropkick."

Callum scribbled the notes down, the scratch of the pen the only sound in the room. He felt a strange sense of clarity. In the dojo, he was a Young Lion—a blank slate designed to be molded. But here, in this small apartment, he was just Callum. He looked at the way Sienna's brow furrowed in concentration, the way she was treating his transition as a tactical mission. It made the overwhelming nature of the NJPW system feel like a series of levels to be beaten rather than a mountain he was expected to climb without a map.

"The thing you'll be eating the most is chonka. It's a cross between a hotpot and stew. Full of chicken, proteins, vegetables and broth. It's essentially designed to make you gain mass. It's how sumo wrestlers get their size. It's a bit of a shock at first but you'll grow to love it. Trust me," Sienna added, her pen circling a keyword in his notes. "Actually, just eat everything they give you. If you're not constantly full, you're not training hard enough."

Callum looked at the scribbles in the notebook, the same ink still wet on the page. "And how do you cook it?".

Sienna grinned. "Look at the back pages of the the book. I put the recipe in it. I've also put instructions on how to do laundry and use the dojo's washers and dryers without shrinking your gear into doll clothes. Trust me, there is nothing more humiliating than a veteran seeing you in a pair of tights that only reach your mid-calf because you used the 'high heat' setting."

Callum flipped through the notebook, finding the meticulously handwritten instructions. It felt like he was being handed a survival manual for a war zone, but the warmth of the room and the presence of the girl beside him made the prospect feel less like a struggle and more like a shared secret. He looked at her, really looked at her, and realized how much she had grown since they first started their journeys. She had navigated the complexities of the Japanese wrestling landscape with a grit and grace that he could only hope to emulate.

"Okay, section two, touring. The roster is divided into your heel units and face units. Both travel on different buses," Sienna continued, her finger tracing a line on the page. "The etiquette on the bus is sacred. Don't be the one who starts the loud conversation. Be the one who listens. If you can master the art of being invisible while still appearing attentive, you'll save yourself a lot of headache."

Callum leaned back, the notebook resting on his lap. "Invisible. Right. That's a bit of a change from 'The Prince of Pace,' isn't it?"

"You can handle it". Sienna smiled. "You'll always be the last guy on the bus. Think of yourself as the kit man in football. You'll load all your units bags and you'll be the first one off to grab the bags for the veteran's at the venue. If you do it with a smile and a quick step, you're golden."

Callum looked down at the notebook, the ink blurring slightly as he processed the hierarchy. "It's a long way from Essex, isn't it? Just a few years ago we were arguing about who got the last fry at a chip shop in Southend, and now I'm learning how to be an invisible bag-carrier for the most feared men in the industry." He let out a soft, tired laugh, the sound echoing with a mix of disbelief and acceptance.

Sienna’s expression softened, her gaze lingering on him for a heartbeat longer than usual. "It is a long way," she agreed, her voice losing its instructional edge. "But you're not doing it alone, Cal. You've got Will, you've got the Empire, and you've got me. Just because you're a Young Lion doesn't mean you're a lamb. You're the same person who used to argue with the referee at the local halls in Essex; you've just got a much bigger stage now."

"I hate it when you're right. Okay Obi-Wan, what's the final rule?" Callum asked, closing the green notebook with a soft snap. He felt a strange buoyancy in his chest, the crushing weight of the dojo’s expectations finally replaced by a sense of strategic purpose.

Sienna paused, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious. She reached out and gripped his forearm, her fingers digging in slightly to ensure his full attention. "Rule one: the most important one. Never, ever let the grind erase why you came here. In a few months, you’re going to be so tired that your bones will feel like they’re made of lead, and you’ll be scrubbing a floor for the fourth time because a veteran decided it wasn't shiny enough. In those moments, you remember that this is the price of admission. The dojo isn't trying to kill you; it's trying to see if you're stubborn enough to survive it."

The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, a sudden, jarring reminder that the sanctuary of the apartment was temporary. Callum felt a reluctant heaviness in his limbs, the adrenaline of the reunion finally fading into a deep, bone-deep exhaustion.

"More than likely you'll be the only Young Lion in that dojo who speaks the Queens. So I've added a few useful words, phrases and responses in the book. Try to use them, it'll show everyone that you're trying," Sienna added, her voice softening as she noticed the way his eyelids were beginning to droop. "Last thing".

"Last thing," Sienna repeated, her voice taking on a conspiratorial quality. She disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, returning with a small, white plastic device that looked remarkably unremarkable. She slid it across the table toward him with a triumphant flourish. "The most important piece of equipment in your entire arsenal. More important than your boots, more important than your tape."

Callum picked up the object, staring at it with a confused expression. "A plug?"

"It's a universal plug. So you can charge your English electricals in a Japanese socket without blowing the fuse of the entire wing," Sienna explained, her voice brimming with a smug sense of victory. "I knew you wouldn't have picked one up. You probably would have just stared at the wall for three days wondering why your phone was dead, then tried to charge it by rubbing it against a carpet."

Callum looked from the small, white piece of plastic to the wall sockets, then back to her. It was such a mundane object, yet in the context of his current existence, it felt like a piece of high-tech weaponry. For the last few hours, he had been navigating a world where everything—from the toilets to the training rings—felt alien and slightly hostile. The idea that he could simply plug in his phone and reconnect with the digital ghost of his life in Essex felt like a luxury he hadn't even known he was missing. He held the adapter as if it were a gold medal, the sheer practicality of it grounding him more than any of her tactical advice.

"Sienna Cooper, you're a godsend," Callum breathed, staring at the small piece of white plastic as if it were a holy relic. He looked at the adapter, then at his phone—currently sitting at a precarious twelve percent—and then back at the girl who had just effectively saved him from a digital blackout. In the rigid, analog world of the Noge Dojo, where the most advanced piece of technology he'd encountered was a singing toilet, this simple bridge between two different voltages felt like the ultimate luxury. It was more than just a way to charge a battery; it was a tether to his family in Essex, a way to scroll through the mindless memes that kept him sane, and a means of keeping his life in England from becoming a blurry memory.

He gripped the adapter, feeling the weight of it. It was a small, mundane object, but in the vacuum of his current displacement, it felt like a lifeline. He imagined the alternative: sitting in his spartan room, staring at a dead screen, feeling the isolation of Tokyo amplify until it became deafening. Sienna had anticipated the one gap in his preparation that he’d been too arrogant or too distracted to notice. She hadn’t just given him a tactical manual for the dojo; she’d given him the one thing that would allow him to maintain a sliver of his own identity in a place designed to strip it away.

"One of the many reasons why you keep me around Newman," Sienna teased, leaning back and crossing her arms. Her gaze softened, the playful smirk fading into something more grounded. "Now, as much as I'd love to let you fall asleep right here on the table, you’ve got a curfew that would make a Victorian schoolboy shudder. If you're late back to the dojo, the only person who'll be 'invisible' is you, because you'll be buried under a pile of laundry for the next three days."

Callum groaned, the sudden realization of the time hitting him like a stiff lariat. He stood up, his muscles protesting the movement with a symphony of dull aches. The transition from the plush atmosphere of the apartment back to the reality of his Young Lion status felt like a physical weight returning to his shoulders. He gathered the green notebook and the universal adapter, tucking them securely into his bag as if they were state secrets.

"Wait," Sienna said, her voice cutting through his haste as he turned to leave. She stepped forward and pressed a small, wrapped chocolate bar into his palm—a high-calorie Japanese brand with a gold foil wrapper. "Eat this before you walk through the gates. Trust me, the sugar hit will keep you awake for the final check-in, and you don't want to look like a zombie when the senpai is counting heads."

Callum smiled, the sweetness of the gesture outweighing the fatigue. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, a quiet promise of return. "Thank you for everything, Si. The food, the notes… and for not letting me blow up the dojo with a British plug."

"You don't have to thank me you muppet. I know how long you've wanted this. This is the first step in our three year plan to dominate Japanese wrestling," she replied, her voice regaining that competitive edge he loved. She stepped back, giving him a playful shove toward the door. "Now get out of here before I decide to keep you for another hour and you actually do get murdered by your coach."

"Night Si. Love you," Callum smiled, pulling her into a tight hug that smelled of vanilla and victory.

Zack Sabre Jr x OC (Alexandra "Alex" Allen)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The trick is to keep the soil damp but not soggy, otherwise the roots just give up on life," Tess said, poking a finger into the potting mix of a dying peace lily. She looked up at Alex, her glasses sliding down her nose. "Honestly, I don't know how you manage a corporate empire when you can't keep a houseplant alive for three weeks."

Alex laughed, leaning against the mahogany kitchen island of her Oxfordshire home. The house was quiet, filled with the kind of curated silence that only comes with a very high mortgage and a very successful business. Outside, the English countryside was blurred by a soft, persistent mist, the kind of weather that made the green of the hills look almost neon. She had spent the last decade building Very Vegan from a niche blog into a global brand, a journey that had taken her from drafty apartments to first-class cabins and boardroom meetings in three different time zones.

She reached for her tea, her eyes drifting to the garment bag hanging on the door. Inside was a heavy, oversized black hoodie with "TMDK" printed across the front in bold, aggressive orange lettering. It was a strange artifact to have in a house dominated by linen and minimalist art, and it smelled faintly of gym chalk and expensive travel soap. She had brought it back from Tokyo as a sort of talisman, a physical reminder of a conversation that had felt more honest than most of the networking events she attended.

"If you keep staring at that piece of paper, you’re going to burn a hole right through it with your eyes," Tess remarked, her voice cutting through the silence of the kitchen.

Alex didn't look up. She was currently preoccupied with Bella, her Golden Retriever, who was enthusiastically attempting to climb into her lap despite being the size of a small pony. Bella’s tail thumped against the hardwood floor like a rhythmic drum, her tongue lolling out in a wide, goofy grin. Alex mindlessly scratched the dog behind the ears, her fingers grazing the soft gold fur, but her focus remained anchored to the scrap of notepad resting on the counter. The ink had bled into a series of indigo bruises, the numbers swirling into an illegible cloud of blue and black. It was a ruined map to a destination she hadn't even known she was looking for until she landed.

Tess paused her gardening, leaning back against the potting bench. She studied Alex—the way she was humming a tune she didn't realize she knew, the way she kept glancing toward the garment bag as if expecting it to speak. "Seriously, Al. You’ve been back from Tokyo for four days, and you’re acting like you left a piece of your soul in the Narita terminal. You’re physically here, but mentally? You're hovering somewhere over the Eurasian Steppe. What is actually going on?"

Alex finally let out a sigh, leaning down to bury her face in Bella’s neck, breathing in the scent of corn chips and dog shampoo. "It's nothing. Just jet lag. And the transition back to… this." She gestured vaguely to the sprawling, quiet luxury of the room. "The silence here is different than it used to be. It feels heavier."

"Bullshit". Tess scoffed. "Oh my god, you've met someone. Haven't you? You have that look. The 'I’ve seen a ghost but the ghost was actually a very attractive man' look."

Alex let out a startled laugh, her fingers momentarily pausing their rhythmic scratching of Bella’s belly. The dog took this as a cue to roll completely onto her back, legs flailing in the air, demanding total attention. Alex leaned into the chaos, burying her face in the golden fur, the warmth of the dog acting as a shield against the truth. "It wasn't like that," she murmured, though the way she glanced toward the garment bag suggested it was exactly like that. "He was just… unexpected. In a way that made the rest of the flight feel like it was on mute."

Tess crossed her arms, her curiosity now fully piqued. She abandoned the dying peace lily entirely, stepping closer to the kitchen island with a knowing smirk. "Unexpected? You're talking about a man you met on a plane. You meet a thousand people in first class; they're all 'unexpected' in their own way—usually in the sense that they're unexpectedly loud or wear socks with sandals. Who is he? Give me a name, a profession, a LinkedIn profile, something."

"He’s a wrestler," Alex admitted, finally sitting up and looking at her friend. "A professional wrestler. His name is Zack." She paused, her eyes drifting back to the smudged ink on the notepad. "He’s not like the ones you see on TV in the States. He’s… technical. Intense. But in the plane, he was almost quiet. He has this way of speaking that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, even if that room is thirty thousand feet in the air."

Tess stared at her, the silence stretching long enough for Bella to let out a loud, wet sneeze. "A wrestler. You met a professional wrestler in first class. Zack? Wait, you met fucking Zack Sabre Jr and you never told me?" Tess’s eyes widened, her focus shifting from the dying plant to her friend with a renewed, frantic energy. "Alex, he’s not just some guy who works out. He’s practically a legend in the technical scene. He’s like the Picasso of folding people into pretzels. Why on earth are you acting like this is some mysterious, smudged-ink tragedy? Just Google him!"

Alex laughed, the sound genuine and light, as she shifted to wrestle Bella back into a sitting position. The dog, sensing the rise in energy, began to zoom around the kitchen island, her paws clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. "I did Google him, Tess. I spent three hours last night reading about his career in England and Japan. But that's the thing—the internet only tells you about the man in the ring. The man on the plane… he was different. He was almost soft, in a strange, disciplined sort of way." She reached out and traced the edge of the smudged paper again, her thumb brushing over the indigo blur. "And he actually seemed interested in what I do. Not just 'Oh, you have a big company,' but actually interested in the philosophy of it."

Tess paused, her expression softening from manic curiosity. "So I'm assuming he gave you his number. Call him. Or, you know, since you're a millionaire, hire a private investigator to find out his preferred brand of tea and where he spends his Tuesdays."

Alex looked down at the paper, her shoulders sagging. "That’s the problem. I hit typical British weather when we landed at Heathrow and now it looks like a pens exploded in a blender. It’s gone, Tess. Totally illegible."

Tess stared at the indigo smudge, then back at Alex, her expression shifting from amusement to a professional intensity. As an agent, Tess lived for the hunt, whether it was securing a venue for a brand launch or tracking down a rare organic supplier for a Very Vegan pop-up. She stepped closer, squinting at the blurred ink as if she could somehow mentally reverse the smudge. "Right. Well, we aren't letting a little bit of humidity and ink-bleed ruin a perfectly good romantic comedy plot. If he’s in the country, he’s not invisible. Wrestlers are like migratory birds; they follow the bookings. He’s got a schedule, a promoter, and a very loud fan base that documents every breath he takes on Twitter."

"I don't want to be a stalker," Alex protested, though she was already reaching for her phone. "He seemed… private. The kind of person who values the space between the noise."

"You're not stalking, you're curating a reunion," Tess corrected, already typing furiously on her own device.

"His Twitter looks like a ghost town and he has no Instagram, which is where you come in. Tess, you know everyone. There's got to be someone mutually who can share his contact info," Alex said, her voice regaining some of its corporate confidence as she leaned over the counter. She watched Tess’s thumbs blur across the screen, the agent’s face illuminated by the blue light of her phone.

Tess raised her eyebrow. "Thanks for the compliment sweetie, but even if I manage to find someone through my contacts, doesn't mean they'll give you his number. Men like that are guarded. They live in this weird bubble of gym bags and airport lounges." She paused, her eyes scanning a series of rapidly scrolling messages.

"Please Tess, I'm out of ideas," Alex said, her voice dropping. She looked at the heavy black hoodie still draped over the garment bag, the fabric a stark contrast to the cream-colored walls of her kitchen. "He’s the first person in five years who didn't start a conversation by asking me for a partnership deal or a discount code for my supplements."

Tess stopped scrolling, her expression softening. She knew the isolation that came with the 'millionaire' label; the way people stopped being people and started being opportunities the moment they saw the bank balance. "Fair point. Alright, let me think. He’s a technical wizard, he’s picky about his craft, and he’s got that specific brand of antisocial energy. There’s only one kind of person who can actually get through to someone like that: a wrestling promoter"

Tess’s thumbs flew across the screen again, this time navigating a series of encrypted messaging apps. "I have the perfect person, Andy Quildan. He's the owner of RevPro. If anyone knows where Zack is hiding—whether he’s in a gym in London or brooding in a hotel room in Manchester—it’s Andy. But," she added, her voice taking on a mischievous edge, "Andy isn't the type to just hand over a private number because a pretty woman with a vegan empire asked nicely."

Alex frowned, leaning over the marble counter. "Tess, please. Try anything but 'pretty woman.' I can literally buy the promoter's gym if that’s what it takes to get a phone number."

"That’s exactly why we aren’t doing that," Tess replied, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. "The moment you start throwing money at the problem, you become a 'client.' And Zack doesn't look like the type of guy who wants to be a line item on a spreadsheet. No, we have to approach this with finesse. We need to make it look like a professional coincidence."

Tess didn’t wait for a response before hitting 'send' on a flurry of messages. She spent the next ten minutes playing a high-stakes game of digital telephone, her voice alternating between a professional agent’s clip and a conspiratorial whisper.

"He offered to do the cooking show on YouTube. Use that". Alex murmured, leaning over the counter.

Tess stopped mid-text, her thumb hovering over the screen. "The what? You actually pitched a cooking show to a man who spends half his life in a gym?"

"You want a stranger you met on a plane in your house while you film your YouTube cooking show?" Tess asked, her voice flat, her thumb finally pausing over the screen. She looked at Alex as if she had just suggested they pivot Very Vegan into a line of industrial gravel. "You’re telling me you pitched a cooking show to a man who spends half his life in a gym and is famously picky about everything from his wrist-tape to his tea?"

Alex leaned back against the counter, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "He didn’t just agree to the idea, Tess. He was actually quite into it. He started arguing with me about the technical superiority of a cast-iron skillet versus stainless steel for searing. It was the most passionate conversation I’ve had about cookware in a decade."

Tess stared at her for a long beat, then slowly lowered her phone. "You managed to charm a man who is essentially the human embodiment of a 'Do Not Disturb' sign into discussing culinary equipment. I almost respect it. But let’s be realistic: if we tell Andy Quildan that you want Zack’s number for a 'cooking show,' Andy is going to think you’re a lunatic or a very dedicated fan. He’s a promoter; he thinks in terms of tickets and gate receipts, not sauté pans."

"Which is why we don't lead with the pans," Alex replied, her eyes brightening. "We lead with the brand. Very Vegan isn't just a blog anymore; it's a lifestyle. Tell Andy we’re looking for a high-profile athlete for a series of health-focused content pieces. Mention the reach. Mention the demographic. If we frame it as a professional opportunity that respects Zack's discipline and technical precision, Andy will see the value."

Tess sighed, though the gears were already turning. She began typing again, her thumbs moving with a rhythmic, surgical precision. "Fine. I'll play the 'corporate synergy' card. But if this blows up in our faces and you end up being blocked by the entire British wrestling scene, don't come crying to me when your brand is associated with a larenti-style disaster."

/*/

"Go to the gym you said. Not mope around pretending to listen to your best mate". Chris slowed his treadmill pace to a walk, glancing over at Zack, who was staring blankly at a set of rings.

Zack didn't move. He was draped in a worn-out training shirt, his limbs lean and coiled like a spring, but his mind was clearly thousands of miles away.

"What's with you? Since you've got back from Japan you've not been your customary sarcastic shit" Chris said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grey towel. He leaned against the gym equipment, eyeing Zack’s distant expression. "You’re staring at those rings like they’re written in a language you don’t understand. Come on, spill it. Who was she?"

Zack finally shifted, his gaze dropping from the ceiling to his friend. He let out a slow, measured breath, his voice carrying that characteristic dry, clipped tone. "She wasn’t a 'who' in the sense of someone you’d expect. She was… focused. Most people in first class spend the flight trying to perform a version of themselves for the other passengers. She just existed. It was refreshing." He paused, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Chris raised an eyebrow, leaning in. "Wait. You, the man who views most social interactions as a chore, found someone 'refreshing' at thirty thousand feet? Did you actually talk to her, or did you just appreciate the way she didn't talk to you?"

Zack shifted his weight, the gym floor creaking under his boots. "We talked. About things that actually mattered. Not the business of the ring, not the politics of the scene. We talked about the intersection of discipline and creativity. She has this… empire, apparently. Very Vegan. But she didn't lead with the money or the influence. She asked about the why of the work. The technicality of the hold. The patience required for a perfect transition." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the gym exit. "Most people see a match and see a fight. She saw a sequence of movements. She saw the geometry of it."

Chris let out a short, barking laugh. "Blimey. You're practically poetic. I can see it now: Zack Sabre Jr., the cold-hearted technician, smitten by a vegan mogul. I bet you gave her your number in a moment of sheer, uncharacteristic vulnerability."

"I did," Zack admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "And my hoodie. Helped her through a panic attack. By the time I was stood in Heathrow I spent the rest of my journey home wondering if I’d overstepped. It’s a rare thing to feel a connection that doesn't feel like a transaction."

Chris grinned, leaning back against the treadmill. "And let me guess, she hasn't texted. You're sitting here brooding because you think the spark died somewhere over the Atlantic. Let me tell you, mate, if she’s half as focused as you say she is, she’s probably just deciding which font to use for her 'hello' message."

Zack didn't laugh. He just stared at his calloused palms, the ghost of the conversation still echoing in his mind. He remembered the way she had listened—not the polite, nodding attention of someone waiting for their turn to speak, but a genuine, piercing curiosity. For a man who spent his life in a world of choreographed noise and shouting crowds, her presence had felt like a quiet room in a storm.

"She’s not the type to play games, Chris. If she was going to reach out, she would have," Zack murmured. He shifted his weight, the movement fluid and precise. "But the way she looked at the work… she understood the geometry. Not many people do."

The gym around them hummed with the sound of clashing plates and heavy breathing, but Zack felt adrift in a strange, domestic longing. He had spent the better part of a decade treating his body like a machine and his mind like a fortress, yet this woman had managed to slip through the gates without even trying. He recounted the flight to Chris not as a romantic story, but as a technical breakdown, describing the way Alex had tilted her head when he explained the nuance of a wrist-lock, her eyes tracking the logic of the movement rather than just the spectacle. He told Chris about the silence that had settled between them—not an awkward void, but a comfortable, shared space that felt more intimate than the loud, forced laughter of the wrestling circuit.

"She didn't just nod and smile to be polite," Zack continued, his voice softening as he remembered the way she’d challenged his views on tradition.

Chris watched him, leaning against the treadmill with an amused, knowing expression. He had known Zack since they were kids, back when Zack was just a scrawny boy with an obsession for joint locks and an attitude that could flatten a building. He had seen the man face down the most brutal opponents in the industry without blinking, but he had never seen him this unsettled by a lack of a text message. "You're gone, mate," Chris chuckled. "Completely gone. You're not mourning a missed connection; you're mourning the loss of the only person who actually gets your obsession with the 'geometry' of a hold."

Zack sighed, the sound heavy with a frustration he couldn't quite articulate. "There's only one problem, Chris. I gave her a scrap of paper. Not a business card, not a digital link—just a piece of notepad from the seat-back pocket." He looked down at his calloused hands.

"Why don't you make the first move? You're a global star, for god's sake," Chris replied, tossing the towel over his shoulder. "Just go on Twitter and shout it into the void. 'To the lovely vegan woman on flight JL044—hit me up.'"

Zack gave him a look of profound disappointment. "I am not a public spectacle, Chris. I don't use the shit of social media. Besides, there is a certain… dignity in the silence."

"Right, 'dignity.' That's what we're calling it now," Chris snorted, heading toward the showers. "Good luck with the silence, Zack. I’m sure she’s just sitting at home staring at a blank wall."

Zack didn't respond, but he did sigh, a sound that was half-annoyance and half-longing. "How would I even find her?" he murmured, more to himself than to Chris. "The world is a very large place, and the number of people who actually care about the technical application of a cross-armbar is remarkably small." He turned back to the rings, the white canvas under the harsh gym lights looking like a blank page. For the first time in years, the repetitive nature of his training felt insufficient.

Meanwhile, three hundred miles away in Oxfordshire, the silence of the house was shattered by the frantic chime of a notification. Tess had not been idle. She was currently pacing the length of the kitchen, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice shifting into a tone that was one part corporate shark and two parts theatrical agent.

"Andy, darling, listen," Tess said, her voice dripping with a practiced, honeyed urgency. "I’m not asking for a favor—we both know you don't do favors. I’m offering a bridge. My client is looking for a high-performance athlete for a series of technical lifestyle pieces. We're talking about a brand with a reach that makes local indie shows look like a backyard brawl. She’s meticulous, she’s disciplined, and she’s specifically requested someone with a technical background. Zack is the only one who fits the profile."

On the other end of the line, Andy Quildan let out a dry, rattling chuckle. "A 'technical lifestyle piece,' is it? Tess, you're a marvelous liar. You’ve got a client who wants a piece of Zack, and since when does Zack let anyone 'piece' him unless there's a contract and a ring involved?"

"She’s not just any client," Tess countered, glancing at Alex, who was now hovering beside her with an expression of hopeful anxiety. "She’

"She’s just a woman who appreciates the craft," Tess continued, her voice dropping into a smoother, more persuasive register. "And she’s got a vision. Not a 'let's-make-a-viral-clip' vision, but something actual. She’s interested in the discipline. The grit. The technicality of the movement. Trust me, Andy, if there’s one thing Zack respects, it’s someone who doesn’t treat his work like a circus act."

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence where you could almost hear the gears of a promoter's mind calculating the risk versus the reward. Andy Quildan knew how to read people, and he knew Tess’s tells. He also knew that Zack was currently in a mood that could make a room feel ten degrees colder just by him walking into it.

"Fine," Andy finally replied, his voice sounding like gravel being shaken in a tin can. "But I'm not giving out his personal mobile. Give me your clients contact details and I'll pass it along. If he’s interested, he’ll reach out. If not, don't take it personally; the man has the social grace of a cactus."

Tess beamed, already tapping the screen to send over Alex’s professional contact card. "Deal. You're a gem, Andy. A rough, unpolished diamond of a man." She hung up the phone and turned to Alex with a look of pure victory. "Phase one is complete. The bait is set, the hook is polished, and the message is officially in the hands of the gatekeeper. Now, we play the waiting game."

Alex let out a breath she felt she had been holding for four days. She leaned back against the marble counter, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissipate. "You really think he'll actually call? Or text? I mean, if he's as antisocial as you say, he might just see a random number from a promoter and ignore it."

"Honey, please," Tess scoffed, sliding into a barstool and grabbing a piece of apple from a fruit bowl. "Men like Zack are driven by one thing: precision. You didn't just send a 'hey' text; you sent a professional inquiry through the one man in the industry he actually respects. You've appealed to his ego and his obsession with the craft. He won’t see it as a random text; he’ll see it as a challenge to his technical superiority. He has to respond just to tell you why your proposed 'lifestyle piece' is conceptually flawed."

Alex laughed, though the anxiety still hummed in her chest. She looked at the garment bag again, the oversized hoodie staring back at her like a silent witness. For the next three days, she tried to immerse herself in the rhythms of her business. She chaired two board meetings, approved a new line of sustainable packaging for her supplement line, and spent an entire afternoon arguing with a distributor about the sourcing of organic cashew cheese. But her focus was fractured. Every time her phone vibrated, her heart performed a frantic little dance, only for her to find a notification from a supplier or a frantic email from a junior marketing exec.

By the afternoon, the silence had become a physical weight. She found herself drifting through the house, the Oxfordshire mist clinging to the windows, feeling as though she were waiting for a storm to break. She had tried to convince herself that she was being ridiculous—that she had shared a few hours of pleasant conversation with a stranger on a plane and that the "connection" was merely the byproduct of jet lag and high-altitude oxygen. But then she would catch sight of the TMDK hoodie, and the memory of his voice—precise, clipped, and unexpectedly gentle—would pull her back under.

The shift happened at exactly 6:14 PM.

Alex was in her office, reviewing a layout for the autumn edition of the blog, when her phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It wasn't an email or a Slack notification. It was a text from a number she didn't recognize.

Do you still want to attempt to teach me how to cook something more technical than toast and juice?

Alex stared at the screen, the blue light casting a sharp glow across her face. For a few seconds, she forgot how to breathe. It wasn't the phrasing of a professional inquiry or the sterile greeting of a business contact; it was him. The dry, understated wit and the subtle challenge in the words were unmistakable. He hadn't asked for her name or questioned how she’d gotten his number; he had simply stepped right back into the conversation they had started halfway between Tokyo and London.

A small smile bloomed across Alex's face, one that felt far more genuine than the practiced ones she used for press releases. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, her mind racing to find a tone that matched his—something that acknowledged the gap of the last few days without sounding overly eager.

I mean you did volunteer. But be warned: my kitchen is a high-pressure environment. The standards for searing are rigorous.

She hit send and leaned back in her chair, the silence of the office suddenly feeling lighter, as if a window had been opened to let in a fresh breeze. She didn't have to wait long. The three dots of a typing bubble appeared almost instantly, a digital heartbeat flickering on the screen.

Rigorous standards are the only ones worth having, he replied. I’ll bring the technical expertise; you provide the venue. When are you free, or are you too busy managing your empire to host a rogue wrestler?

Alex laughed out loud, a bright, bubbling sound that startled Bella, who was sleeping beneath her desk. She quickly coordinated a time—this Saturday afternoon—and sent her address in Oxfordshire. As soon as she locked her phone, the reality of the situation crashed over her. She was inviting a man she had spoken to for six hours on a plane into her private sanctuary. She looked around her office, then toward the hallway where the TMDK hoodie still hung, and felt a sudden, frantic urge to reorganize her entire life. Her phone buzzed again.

You're on Alexandra. I'm curious though. You had my number, why did you just now use it? Also why did your agent contact Andy?

Alex stared at the screen, her heart skipping a beat. He had figured it out. He was a technician, after all; he noticed the gaps in the logic and the patterns of the movement. The "professional coincidence" Tess had engineered had been seen right through, yet the fact that he was still coming over suggested he found the effort amusing rather than intrusive.

The ink didn't survive the trip to Oxfordshire. Blame the classic British weather, she typed, a small smile playing on her lips. And as for Tess, she’s a professional. She doesn't believe in leaving things to chance.

I don't know if I should be impressed by your resourcefulness or slightly worried. I'm happy I at least made an impression on you Alexandra, he replied.

The response sent a warm, humming vibration through Alex’s chest. No one since her late grandfather called her Alexandra; to the world, she was "Alex," the brand, the CEO, the face of a movement. To him, she was simply a woman who had an ink-smudged piece of paper and a very determined agent.

The following Saturday arrived with a level of atmospheric tension that felt almost theatrical. Alex spent the morning in a state of focused hysteria, oscillating between a deep-cleaning frenzy and a total existential crisis over her choice of attire. She settled on a pair of wide-leg cream linen trousers and a silk chocolate brown camisole—something that felt effortless but whispered "millionaire," while still allowing her to actually move in a kitchen. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back into a loose, elegant knot, though she spent ten minutes staring in the mirror, wondering if she looked too "CEO" or not "domestic" enough.

"Glasses or contacts". Alex mused to herself, staring at her reflection. She opted for the glasses, deciding that she didn't want to spend the entire time worrying in case her cointact fell into a pan of organic olive oil. She took a deep breath, smoothing the fabric of her trousers, and tried to ground herself. This wasn't a board meeting. This was a man who liked the geometry of a joint lock and the physics of a skillet.

"Well Bella, how do I look?" Alex asked, glancing down at the Golden Retriever, who responded by sneezing violently and shaking her ears. "Right. Not too domestic. Good."

The sound of a car pulling up the gravel driveway echoed through the quiet of the Oxfordshire countryside. Alex felt a sudden, sharp jolt of adrenaline. She didn’t run to the door; instead, she took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she was the owner of a global brand, a woman who had navigated hostile takeovers and supply chain crises. But as she opened the heavy oak door, the composure she had spent all morning cultivating vanished.

Standing there in the doorway, Alex realized she had completely forgotten that Tess had insisted on being the designated chauffeur. She hadn't wanted to risk Zack getting lost in the winding, hedgerow-lined lanes of Oxfordshire, and more importantly, Tess had been adamant that she didn't want a random guy let loose in her best friends home, even if he was good looking.

Tess climbed out of the driver's seat with a triumphant grin, her eyes already darting toward the passenger side. "He’s here! And I have to say, he's gorgeous in high definition," she whispered loudly, leaning toward Alex. "The camera really doesn't do justice to that level of lean muscle. He looks like he was sketched by an architect who only uses straight lines and sharp angles."

"Tess!". Alex hissed, her face flushing a deep, vivid crimson that clashed spectacularly with her chocolate-brown silk. She reached out to snag the sleeve of Tess’s blazer, trying to physically pull her agent away from the threshold and into the sanctuary of the hallway. "Please, for the love of everything, stop narrating him like he’s a piece of fine art. He’s standing right there!"

Tess didn’t even attempt to be subtle; instead, she let out a sharp, delighted laugh that echoed off the high ceilings of the foyer. "Oh, don't be such a prude I've seen you do shots off of a topless guy during our gap year." she teased, giving Alex a playful shove toward the door. Before Alex could mount a defense, Tess pivoted, her voice suddenly booming with a cheerful, intrusive energy. "Bella!".

The call worked instantly. Bella, the Golden Retriever, didn't just arrive; she launched herself toward the door like a furry missile. The dog’s enthusiasm was a chaotic blur of gold and white, her tail whipping through the air with enough force to knock over a vase. As Bella skidded across the polished hardwood, she didn't stop at Alex’s feet—she charged straight for the open doorway to Tess.

"Hello baby. Do you love your auntie Tess?" Tess cooed, momentarily ignoring the man standing in the driveway to engage in a full-blown wrestling match with the dog.

Zack stood a few paces back, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a dark coat, watching the scene with a look of quiet amusement. He looked exactly as he had on the plane, yet somehow more vivid. In the grey, diffused light of Oxfordshire, the sharp lines of his jaw and the piercing intensity of his gaze were amplified. He wasn't wearing the TMDK hoodie today, but he carried that same aura of guarded precision, as if he were mentally mapping the perimeter of the house and the trajectory of the dog’s chaos.

"I apologize for the greeting," Zack said, his voice cutting through the noise. It was that same clipped, melodic tone, dry as a fine martini. "I'm not sure if the dog is a welcoming committee or a security measure designed to keep me at a distance."

Alex felt her heart do a strange, fluttering somersault. She stepped forward, finally finding her voice. "Bella is purely for morale. And usually, she's much more dignified." She offered him a small, genuine smile, the kind that didn't need to be curated for a camera. "It's really good to see you, Zack."

Zack stepped across the threshold, his movements fluid and economical, as if he were subconsciously avoiding an imaginary obstacle. He didn't offer a handshake; instead, he gave her a slow, assessing nod, his eyes lingering on her glasses for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "The pleasure is mine, Alexandra," he replied. The way he said her name—not "Alex"—sent a jolt of warmth through her that had nothing to do with the underfloor heating.

Tess, meanwhile, was still on the floor, pinned beneath Bella’s enthusiastic paws. "Right! I’ll leave you two to your… culinary alchemy," she announced, disentangling herself with a dramatic flourish. She shot Alex a wink that was practically a theatrical performance. "I’ll be back on Monday for our meeting Alex and to check if you’ve actually burned the house down. Try not to get too distracted by the geometry of the situation." With a final, mischievous wave, Tess retreated to the car, leaving a sudden, heavy silence in her wake.

The silence wasn't awkward, but it was dense. Zack stood in the foyer, his gaze drifting from the minimalist art on the walls to the sweeping curve of the staircase, and finally back to Alex. He looked like a man who lived in a world of noise and neon, and the quiet, curated elegance of her home seemed to fascinate him. "It's very… still here," he observed, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. "A far cry from the flight, though the hospitality remains consistent."

"Come in," Alex said, gesturing toward the heart of the house. "The kitchen is this way. And before you ask, yes, I have the cast-iron skillet ready. I’ve spent the last hour debating whether to preheat it on the stove or in the oven, just in case you felt the need to critique my methodology."

"Please ignore Tess," Alex said, her voice trailing after her agent's departing car. "She treats every social interaction like a high-stakes negotiation for a cable network. I’m genuinely sorry if she’s a bit… much."

Zack chuckled. "It's fine. Everyone's got that one friend that takes it upon themselves to embarrass them in public. I completely get it. She'd get along well with my mate Chris, though; they’d probably form a coalition to make my life a misery."

As they began to move toward the kitchen, Bella decided that the introductions weren't quite finished. The Golden Retriever, having finally exhausted her excitement for Tess, pivoted with a sudden, focused intensity toward Zack. She didn't jump this time; instead, she approached him with a slow, deliberate curiosity, her nose working overtime. She leaned in, delivering a series of deep, wet sniffs to the hem of his coat and his boots, sniffing out the scent of gym chalk, travel, and something uniquely him.

Alex braced herself. Bella was an affectionate dog, but she was also a judge of character with a penchant for knocking over anyone who radiated too much tension. She expected Zack to recoil, to step back with that characteristic guardedness, or perhaps to look at the dog as an inefficient use of space.

Instead, Zack stopped dead. He didn't move his feet, but his posture shifted. He lowered himself into a crouch, a movement so fluid it mirrored the way he would drop into a grappling position on a mat. He didn't reach out with a frantic, inviting hand; he simply waited, offering his hand, palm open and still, for Bella to investigate. When the dog gave a tentative lick to his knuckles, Zack let out a soft, low whistle, a sound of genuine approval. He reached out and scratched Bella exactly behind the left ear—the precise sweet spot that usually took guests twenty minutes to discover.

"Have I passed your test huh?" Zack murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he remained in that low crouch. Bella, usually a cautious judge of strangers, didn't just accept the attention; she leaned her entire weight against his shoulder, her tail thumping a rhythmic beat against the hardwood floor. She let out a contented sigh, her head resting trustingly against the dark fabric of his coat.

Alex froze, her hand still resting on the doorframe. She had seen people with dogs before, but there was something about the way Zack handled the animal—a lack of desperation, a quiet confidence that didn't demand the dog's affection but rather invited it. It was the same calculated patience he used in the ring, the ability to read a situation and move in harmony with it. For a man who appeared so sharp and uncompromising, his interaction with Bella was unexpectedly soft.

"I think she's decided you're an honorary member of the household," Alex said, her voice sounding slightly breathy to her own ears. "She usually treats guests with a certain level of suspicion for the first twenty minutes. You've managed to bypass the security clearance in under sixty seconds."

Zack stood up slowly, Bella still leaning against his calf, her eyes locked onto him with a sudden, unwavering loyalty. He looked down at the dog, then back at Alex, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "It's about the energy, isn't it? Animals can tell when someone isn't trying to force a result. Most people approach a dog as if they're trying to win a prize. I just treated her like a technical puzzle—observe the distance, wait for the signal, and apply the correct amount of pressure."

Alex felt a strange, fluttering warmth in her chest. She had spent years cultivating a life of curated perfection, where everything from her skincare routine to her brand's aesthetic was meticulously managed. Yet, seeing this world-renowned technician—a man known for his arrogance and clinical precision in the ring—be so effortlessly gentle with her dog felt like seeing a secret side of him. It was a vulnerability he didn't advertise, a softness that existed beneath the sharp angles of his persona.

"Well," she added, stepping forward to break the spell of the moment, "since you've passed the canine audit, you're officially cleared for the kitchen. But don't let the dog fool you; she’s a terrible influence. She’ll try to convince you that the rules of the house don't apply if you're cute enough."

Alex watched the interaction with a quiet, bewildered fascination. Bella was not a dog who gave her trust away for free; she was a selective socialite who usually required a rigorous vetting process involving several minutes of suspicious sniffing and a very specific level of submission. Yet, here was Zack, a man whose professional life was dedicated to the art of manipulation and control, acting as a gravitational center for the dog’s affection. It wasn't just that Bella liked him; she was treating him with a level of reverence usually reserved for the delivery man who brought the high-grade treats.

The sight of it—the sharp, clinical technician of the wrestling world being used as a living pillow by a seventy-pound Golden Retriever—sent a ripple of unexpected warmth through Alex. She had expected the friction of two strong personalities clashing in a small space, but seeing Zack’s guarded exterior dissolve under the pressure of a wet nose was a revelation. It suggested a layer of empathy and patience that he didn't show to the cameras or the crowds. It was a small, silent piece of world-building that made him feel less like a celebrity and more like a person.

"I suspect she's outmaneuvered you," Alex teased, her voice softening as she led the way into the kitchen. "She’s probably already convinced you to give her whatever’s in your pockets."

Zack followed, his gaze still lingering on the dog, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "She's a formidable opponent. Her center of gravity is unpredictable, and her timing is impeccable. I can respect that."

"Give me that," Alex said, reaching for the dark coat as they entered the heart of the home. As she slid the fabric from his shoulders, she felt the residual chill of the Oxfordshire air clinging to the wool. For a brief, breathless second, they were standing closer than they had since the plane, the scent of rain and something crisp and masculine momentarily filling her senses. She hung the coat on a mahogany peg, noting how the heavy garment seemed to anchor the airy lightness of the hallway.

"Welcome to the inner sanctum," she murmured, gesturing with a sweep of her arm. "Since you’re a man of geometry and maps, let me give you the lay of the land before we enter the combat zone of the kitchen."

She led him through the downstairs, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished oak. She didn't give him the curated tour she gave to business partners—the one that highlighted the architectural pedigree and the high-end fixtures. Instead, she pointed out the quirks. She showed him the reading nook where the light hit perfectly at 4 PM, and the sunroom that smelled faintly of lemon and damp earth, where she spent her mornings contemplating the day's chaos in a state of forced stillness.

Zack walked beside her, his eyes scanning the space not with the curiosity of a guest, but with the analytical precision of a strategist. He didn't comment on the luxury; instead, he stopped to admire the way a particular sculpture balanced on a slim pedestal, tilting his head to observe the center of gravity. "It’s an intentional space," he observed, his voice low. "Most people fill their homes with noise to hide the silence. You’ve designed yours to amplify it. It’s… efficient."

"Efficient," Alex repeated, a soft laugh escaping her. "Most people call it 'minimalist,' but I think you've hit on the real reason. I spend my entire day managing noise—emails, demands, the constant hum of a brand that never sleeps. Coming home to a place where the silence is an actual architectural choice is the only way I can hear myself think."

They reached the kitchen, a sprawling expanse of honed grey soapstone and warm white oak. It was a professional-grade sanctuary, equipped with everything from a sous-vide machine to a bespoke herb garden built directly into the wall. Alex gestured toward the center island, where a collection of heirloom vegetables—deep purple carrots, baby leeks, and a cluster of wild mushrooms—sat waiting like a curated still-life.

"The ingredients are prepped, but the execution is entirely up to us," she said, her tone shifting from CEO to collaborator. "I’ve heard you’re a stickler for the technicals, so I’ll let you lead on the heat management. I’m just here to provide the infrastructure."

Zack stepped toward the island, his presence suddenly filling the room. He didn't just walk; he claimed the space, his eyes immediately scanning the tools. He picked up the cast-iron skillet, testing its weight with a subtle flick of his wrist, a gesture of instinctive assessment. "Infrastructure is everything," he murmured, his gaze meeting hers. "But a tool is only as good as the hand that guides it. Let’s see if your 'rigorous standards' for searing actually hold up under scrutiny."

"We can't just 'cook,' Zack. This is a technical exercise," Alex said, leaning over the soapstone counter to survey the array of produce. "The question is whether we're aiming for a study in textures or a masterclass in flavor extraction. I was thinking a King Oyster Mushroom scallop with a pea puree and a saffron-infused emulsion."

Zack didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned over the island, his eyes narrowing as he studied the King Oyster mushrooms. He didn't touch them; he simply observed their girth and density, as if analyzing the structural integrity of a bridge. "A saffron emulsion is a bold choice," he noted, his voice regaining that clinical, analytical edge. "But the mushroom is the protagonist here. If the emulsion is too dominant, you’re not highlighting the texture; you’re merely masking it with luxury. It becomes a spectacle rather than a study."

Alex felt a spark of competitive energy. She leaned in, her shoulder nearly brushing his, the space between them vibrating with a sudden, focused intensity. "The emulsion isn't a mask, Zack; it's a bridge. It provides the fatty richness that the mushroom lacks, creating a balanced equation. It's the same as a hold in wrestling—you don't just apply pressure; you create the leverage that makes the pressure effective."

Zack paused, a look of genuine appreciation crossing his face. He liked the analogy. He stepped back, crossing his arms, his gaze shifting from the produce to Alex. "Leverage. Precisely. Very well, we'll proceed with your 'equation,' but I want the puree pushed to the absolute limit of smoothness. If there is a single grain of texture in that pea puree, the entire geometry of the plate collapses."

Alex didn't just hand him a spatula; she treated the first ten minutes like a briefing for a high-stakes operation. She guided him through the precise physics of the sear, insisting that the pan reach a temperature where the oil shimmered on the verge of smoking—the "critical point," as she called it. She watched him with a hawk-like intensity as he lowered the first mushroom medallion into the cast iron. "Don't crowd the pan, Zack. If you crowd the pan, you drop the temperature, and instead of a sear, you get a steam. We aren't boiling the mushrooms; we are caramelizing them."

Zack took the instruction with a surprising, quiet discipline. He didn't argue or scoff; instead, he applied the same meticulousness to the skillet that he applied to a complex joint lock. He waited for the exact moment the edges of the mushroom turned a deep, golden brown before shifting them with a flick of his wrist—a movement so economical it looked choreographed. "If I don't lose a finger or give us food poisoing, do I get a gold star?" he asked, though his focus never wavered from the sizzle of the pan.

"Better. You get a slice of vegan chocolate cake that I made yesterday," Alex replied, though her eyes weren't on the cake. She was watching the way his fingers gripped the handle of the pan—firm, but not strained. "Now, the puree. This is where the amateurs fail. If you over-process the peas, they turn into a sugary paste. If you under-process, it’s just lumpy soup. We need a velvet-like consistency."

She stepped in close, guiding his hand toward the high-speed blender. She didn't touch him, but the proximity was electric, her voice dropping to a low, instructional hum. "Add the butter—the cashew-based kind—slowly. One tablespoon at a time. You have to emulsify the fat into the vegetable matter. It’s about creating a stable bond. Watch the vortex in the center; when it smooths out into a glossy, reflective surface, that’s when you stop. Not a second later."

Zack followed her directions with a precision that was almost unnerving. He didn't ask "why" as much as he asked "when," his eyes locked on the swirling green mixture as if it were a complex sequence of movements he needed to memorize for a title match. As the puree reached that perfect, glass-like sheen, he switched off the machine with a sharp click. He looked at the result, then at Alex, his expression one of clinical satisfaction. "Does this pass the audit?" he asked, the smirk returning to his lips.

"It’s acceptable," she teased, though she was internally reeling from how well he’d handled the technicality. "Now, the final assembly. The mushroom is the anchor, the puree is the foundation, and the saffron emulsion is the accent. It’s a map, Zack. The guest should travel from the richness of the saffron, through the earthiness of the mushroom, and end on the sweetness of the pea."

They worked in a rhythmic, unspoken synchronization for the next twenty minutes. There was a strange, domestic gravity to it—the same way two people who have known each other for years might share a kitchen, despite having only spent six hours together in the air. They navigated the narrow space between the island and the stove with a fluid grace, avoiding collisions by a fraction of an inch, their movements echoing the same "geometry" they had discussed.

As they finally plated the food—two perfect, architectural arrangements of color and texture—the tension shifted from the competitive to the comfortable. Alex stepped back, leaning against the counter, and looked at the two plates. The silence of the house had returned, but it was no longer the sterile silence of a CEO's sanctuary; it was the warm, shared quiet of two people who had just successfully built something together.

"I have to admit," Zack said, picking up a fork and eyeing the emulsion with a look of profound respect. He took the first bite, closing his eyes for a moment as he processed the flavors. When he opened them, the usual analytical sharpness in his gaze had softened into something more genuine. "This is amazing."

Alex felt a rush of victory that felt more satisfying than any quarterly earnings report she’d ever signed. "High praise from a man who views the world as a series of technical flaws," she noted, taking a bite of her own. The flavors were harmonious, the mushroom's meaty texture playing perfectly against the velvet puree. For a few minutes, they ate in a comfortable silence, the only sound the distant thumping of Bella’s tail against the floor as she waited hopefully for a stray piece of vegetable.

As the meal wound down, the conversation drifted away from the technicalities of the kitchen and toward the strange trajectory of their meeting. Zack leaned back, his long frame occupying the chair with a relaxed, almost cat-like ease. "I'll be honest with you, Alexandra. After that flight, I spent a considerable amount of time wondering if you were a fever dream brought on by jet lag and too much espresso. You're a very… vivid presence."

Alex felt her cheeks warm. "A vivid presence? Is that the technical term for 'overwhelming'?"

Zack let out a short, dry laugh, his eyes never leaving hers. "Not at all. 'Overwhelming' is a lack of control. You, however, are a precision instrument. Most people are just noise; you’re a signal. It’s rare to meet someone who operates on the same frequency of meticulousness, especially someone who doesn't do it for a living in a ring."

Alex shifted her gaze to her plate, though the food was now secondary to the intensity of his focus. "I suppose that’s why we clicked on the plane. We both speak the language of 'doing things the right way.' Though I suspect your version of the 'right way' involves more joint manipulation than mine."

"It is a common misconception that joint manipulation is merely about pain," Zack replied, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic cadence. "It’s actually about the conversation between two bodies. It’s about finding the exact point where a person’s will meets their physical limit. There is a certain honesty in it." He paused, his gaze drifting from her eyes to the way she was holding her glass, his analytical mind likely mapping the tension in her grip. "Cooking is similar, in a way. You’re manipulating elements until they surrender into a specific form. You don’t just make a sauce; you force the ingredients to cooperate."

Alex laughed, the sound light and genuine, breaking the sudden intensity of the moment. "You make a dinner party sound like a hostage situation, Zack. I promise you, the King Oyster mushrooms didn't put up much of a fight."

"I’ll have you know," Zack replied, a playful glint in his eye, "that I’ve faced opponents far more stubborn than a fungi. But I suspect the mushrooms were outmatched by your level of obsession with a sear." He set his fork down, the conversation shifting from the culinary to the personal. He began to describe his life in a way he never did for interviews—the grueling travel, the solitude of hotel rooms, and the strange, monastic discipline of his training. He spoke of the silence he found in the gym at four in the morning, a mirror to the architectural silence Alex had built into her home.

Alex listened, captivated by the contrast between his public persona and this quiet, reflective man. She shared the weight of her own success, the loneliness that often accompanies the peak of a business empire, and the way her brand had become a second skin she couldn't always peel off. For the first time, she wasn't pitching herself as the face of Very Vegan; she was just Alex, a woman who loved the same stillness he did. The flirtation was no longer a game of wit and barbs, but a steady, magnetic pull. He noticed the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and she noticed the way his gaze lingered on her lips whenever she laughed, a silent acknowledgement of the chemistry that had started ten thousand feet in the air.

"It's strange," Alex murmured, leaning in, the space between them now negligible. "I spend my life curate-ing everything. Every post, every product, every interaction. But with you, I feel like I can actually stop editing myself."

Zack’s expression softened, his voice dropping to a resonant hum. "That’s because you don't have to. The 'edited' version of you is impressive, Alexandra, but the one who argues with me about pea puree is far more interesting." He reached out, his fingers barely grazing the back of her hand—a tentative, technical probe for a reaction. When she didn't pull away, he let his hand linger, his touch light but possessive.

The air in the kitchen felt thick, charged with the residue of the evening. They had moved past the technical audit and the strategic maneuvering; they were now simply two people who had found a rare, resonant frequency in each other. The conversation slowed, the pauses between their words becoming longer and more meaningful, filled with the kind of tension that only exists when both parties are silently agreeing to something.

"So, tell me more about yourself," Alex said, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned into the warmth of his presence. "Beyond the technical manuals and the championship belts. What does Zack Sabre Jr. actually do when he isn't trying to disassemble another human being?"

Zack let out a quiet, thoughtful hum, his fingers still grazing her hand. "I read. A lot. Obviously hiking. I watch a lot of live music—things that don't require a strategy or a win-loss record," he admitted, his voice losing its sharp edge. "There is a profound luxury in being a spectator in something you cannot control. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up." He looked around the kitchen, then back to her. "And I spend a lot of time wondering why I’m so incredibly particular about everything. It’s a blessing for my career, but a nightmare for my social life. Most people find my insistence on the 'correct' way to do things… exhausting."

"I find it refreshing," Alex replied, her gaze steady. "Most people are content with 'good enough.' I’ve spent my entire career fighting the 'good enough' mentality. It’s why Very Vegan exists. The world is full of mediocre plant-based food; I wanted to prove that veganism could be an art form, not a compromise." She smiled, a small, knowing expression. "So, if you're a nightmare to live with because you care about the details, then we're just two nightmares in the same room. That seems like a sustainable model."

Zack chuckled, the sound vibrating in the small space between them. "A sustainable model of chaos. I like that." He shifted, his gaze deepening, the playful smirk replaced by something more earnest. "It’s rare to find someone who doesn't just tolerate the obsession, but shares it. Usually, I’m the only one in the room noticing that the table is slightly askew or that the timing of a conversation is off. With you… the timing feels exactly right."

The air felt electric, a magnetic pull that had been building since the first class cabin of that flight from Tokyo. The conversation drifted from their shared neuroses to the quiet admissions of their daily loneliness—the solitude of a multi-million dollar brand and the isolation of a world-class athlete. They flirted not with grand gestures, but with the intimacy of shared understanding, each word a deliberate step closer.

"So. Was I worth the chase?". Zack quipped, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in. He wasn't talking about the smudged phone number or the frantic reach-out to his promoter; he was talking about the effort of maintaining this high-wire act of intellectual tension.

Alex laughed, the sound echoing softly against the minimalist backdrop of her kitchen. "You're an arrogant, pedantic man who thinks he can audit my sear-time, Zack. But yes. The payoff was definitely worth the chase."

She shifted her weight, her hip brushing against the soapstone counter, feeling the magnetic pull of him. The conversation drifted from their professional obsessions into the quieter, uncurated corners of their lives. Zack spoke of his childhood in the suburbs of England, the early obsession with technical precision that had morphed into a career of bending limbs.

"I've really enjoyed this Alexandra". Zack murmured, his voice now devoid of the clinical edge he used to dissect a match or a recipe. He leaned back, his long limbs finding a relaxed geometry in the kitchen chair.

Alex smiled, the expression reaching her eyes in a way that felt unguarded. "Me too Zack".

“So, I'm gonna go out on a limb here,” Zack began, his gaze shifting from the empty plates to the precise way Alex was leaning against the counter. He paused, his analytical mind seemingly calculating the risk of the next sentence. “How would you feel about a second date?".

Alex blinked, her heart skipping a beat. For a man who spent his professional life dictating the pace of a match, he had delivered the request with a surprising amount of hesitation. The clinical technician was gone, replaced by a man who was suddenly very aware that he was in a beautiful woman's kitchen in Oxfordshire and that the chemistry between them was no longer a theoretical equation.

“A second date?” Alex repeated, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know, Zack. I’m not sure you’ve fully recovered from the ‘canine audit.’ Bella is still watching you from the hallway, and she has a very strict policy on repeat offenders.”

"I mean I could bribe her," Zack countered, his voice dropping into a playful, conspiratorial register. He shifted his weight, closing the gap between them just enough that she could feel the radiating warmth of his shoulder. "A few high-grade treats, perhaps a bit of strategic belly-rubbing. I’m a technician, Alexandra; I know how to negotiate with the powers that be."

Alex laughed, the sound filling the quiet kitchen with a lightness that felt earned. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way his guard had shifted. The sharp, clinical edges were still there, but they were no longer a shield; they were the frame for something far more inviting. The man who had treated her home like a strategic map was now looking at her as if she were the only landmark that mattered.

Will Ospreay x OC (Natasha McGuiness)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Commonwealth Kingpin Will Ospreay stopped mid-stride, nearly tipping a cardboard box of kitchenware, as he looked down at the chaos at his feet. "I’m telling you, Nat, they’ve developed a strategic formation," he laughed, stepping carefully over a blur of tan fur. "They aren't just running; they're patrolling the perimeter to ensure no box goes un-sniffed."

Norbit and Hagrid, two sturdy pugs with an appetite for mischief, were currently treating the hallway like a high-stakes racetrack. They darted between the ankles of the couple, their breathing heavy and rhythmic, circling the stacked boxes with a level of intensity usually reserved for a championship main event. Natasha laughed, shifting the weight of a smaller crate of books in her arms to better dodge Hagrid’s enthusiastic leap. The house was filled with the sound of clicking claws on hardwood and the genuine, easy warmth of a shared life finally merging under one roof.

The transition was a clumsy, joyful process of spatial negotiation. As they navigated the corridor, they worked in a practiced tandem, moving the remnants of Natasha's separate living arrangements into the gaps of Will’s home. Between the trips to the cars, there were moments of pause to let the dogs settle, though the pugs viewed the arrival of new furniture simply as new obstacles to be navigated. It was a domestic rhythm, far removed from the roar of a crowd or the sting of a canvas mat.

Natasha set her box down on the kitchen counter with a satisfied thud, leaning back against the granite. She looked at Will, who was currently trying to coax Norbit out from under a stray piece of packing foam. Despite the scattered nature of the afternoon, there was a groundedness to the scene. They were both accustomed to living out of suitcases in hotel rooms across different continents, and the act of unpacking—of deciding where the coffee maker would sit and which shelf would hold their trophies—felt like a luxury they had both earned.

"I never knew how much shit I had until I actually tried to move it," Natasha admitted, her voice slightly strained as she hoisted a plastic bin filled with gym gear and athletic tape. She stepped cautiously, her eyes locked on the floor, because Norbit had decided that the best way to help was to act as a living, breathing speed bump. The pug was currently executing a series of erratic, high-speed laps around the hallway, his curly tail vibrating with an intensity that suggested he was trying to herd the boxes toward the living room.

Will let out a sharp bark of laughter, skillfully pivoting to avoid a head-on collision with Hagrid, who was attempting to "intercept" a rogue piece of bubble wrap. "They’ve officially declared this a state of emergency," Will joked, shifting a heavy crate of collectibles to his hip. He watched as Hagrid performed a clumsy, sliding stop on the hardwood, his paws scrabbling for traction before he launched himself toward Natasha's ankles in a burst of pure, unadulterated joy. He wasn't trying to trip her; he was simply convinced that the arrival of more belongings meant more potential for treats.

The chaos was rhythmic, a whirlwind of tan fur and cardboard. As Natasha navigated the narrow gap between the sofa and a stack of linens, Norbit decided to execute a perfect 360-degree spin, his heavy breathing sounding like a tiny steam engine. He looked up at her with wide, bulging eyes, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, before darting away again to chase a ghost only he could see. It was a frantic, happy energy that filled the house, turning the mundane chore of moving into a low-stakes obstacle course.

Once the final bin was deposited in the bedroom, Natasha leaned against the doorframe, watching Will wrestle the pugs into a momentary state of calm. He managed to scoop Hagrid up in one arm, the dog's legs flailing in mid-air, while Norbit leaned heavily against Will's calf, finally exhausted by his own enthusiasm. The silence that followed was brief but precious, the kind of quiet that only exists in the eye of a domestic storm.

"Well we've both done well to cull our crap Tash, but the real question is you sure about moving in here? What are you gonna do with your mum's house?" Will asked, his voice muffled as Hagrid tried to lick his chin. He set the pug down with a gentle pat, leaning back against the wall and glancing around the room. The space was now a curated mosaic of their combined lives: the sleek, modern lines of Will's taste clashing slightly with the eclectic, trophy-laden piles Natasha had brought along.

Natasha stretched her arms over her head, feeling a satisfying pop in her shoulder. "Since it's paid off my Uncle Rob asked if him and Gavin could rent it. It's the perfect location for them, it's stays in the family and I have a bit of extra cash to either chuck into the mortgage here or for my retirement when my knees finally give out," she answered, giving Will a playful nudge. She looked around the room, her eyes landing on the three championship belts resting side-by-side on the dresser: the NJPW Strong, the RevPro Undisputed, and the ROH World title. They looked oddly quiet in the bedroom light, stripped of the flashbulbs and the screaming fans.

Will grinned, leaning over to kiss her temple. "A strategic business move. Very Technical Savage of you." He shifted his gaze to the window, where the afternoon light was beginning to fade into a bruised purple.

"They also said I could take one of mum's roses bushes to plant here if I wanted too," Natasha added, glancing toward the small patch of garden visible through the bedroom window. "Thought it might actually survive the pugs if we put it in a raised planter."

Will chuckled, leaning his head back against the wall. "The pugs would probably try to wrestle the planter but it'd be a nice touch. Makes the place feel a bit less like a bachelor pad and more like a home." He paused, his eyes drifting toward the belts on the dresser. The gold plating caught the dimming light, a silent reminder that while the house was quiet now, their schedule for the coming weekend was anything but. "And it'd be like having a bit of your mum watching over you."

"Aww you're getting sweet on me Billy boy," Natasha teased, her voice softening as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She let her gaze linger on the three belts again, the leather and gold representing the peak of her profession, yet in this moment, they felt secondary to the quiet hum of the house.

Will kissed her head softly "Come on, we've got a shit load of boxes to unpack. The quicker we finish the quicker we can order a Nandos."

The next four hours dissolved into a blur of packing tape and strategic Tetris. It wasn’t a swift process; they were too prone to distractions. Every time a box of mementos was opened, they’d stumble upon an old photo or a piece of merchandise from a tour years ago, sparking ten-minute tangents of "do you remember when" that completely stalled their momentum. They worked in a loose, humming synchronicity, Will hauling the heavy crates of weights and gym equipment while Natasha curated the more delicate items. The pugs, sensing the shift in activity, transitioned from high-speed racers to quality control officers, insisting on sniffing every single item of clothing before it was permitted to enter a drawer.

By the third hour, the physical toll of the move began to settle in. The adrenaline of the "big move" had worn off, replaced by the dull ache of repetitive lifting. They found a rhythm in the silence, the only sounds being the rip of cardboard and the occasional thud of a book hitting a shelf. They didn't talk much during this stretch, their communication reduced to simple, utilitarian requests—"Pass me the scissors" or "Does this look better on the left side?"—but the comfortable air between them spoke volumes. It was a domestic dance they hadn't known they were rehearsing, a slow integration of two high-octane lives into one shared space.

With the communal areas downstairs unpacked, hour four brought the boxes of Natasha's clothes, shoes and wrestling gear that were dumped in the master bedroom. This was the most tedious part of the process, a slow migration of fabric and leather from cardboard to cedar. Will took on the role of the heavy lifter, hoisting the larger trunks of gear that smelled faintly of athletic tape and disinfectant, while Natasha methodically sorted through her wardrobe. They worked in a focused silence, the only interruption being the pugs who had decided that the discarded bubble wrap was a worthy opponent, leaping and snapping at the plastic with a series of wet, enthusiastic huffs.

"I'll move all your gear into the bedroom next door. There's one of the fitted wardrobes empty. You'llbe able to hang them up without sacrificing room for your other clothes," Will suggested, gesturing toward one of the empty guest rooms that had effectively become the 'Gear Room.' He started hauling the heavy, reinforced trunks across the carpet, his muscles tightening with each lift. The trunks were the heaviest part of the move, packed with custom-made boots and thick leather pads that didn't compress.

Natasha followed behind him, carrying a handful of hangers and a stack of neatly folded tights. The process of transferring her career into a dedicated room felt like a ritual. She meticulously hung her entrance robes, the intricate fabrics catching the light, and arranged her knee pads by weight and support level. Every item had a specific purpose, and she couldn't bring herself to just toss them in a drawer. Will helped her slide the larger trunks under a low bench, ensuring the room didn't become a trip hazard for the dogs, who were currently treating the open wardrobe doors like a series of tunnels.

As the final box of accessories—wrist tape, athletic supports, and a small collection of themed accessories—was emptied, the clock on the wall indicated that four grueling hours had passed since the first box entered the house. The bedroom was no longer a staging ground for cardboard; it was a living space. The scent of fresh linens had finally overtaken the smell of old boxes and packing peanuts. Natasha stood in the center of the room, surveying the results of their labor, feeling a strange sense of completion.

"Since when did you start collecting taxidermy?" Will asked, his voice echoing from the depths of the last remaining bin in the hallway. He emerged holding a small, profoundly depressed-looking brown bear. The toy was missing one button eye, and its fur had long since transitioned from a plush honey-gold to a matte, well-loved grey. One of its ears leaned at a precarious forty-five-degree angle, and the stuffing in its belly had shifted, giving the bear a slight, permanent slouch.

Natasha froze, her hand still gripping a stack of folded towels. A look of genuine shock crossed her face, followed quickly by a softness that Will rarely saw outside of their most private moments. "Oh, god, I thought that got lost in the move from my first flat," she murmured, stepping forward to take the bear from him. She held it with a delicacy that contrasted sharply with the way she handled an opponent in the ring. "This is Barnaby McBear. He’s been through three house moves, two international tours, and one very traumatic encounter with a washing machine in 2008."

Will looked from the battered toy to the three-time champion in front of him. "Barnaby McBear, eh? He looks like he’s seen some things. He’s got the thousand-yard stare of a man who’s worked a twenty-year career in the indies.

Natasha let out a genuine laugh, clutching the bear to her chest. "He was my mum's first, actually. She gave him to me when I was four because I wouldn't stop trying to 'train' the family cat to do a crossbody. She told me Barnaby was a retired champion who could teach me the ropes." She looked down at the missing eye and the matted fur, a small, private smile playing on her lips. "I think he’s the only one in the house who knows exactly how many times I actually cried after my first few losses. He's a vault of secrets, Billy."

Will leaned against the doorframe, his expression softening as he watched her. It was a rare glimpse into the girl Natasha had been before the belts and the "Technical Savage" persona took over. "Well, Barnaby’s clearly a veteran. He fits right in with the trophies," Will said, stepping closer to wrap an arm around her waist. "Though I suspect he’s the only one in this room who doesn’t have a contract with New Japan."

"Wait, if Barnaby is the retired veteran, who the hell is this?" Will asked, his voice muffled as he reached deep into the belly of the final bin. He emerged not with a piece of gym equipment, but with a pristine, cream-colored polar bear. Unlike Barnaby, this one was plump and plush, with glistening black eyes and a velvet nose that had never known the indignity of a washing machine cycle. It looked like it had spent the last decade in a vacuum-sealed vault, untouched by the chaos of a touring athlete's life.

Natasha stopped mid-stretch, her eyes widening as she spotted the plush toy. "Oh, you found Jackson," she said, her voice jumping an octave. She reached out and plucked the polar bear from Will’s hand, cradling it with a level of reverence usually reserved for a world title. "He’s the luxury model. Barnaby is for the grit and the grind, but Jackson is for the high-end hotels and the long flights where I actually need to pretend I’m a functioning adult who sleeps eight hours a night."

Will looked from the ragged, one-eyed brown bear to the pristine polar bear, then back to Natasha. "So you've got a tiered system for your bears? A veteran for the emotional trauma and a corporate executive for the travel?"

"Don't judge. I've had Jackson since I was a baby; he's a legacy act," Natasha countered, hugging the polar bear to her side while Barnaby remained tucked under her arm. She looked like a strange sort of trophy collector, flanked by a ragged relic and a pristine plush. "Jackson is the one who keeps the peace. He’s the diplomat of the teddy bear world. If Barnaby is the gritty veteran who’s worked the deathmatch circuit, Jackson is the polished main-eventer with a corporate sponsorship."

Will stepped back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Right. And why am I only now being introduced to the boardroom? I feel like I should have had a formal meeting with the diplomat before moving him into my house."

"I didn't want to get rid of them. Sentimentality is my only weakness, besides maybe a really good burger," Natasha laughed, setting the duo of bears carefully on the bedside table. She looked at them—the ragged veteran and the pristine executive—and felt a sudden, sharp grounding. For all the chaos of the move and the looming pressure of the All In weekend, this small corner of the room now felt entirely hers.

Will checked his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dimming light of the bedroom. "Right, it's officially Nandos hour. If we don't order now, the delivery drivers are going to be fighting for their lives in Friday night traffic." He stepped away from the door, but as he did, Hagrid decided that the transition from moving-day to dinner-time required a celebratory lap. The pug launched himself forward, his paws skidding on the hardwood, and collided squarely with Will’s shins.

"Oi! Tactical foul!" Will exclaimed, stumbling back and laughing as Norbit joined in, circling his ankles like a tiny, wheezing shark. He looked up at Natasha, who was leaning against the dresser, her expression one of pure amusement. "See? They know. They can smell the peri-peri from here. They’ve got a sixth sense for chicken."

As Will navigated his way back to the kitchen, shouting orders for lemon and herb and spicy wings over the frantic barking of the dogs, Natasha stayed behind for a moment. Her gaze drifted back to the three belts resting on the dresser. In a few days, those titles would be the center of a storm. The RevPro 11th Anniversary Show was always a pressure cooker, especially when you were the one everyone was gunning for. Being the champion meant being the target, and doing it in front of a home crowd added a layer of intensity that could either elevate a performance or crush a wrestler under its weight.

"You good in there, Nat? Or have you started a secret meeting with the bears?" Will’s voice drifted up the stairs, accompanied by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the pugs racing to keep pace with him.

Natasha blinked, pulling herself out of the mental rehearsal of her upcoming match. She took a deep breath, the scent of cardboard and home finally settling in her lungs. "Coming!" she called back, glancing one last time at the gold on the dresser. The titles were symbols of her dominance, the physical proof that she was the best in the world across three different banners, but in the quiet of the bedroom, they were just heavy pieces of leather and metal. The real weight was the expectation.

When she descended the stairs, she found Will in the middle of a precarious negotiation. He was attempting to balance his phone on the kitchen island while simultaneously preventing Norbit from attempting to eat the discarded remains of a packing slip. The kitchen was a disaster zone of half-empty water bottles and bubble wrap, but the energy was light.

"Right, order's in," Will announced, triumphant. "The Peri-Peri pilgrimage begins in approximately thirty minutes. We've got a mountain of food coming that could feed a mid-card stable." He leaned back against the counter, his posture finally relaxing as the adrenaline of the move fully evaporated.

Natasha leaned against the opposite side of the island, watching the pugs engage in a low-speed wrestling match over a stray piece of twine. The domesticity of the scene felt almost surreal. In twenty four hours, she would be stepping into an arena surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, but right now, the only noise was the sound of Will humming some pop song under his breath.

"Do you think it'll be weird?" she asked, her voice cutting through the lightness of the room.

Will stopped humming, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "The Nandos? I mean, the driver might be a bit lost, but that’s standard for Friday night."

Natasha gave him a pointed look, the kind that usually preceded a particularly stiff forearm smash in the ring. "Not the chicken, Will. RevPro. Seeing Kyle."

The air in the kitchen shifted, though not into something tense—just something heavier. Kyle was a constant in their circle, a bridge between their professional worlds and their personal histories. He was Will’s best friend, a man who had been in the trenches of the independent circuit with him for years, but he had also once been the person Natasha shared her life with. The transition from 'couple' to 'exes' hadn't been a clean break; it had been a jagged tear, ripped open when the news broke that Kyle had been seeing Skye Blue behind her back. The betrayal had been public in the way wrestling betrayals often are—whispers in the locker room, pointed looks on social media, and the lingering awkwardness of shared gym spaces.

Will’s expression softened, the playfulness draining away to be replaced by a quiet, understanding sobriety. He didn’t pretend it wasn’t a minefield. He had spent months playing the diplomat, caught between the loyalty he felt for a lifelong mate and the protective love he had for the woman now living in his house. He knew the history wasn't just a footnote; it was a scar.

"It'll be a bit peak, yeah," Will admitted, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped around the island, closing the gap between them and resting his hands on her waist. "But you're walking in there as a triple champion, Tash. You’re the Technical Savage. You’re the one with the gold and the house and the pugs. He’s just… Kyle. A guy who made a massive mistake with a girl who’s probably still wondering why he’s not fully committed to her."

Natasha let out a soft, huffing laugh, leaning her forehead against Will’s chest. The weight of the upcoming weekend felt slightly more manageable when he framed it like that. In the ring, she was a tactician, a woman who dismantled opponents with surgical precision and a cold, calculating efficiency. But in the quiet of their kitchen, she was just a woman trying to navigate the messy overlap of friendship and heartbreak.

"You're far too good at the pep talks, William. You're going to start charging for this," she murmured, though she tightened her grip on his shirt.

"I've had plenty of practice with the promoters, haven't I?" Will joked, kissing the top of her head. "Besides, the gold does most of the talking for you. When you walk down that ramp with three belts around your waist, nobody is thinking about who you dated. They're thinking about who's brave enough to try and take them."

The doorbell rang—a sharp, sudden chime that sent Norbit and Hagrid into a synchronized frenzy. The pugs launched themselves toward the hallway, their claws clicking like castanets on the floor, barking with a level of urgency that suggested the delivery driver was a long-lost relative rather than a man with a bag of chicken. Will laughed, releasing her to chase after the dogs before they could physically tackle the poor courier.

Natasha stayed in the kitchen for a heartbeat longer, her gaze drifting to the window. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of suburban stillness that felt alien compared to the thunderous atmosphere of an All In weekend. She thought about the locker rooms, the smell of Bengay and sweat, and the inevitable moment her eyes would meet Kyle's. It wouldn't be a fight—they were professionals, and the bitterness had mostly eroded into a dull, distant disappointment—but there would be that static in the air. That momentary glitch in the reality of the room where everyone remembered exactly how the pieces had fallen.

"Coming! Don't let the dogs eat the driver!" Natasha shouted, finally pushing off from the counter and following the chaos into the hallway.

The scene was exactly as she expected: Will was half-bent over, trying to keep a leash-less Hagrid from leaping into the arms of a bewildered delivery man, while Norbit was attempting to wedge his entire head into the open paper bag of peri-peri chicken. The courier, a teenager who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth, handed over the bags with a cautious expression, as if the pugs might suddenly decide he was the main course.

"Cheers, mate! Absolute legend," Will beamed, practically ushering the man out the door before the pugs could stage a full-scale coup. He retreated into the kitchen with the loot, the aroma of grilled chicken and spicy garlic sauce instantly filling the space and effectively erasing the last remnants of cardboard scent.

The transition of the Nandos bags from the hallway to the kitchen was less of a walk and more of a tactical retreat. Will held the grease-spotted paper bags aloft like sacred relics, hoisting them high above his head to keep them out of the "strike zone." Behind him, the pugs formed a chaotic vanguard, their heavy breathing creating a rhythmic soundtrack of anticipation that sounded like a pair of miniature bellows. Every time Will paused to pivot around a lingering piece of bubble wrap, Norbit would execute a precise, hopeful leap toward the scent of peri-peri, nearly taking out Will’s elbow in the process.

Natasha followed the procession, laughing as she acted as the rear guard, gently nudging Hagrid away from Will's heels. The kitchen island, once a staging ground for packing tape and logistics, was now the designated landing strip for the feast. With a triumphant flourish, Will deposited the bags on the granite surface, the sudden thud of the containers triggering a final, celebratory chorus of barks from the dogs. The smell was an immediate, sensory takeover—the sharp, vinegary tang of the sauce and the charred aroma of grilled chicken filling every corner of the room.

"Right, clear the deck!" Will announced, claiming the kitchen island as his personal plating station. He moved with a sudden, focused intensity, treating the distribution of peri-peri chips and chicken breasts with the same precision he applied to a high-flying sequence in the ring. He didn't just dump the food into containers; he orchestrated a feast, ensuring the garlic bread was positioned for maximum accessibility and the side salads weren't drowned in sauce. As he worked, the pugs remained in a state of vibrating suspense, their bulging eyes tracking every movement of a stray chip with a level of concentration that would have been terrifying if it weren't so absurd.

Once the plates were assembled, Will reached into the fridge and produced a chilled bottle of rosé. The pale pink liquid caught the warm overhead light as he popped the cork with a satisfying thwack, the sound echoing through the house and momentarily silencing the dogs. He poured two generous glasses, the bubbles dancing on the surface, and stepped back to present the glasses to Natasha. He didn't just hand her the drink; he held his glass aloft, his expression shifting from the playful chaos of the afternoon to something steady and sincere.

"Wine? You're really pushing the boat out for a Friday night move-in, aren't you?" Natasha teased, though she took the glass with a grateful smile. The chilled stemware felt delicate in her hand, a stark contrast to the calloused palms of a wrestler.

Will didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, grounding intensity. The noise of the pugs, who were now attempting to dig a tunnel through a discarded pile of bubble wrap, seemed to fade into a background hum. "Not just a move-in, Tash," he said, his voice softening. "A toast. To new beginnings, to the most decorated woman in the business, and to the fact that we actually managed to get all your gear in one house without the dogs eating a single pair of boots."

Natasha felt a warmth bloom in her chest that had nothing to do with the rosé. She clinked her glass against his, the crystal ringing clear and bright. "To not living out of a suitcase for at least forty-eight hours," she countered, her smile genuine and wide. As they drank, the tension of the upcoming weekend—the ghost of Kyle, the pressure of the triple crown, the roar of the All In crowd—didn't vanish, but it shifted. It stopped being a weight and started being a challenge they were facing together.

/*/

The following day didn't begin with an alarm clock, but with the wet, rhythmic thumping of a pug’s tail against a mattress. Natasha stirred as a cold, damp nose pressed firmly into her cheek, followed by the heavy, wheezing sigh of Norbit, who had decided that 7:00 AM was the optimal time for a wake-up call. Beside her, Will was a tangled heap of limbs and duvet, snoring softly into a pillow, blissfully unaware that the domestic peace of the new house was officially over. The sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains in thin, dusty needles, illuminating the three championship belts on the dresser. They seemed to glow with a sudden, demanding urgency; the luxury of the move-in was gone, replaced by the electric hum of fight day.

Will finally bolted upright with a gasp, as if he'd just been tagged in a championship match, his hair standing up in a chaotic blonde crest. "Jesus. So much for a lay in", he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.

"Come on Billy boy, your boys want to do their business," Natasha teased, sliding out from under the duvet. She felt the familiar morning stiffness in her lower back—a souvenir from a particularly brutal match in Tokyo—and stretched her arms high, feeling her spine crack in a series of rhythmic pops.

Will groaned, burying his face back into the pillow mumbling something about the unfairness of canine schedules.

"Five more minutes," Will mumbled, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit. He attempted to burrow deeper into the warmth, curling himself into a human cocoon of Egyptian cotton and sheer stubbornness.

Natasha looked at him—the "Commonwealth Kingpin," a man known for his explosive agility and relentless pace—now reduced to a stubborn lump of fabric and snoring. A mischievous glint entered her eyes. Without a word, she gripped the top edge of the duvet with both hands. With a sudden, violent snap of her wrists, she whipped the covers off him in one fluid motion. The duvet flew backward, sailing through the air like a white flag of surrender before landing in a heap on the bedroom floor.

Will was left exposed to the sudden chill of the morning air, his limbs flailing for a split second as he tried to reclaim the warmth. He let out a strangled yelp, blinking rapidly against the sunlight. "Oi! That was an illegal blow! Where's the referee?"

"The referee is a pug with a full bladder, and he's currently judging your lack of hustle," Natasha laughed, stepping over the discarded bedding to give him a playful smack on the butt. She felt the shift in her own energy; the softness of the move-in was receding, replaced by the sharp, focused adrenaline of a professional. The domestic bubble was popping, and the reality of All In weekend was rushing back in.

"Cheeky". Will grumbled, though a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He rolled out of bed with a groan, his feet hitting the carpet with a heavy thud. He stood there for a moment, shaking himself out like a dog, the domestic haze of the previous twenty-four hours finally evaporating. The silence of the house was replaced by a mental soundtrack of pyro blasts and ten thousand people chanting their names. "Right. Game face on. Let's get some coffee before the chaos actually starts."

Will didn't so much walk as he did stumble, his equilibrium still fighting a losing battle with the sudden transition from sleep to standing. He looked down at Norbit and Hagrid, who were vibrating with an intensity that suggested the grass outside was made of gold and treated like a holy site. With a sigh of resignation, Will scooped up their leashes, the nylon straps snapping against his palm. "Right then, you two. Let's move out before the house becomes a swampland," he muttered, guiding the wheezing pair toward the stairs. The pugs responded with a series of frantic, high-pitched yaps, treating the descent to the front door like a high-stakes sprint to the main event.

Upstairs, the bedroom became a sanctuary of rhythmic precision. Natasha worked with the focused efficiency of a woman who spent her life obsessing over the details. She didn’t just make the bed; she engineered it. The duvet was snapped taut with a sharp, echoing crack, the kind of snap that sounded like a championship slap across a jaw, and the pillows were plumped into symmetrical monuments of comfort. She smoothed out the last lingering crease with the palm of her hand, her movements methodical and grounding. In the center of the room, the three championship belts sat like silent sentinels, their gold plates reflecting the morning sun. For a moment, she stood still, the silence of the room acting as a buffer against the noise that was waiting for her at the arena.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was considerably less disciplined. Will was currently engaged in a low-speed pursuit through the hallway, trailing two determined, wheezing blur of tan fur. The pugs weren't just walking; they were conducting a strategic reconnaissance mission of the front porch. As the door clicked open, Norbit launched himself toward a patch of dew-slicked grass with the intensity of a man sprinting toward a world title, his paws drumming a frantic beat against the earth. Will leaned against the doorframe, shivering slightly as the crisp morning air hit his chest, watching the dogs with a mixture of affection and bewilderment.

"Absolute lunatics," Will muttered, his voice still raspy from sleep. He watched as Hagrid began a slow, deliberate circle—a pug’s version of a ritualistic dance—before finally deciding on the exact coordinates for his morning business. Will checked his watch, the ticking seconds reminding him that the luxury of this slow morning was a fleeting thing. The schedule for the anniversary show was a relentless machine, and they were the cogs that had to fit perfectly into the slots.

Inside, Natasha showered with the kind of clinical precision she used to study her opponents' tape. The hot water sluiced away the last vestiges of sleep, replacing the domestic softness of the previous forty-eight hours with a cold, sharp clarity. She stepped out and wrapped herself in a Versace plush robe, that was definitely Will’s given how it completely engulfed her, and wandered into the kitchen. The room was now a hive of pre-game activity; the smell of burnt toast and strong espresso fought for dominance over the lingering scent of the previous night’s peri-peri.

Will was already in "work mode," though his current attire—brightly patterned pyjama bottoms and his hair sticking up in several different directions —didn't quite scream "Commonwealth Kingpin." He was filling Norbit and Hagrid's bowls with a focused intensity, his mind clearly already half-way to the arena. He looked up as Natasha entered the room, the oversized robe trailing behind her like a royal train.

"Coffee's almost done, exactly how you like it strong, milky and sweet," Will said, gesturing toward the espresso machine. He paused, his eyes traveling from her face down to the engulfing folds of the robe. "You know, for a woman who spends her nights dismantling people's limbs, you look remarkably like a very small, very fluffy cloud."

Natasha hummed, stepping into his space and leaning her head against his shoulder. The morning light was shifting, turning the kitchen into a gallery of golden hues and floating dust motes. "A fluffy cloud that can still out-grapple you," she murmured, her voice still thick with the remnants of sleep. She reached for her mug, the warmth of the ceramic grounding her as the reality of the day began to settle in.

"Less than twenty four hours and you've already nicked my favourite robe," Will noted, though he didn't move to take it back. He stepped closer, the playful energy of the morning shifting into something more supportive.

Natasha smirked over the rim of the mug. "I can give it you back if you want, but your neighbours might either complain or they'd have heart attacks. Y'know, naked woman in your kitchen? Bad for the property value, not to mention lowering the tone of the neighborhood. I can just see it, a lynch mob for the naked wrestlers at number seven."

Will laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest where her head rested. He reached out, pulling her closer by the waist, his expression playful. "You're in your head. First off they'd all be jealous of me for having a fucking stunning Mrs. Second our house, our rules. If we wanna strut around completely starkers, we'll just call it an 'avant-garde lifestyle choice' and charge the neighbors admission."

"And thirdly," Natasha added, pulling back to look him in the eye

Will grinned. "Third, we survived the embarssment of my mum seeing us half naked a few weeks ago; nothing in this zip code can possibly shock us now."

He leaned in, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that contrasted the high-octane persona he’d assume once he stepped through the curtain. For a few more minutes, they existed in this fragile, quiet space—just a man and a woman in a sun-drenched kitchen, surrounded by the wheezing snores of two sleeping pugs. It was the only time the world wasn't asking them for something, whether it was a victory, a promo, or a piece of their soul.

"Don't! I've only just started looking your mum in the eye again after that," Natasha groaned, leaning back into him.

Will chuckled. "Don't be embarrassed Tash, my mum's seen a lot worse. Remember three other blokes lived here during the pandemic? She’s basically seen everything there is to see of the male anatomy in this house. You’re practically a modesty miracle by comparison."

He gently disentangled himself to check the time, his expression shifting into that of a man calculating a flight path. The playful domesticity was still there, but the professional clock was ticking. "Right, what do you fancy for breakfast? Something light to keep the energy up, or are we going full-English because we're playing the 'last meal' card before the diet kicks back in?"

Natasha stepped back, her gaze drifting toward the hallway where her gear bags waited. The transition was happening—she could feel it in the way her muscles tightened and her focus sharpened. "Something light," she decided, her voice regaining the clipped, confident tone of the Technical Savage. "I don't wanna look bloated in my gear."

Will nodded, the shift in her demeanor mirrored in his own. He moved toward the fridge with a practiced efficiency, pulling out egg whites and spinach. "The professional's diet. Right. I'll do a proper scramble for you, and I'll probably just eat an entire loaf of toast because I'm a reckless gambler with my cardio." He paused, glancing at her over his shoulder. "You okay y'know? The 'bloated' comment is usually your 'I'm starting to stress about the match' tell."

Natasha didn't answer immediately. She leaned against the counter, watching the way the light hit the polished granite. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice was a fraction too steady. "Just thinking about the flow of the match. If the crowd is as loud as they usually are for the anniversary show, the communication with the ref gets messy. I can't afford a miscue on a transition."

Will slid a plate of perfectly seasoned eggs and steamed greens in front of her, his expression softening. He didn't push her to talk about it; he knew the silence was where she did her best work. Instead, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, a small, grounding gesture that pulled her back from the mental gymnastics of the ring. "You've got the blueprints for this match tattooed on the back of your eyelids, Tash. You're not just the champion; you're the architect. Just go in there and build the house, then knock it down."

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of ritualized preparation. The house, which had felt like a sanctuary of bubble wrap and shared laughter only hours prior, was now a staging ground. Natasha stepped into the bedroom and shed the oversized robe and changed, standing for a moment in the silence. She reached for the three belts. Sliding the leather over her shoulder, she felt the familiar weight—a heavy, cold pressure that acted as an anchor. She didn't put them on to wear them; she draped them carefully over her small suitcase, a silent promise to herself that the gold wasn't leaving her side.

"Ready to make some people miserable?" Will asked, leaning against the bedroom doorframe. He was already dressed in his travel gear, the casual confidence of a veteran who had seen every kind of arena and crowd the industry had to offer. He wasn't wearing the gold yet, but he carried the aura of a man who knew exactly where he sat in the pecking order.

Natasha zipped the final suitcase with a decisive thwack, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She looked at the belts draped over the luggage and then back at Will. "Miserable? Please. I'm going to make them admire the view while I take everything they thought they had a shot at."

The drive to the Copperbox was less of a commute and more of a high-speed tactical insertion. Will handled the steering wheel with the same frantic, kinetic energy he brought to the ring, weaving the car through the snarling London traffic with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. The interior of the car was a cacophony of heavy bass and pre-match nerves, the sound system pulsing with a playlist designed to elevate the heart rate. Beside him, Natasha sat in a state of focused stillness, her gaze fixed on the blurred grey of the motorway, her mind already mapping out the geometry of the squared circle. Every time Will shifted gears, he glanced at her, checking for the "Technical Savage" glint in her eye, and every time he did, he found her jaw set and her focus locked.

"You're too quiet," Will noted, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass. "Usually, by this point, you've told me you hate my music taste at least three times. The silence is suspicious, Tash. Are you plotting a coup, or have you finally accepted that my playlist is the gold standard of pre-game hype?"

Natasha didn't look at him, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. "I'll never accept your music, Will. It sounds like a digital glitch having a panic attack," she replied, though a small smile played on her lips.

"Then what's up?" Will asked, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass of a high-bpm electronic track that sounded like a factory falling down a flight of stairs.

"Just thinking about tonight," Natasha admitted, her voice cutting through the synthetic roar of the speakers. "The noise. The anticipation. It’s like a physical thing, isn't it? Once we hit the parking lot, the air just… changes."

Will shifted gears with a sharp, practiced flick, the car surging forward as they navigated the final stretch toward Hackney. He knew that feeling—the static electricity that seemed to coat the asphalt around the Copperbox on show nights. For most people, it was just traffic and crowded sidewalks, but for them, it was the gathering storm of a thousand expectations. He caught her eye, the neon signs of the city blurring into streaks of electric blue and amber against the windshield. "That's just the adrenaline trying to find a way in," he said, his voice steady. "Don't let it in yet. Save it for the walk-out."

As they pulled into the venue's orbit, the usual chaos of a high-profile indie show had already begun to coagulate. Black SUVs and beat-up hatchbacks were crammed haphazardly into the loading zones, and the air was thick with the scent of exhaust and anticipation. A small cluster of die-hard fans had already staked out the perimeter wearing their favourite wrestlers colours, holding signs that blurred between reverence and demand. Will slowed the car, the engine idling with a low, impatient rumble that mirrored the vibration in Natasha's chest.

"Right, we ready to descend upon the chaos?" Will asked, his voice barely audible over the idling engine. He didn't just park the car; he slotted it into a tight gap between a rental van and a polished black sedan with the surgical precision of a man who had spent half his life navigating the logistical nightmare of backstage parking. He killed the engine, and for a heartbeat, the sudden silence in the cabin was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the cooling metal and the distant, muffled roar of the crowd already filtering into the arena.

Natasha didn't move. She sat in the passenger seat, staring at the weathered facade of the Copperbox. To the average passerby, it was just a venue, a repurposed space of concrete and steel. To her, it was a chessboard where every square was a potential trap and every move was scrutinized by thousands. She could feel the phantom weight of the titles in the back of the car, the gold waiting to be draped over her shoulders and presented to a crowd that craved either her victory or her downfall.

"The energy is different today," she whispered, her hand lingering on the door handle. "It’s not just the usual buzz. It feels… hungry."

Will reached over and squeezed her hand, his grip firm and grounding. "That’s because they know you’re coming, Tash. They’re not just waiting for a match; they’re waiting to see if anyone on the planet is actually capable of taking those belts off you." He gave her a crooked, confident grin. "Spoiler alert: they aren't."

Natasha chuckled, the tension in her shoulders finally loosening as she exhaled. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Billy boy" She popped the door open, and the wall of noise from the outside world rushed in to fill the void, a chaotic blend of shouting fans, distant music, and the rhythmic thumping of a nearby bass bin.

The transition from the climate-controlled sanctuary of the car to the raw energy of the venue was like stepping into a different frequency. They moved in a synchronized dance of logistical necessity, retrieving the gear bags from the boot with the practiced ease of a team that had done this a thousand times. Will hoisted his own heavy kit over one shoulder while reaching for the suitcase containing Natasha’s championships. He didn't just carry the gold; he handled it with a reverent care, as if the belts were living things that might bruise if bumped against the car frame. Natasha followed close behind, her own bag slung low and heavy, her eyes already scanning the perimeter.

As they navigated the narrow corridor toward the talent entrance, they passed through a gauntlet of frantic production assistants carrying rolls of gaffer tape and coils of XLR cables. The air here was different—thick with the scent of old concrete and the metallic tang of rigging. It was a backstage alchemy that always made Natasha’s skin prickle. They weren't just walking into a building; they were crossing a threshold into a space where their identities shifted. The domestic softness of the morning—the pugs, the burnt toast, the shared laughter in the kitchen—was stripped away, layer by layer, until only the competitors remained.

"Right then," Will said, pausing just before the heavy double doors that led to the gorilla position and the locker rooms. He looked at her, his expression shifting from the supportive boyfriend to the focused professional. "The storm is on the other side of these doors, Tash. You ready to lead the charge?"

The double doors stood as a boundary between the curated peace of their partnership and the cacophony of the industry. Will paused, the heavy gear bag on his shoulder shifting with a metallic clink, and turned to face her. In the dim, flickering light of the concrete hallway, the air seemed to thicken, pulling them toward one another. Natasha reached up, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him down just enough to bridge the gap.

The kiss wasn't a tentative goodbye; it was a pact. It tasted of the lingering coffee from the morning and the sharp, electric anticipation of the night to come. It was the kind of kiss that served as a psychic anchor, a reminder that no matter how loud the crowd roared or how brutal the match became, there was a quiet house in the suburbs with two sleeping pugs waiting for them. For a few seconds, the surrounding chaos of production assistants and the distant thud of a bass bin ceased to exist, leaving only the rhythmic thrum of two hearts beating in a synchronized cadence.

When they finally broke apart, the silence between them was heavy and charged. Will rested his forehead against hers, his eyes searching hers with a final, grounding intensity. "You'll smash it," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. "Just remember that you're the baddest bitch in the building. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Natasha let out a soft, sharp breath, her fingers lingering on the back of his neck for one last second before she stepped back, breaking the physical connection. The shift was instantaneous; the softness vanished, replaced by the clinical coldness of the Technical Savage. She didn't look back as she turned toward the women's locker room, her boots clicking a rhythmic, authoritative beat against the concrete. The distance between them grew as they split toward their respective wings of the arena, the shared warmth of the kiss dissolving into the solitary focus required for the fight.

The women's locker room was a hive of controlled chaos. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, athletic tape, and a dozen different brands of perfume, creating a heavy, floral haze that clung to the ceiling. Natasha navigated the room like a shark in shallow water, ignoring the superficial chatter of the other wrestlers as she claimed her corner.

Natasha’s eyes didn’t just scan the room; they mapped it. She ignored the frantic energy of the rookies and the loud, overlapping conversations about spot-timing and costume malfunctions. Her focus was a laser, cutting through the haze of hairspray and baby powder until it landed on a shock of blue hair near the vanity. Skye Blue was there, sat in the furthest corner alone, meticulously wrapping her wrists in white athletic tape. She looked smaller than she did on television, stripped of the arena lighting, but the sight of her sent a sharp, cold jolt of recognition through Natasha’s nervous system.

The silence between them was a physical wall, constructed from months of unspoken resentment and a betrayal that no amount of championship gold could fully erase. Natasha began to unwrap her own wrists, her movements slow and deliberate, her gaze never wavering from Skye. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees, the superficial noise of the other women fading into a dull hum as the two of them locked eyes in the mirror. It was a cold war of posture and presence, a silent calculation of who would blink first in a room full of predators.

The tension was shattered by the heavy thud of the locker room door swinging open, followed by the booming, unmistakable energy of Amira Blair. Amira didn't just enter a room; she annexed it. Clad in a vibrant tracksuit that matched her high-octane personality, she strode across the linoleum with a grin that could light up a blackout, her presence acting like a sudden burst of oxygen in the stifling atmosphere.

"Right! Who's ready to get their souls crushed?" Amira announced, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. She spotted Natasha and pivoted with a theatrical flare, sliding across the floor like she was hitting a baseball diamond. "Tash! My favourite triple-crown menace!"

She wrapped Natasha in a rib-crushing hug, effectively breaking the psychic tether between Natasha and Skye. As Amira pulled back, her eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity, her gaze flickering toward the door. "Now, tell me the truth—did you actually manage to move in without Will accidentally breaking a load-bearing wall? I can see the 'stressed' lines on your forehead, babe. Did the house survive the Commonwealth Kingpin's organizational skills, or is it currently a disaster zone of half-packed boxes and misplaced socks?"

Natasha laughed, the sound finally cutting through the icy stillness she'd maintained since entering the room. The tension in her shoulders dropped an inch. "Surprisingly, the house is still standing," she replied, glancing at the mirror to ensure Skye was still firmly out of their immediate orbit. "Though I think I’m still recovering from the pugs' interpretation of 'helping' with the packing. They treated every single cardboard box like a personal challenge from the gods of chew-toys."

Amira let out a loud, boisterous cackle that echoed off the lockers, her energy filling the gaps where the silence had previously been suffocating. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage-whisper that could probably be heard in the front row of the arena. "Listen, I love the man—he’s a legend, a proper lunatic—but the idea of Will Ospreay attempting to 'organize' a living space is a terrifying thought. I can just picture it: a beautifully coordinated system of chaos where the socks are filed by 'aerodynamic properties' and the kitchen is mapped out like a high-flying sequence in the Tokyo Dome."

Natasha chuckled, the genuine warmth of Amira’s presence acting as a buffer against the coldness emanating from the other side of the room. "It wasn't that bad," Natasha admitted, leaning back against the cold metal of her locker. "He was actually helpful".

"Good, now get him to get Mike to actually help the next time we move." Amira joked, giving Natasha a playful shove toward the center of the room. "But seriously, look at you. Three belts, a new house, and a man who treats you like a queen. You’re practically the final boss of this entire division."

Natasha smiled, but her eyes flickered back toward the vanity. Skye Blue had stopped wrapping her wrists. She was staring at Natasha through the mirror, her expression an unreadable mix of embarssment and something that looked suspiciously like regret. The air between them tightened again, the warmth of Amira’s presence acting as a thin veil over a very sharp edge.

"What can I say, guess I'm lucky," Natasha said, her voice devoid of the warmth she had just shared with Amira. She didn't look at Skye directly, instead focusing on the gold plating of the ROH title as she slid it into its travel case. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of silence that happens right before a storm breaks over the coast.

"Right, I've got to find Michael so we can go over his title defence against Trent," Amira declared, her voice booming as she pivoted on her heel. With a theatrical wave and a wink that signaled she knew exactly what the atmosphere was, she vanished through the door, her footsteps receding with a rhythmic, energetic thud that left a vacuum of silence in her wake.

The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was heavy, thick with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. Natasha didn't move, her fingers still tracing the cold leather of the ROH belt. She could feel Skye’s gaze on her—a fragile, tentative weight. The locker room seemed to shrink, the distance between the vanity and the lockers becoming a vast, treacherous no-man's land of polished linoleum and unspoken history.

"Natasha," Skye started, her voice barely a whisper, stripped of the confidence she usually wore like armor in the ring. "I just wanted to say thanks. Y'know for not blacklisting me at RevPro. I know the last time we spoke… well, the air wasn't exactly friendly."

Natasha didn't turn. She remained focused on the ROH belt, her fingers methodically smoothing a crease in the leather. The silence stretched, becoming a weapon of its own. She could see Skye in the mirror, the other woman shifting her weight from foot to foot, the white athletic tape on her wrists looking stark and clinical against her skin. The apology was there, hovering in the air like a fragile piece of glass, but Natasha wasn't sure if she wanted to catch it or simply watch it shatter.

"I don't blacklist anyone just like I'm not the booker here," Natasha replied, her voice clipped and professional. "I’m a professional wrestler. My job is to be here, and my job is to win. Whether I like the people in the room or not is entirely irrelevant to the quality of the match."

Skye nodded. "Right"

"Was there something else?" Natasha asked, finally turning her head. Her expression wasn't angry; it was worse. It was indifferent. She looked at Skye not as a former partner or a rival, but as a variable in a match—something to be analyzed, countered, and eventually neutralized.

Skye shifted, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I just… I know 'sorry' doesn't fix the mess. And I know that saying it now, right before the show, probably feels like a tactical move. But I've spent the last few months hating how things left off.

"I know it's a bit late for a confession," Skye continued, her voice wavering as she stepped out from the shadow of the vanity. "But the way I handled things… the way I just stepped into your life and took what wasn't mine to take… it was cowardly. I didn't just want the attention; I wanted what you had. I stole your space, your peace, and for a while, I thought I could just replace you in his head without anyone getting hurt."

Natasha finally stopped fiddling with the belt. She turned her full body toward Skye, her posture shifting into something imposing, the silent authority of a woman who held three pieces of gold and a thousand victories. "You spread your legs for my boyfriend when I was grieving my mum being murdered, Skye. You didn't 'steal my space.' You tried to colonize my life while I was too broken to fight back."

The words were cold, stripped of any dramatic flair. They were simply facts, laid out like a series of clinical strikes. Skye flinched, the admission hanging in the air like a bad smell. The locker room, once buzzing with the frantic energy of a pre-show, had fallen into a vacuum of silence. The other women had instinctively drifted away, sensing the atmospheric pressure drop as the Technical Savage finally let the resentment surface.

"I know," Skye whispered, her voice cracking. "And every time I look at you now—especially now that you're the champion, and you're happy, and you've actually found a way to be… I just feel like a footnote in a story you've already finished reading."

Natasha stepped forward, the distance between them closing until they were barely a foot apart. She didn't reach out to touch her; instead, she looked Skye up and down with a discerning eye, the way a mechanic looks at a faulty engine. "The mistake you made wasn't the betrayal, Skye. The mistake was thinking that your apology would make me feel better. I don't need your apology to feel good. I have the titles, I have the house, and I have a man who actually knows my worth while you have my sloppy seconds. A leopard doesn't change its spots, and a snake doesn't stop being a snake just because it learned how to say 'sorry' in a locker room."

Skye opened her mouth to respond, but the words died in her throat.

"I just hope you know some people were born to follow, and some were born to lead. You can go out every night, stupid smile on your face with your arse hanginig out, but you'll never be the one holding the gold," Natasha finished, her voice a low, dangerous hum. "you'll always be viewed as a side piece and while you'll probably get a house, a dozen cats you'll never get a ring. Side pieces never get the ring".

Skye’s face crumpled, the polished facade of the professional athlete finally cracking. She opened her mouth to retort, but no sound came out—only a sharp, ragged intake of breath that shuddered in her chest. She looked away first, her gaze landing on the cold linoleum floor, defeated by the sheer weight of Natasha’s indifference. The "Technical Savage" didn't wait for a response. She turned back and walked out of the locker room with a slow, rhythmic stride, her boots sounding like a countdown.

As she pushed through the heavy double doors and stepped back into the concrete corridor, the air felt lighter, as if she had purged a toxin she’d been carrying since the drive from the house. She felt a presence beside her before she saw him; Will was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, watching her with an eyebrow raised. He had the instinct of a hawk, sensing the shift in her energy the moment she emerged.

"You look like you just took someone's head off with a crossbody," Will noted, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He didn't ask who or why; he knew the geography of Natasha's grudges. He stepped forward, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. "Did the air in there get too thin for everyone else, or did you just decide to remind the room who owns the lease on the division?"

Natasha leaned into him, the tension finally draining from her jaw. The coldness she had projected toward Skye didn't exist here. With Will, she wasn't the champion or the savage; she was just Tash. "Just a bit of housekeeping, Billy," she murmured, her voice returning to the soft, tired tone she only used when the cameras were off. "Some things just need to be put in their proper place before the music hits."

"What did you do, exactly?" Will asked, his voice brimming with an amused curiosity. He began to lead her toward the gorilla position, his stride loose and rhythmic. "Because you’ve got that specific look in your eye. The one where you’ve just mathematically proven someone's insignificance. It’s a very terrifying look, Tash. Very hot, but terrifying."

Natasha let out a short, sharp exhale that was almost a laugh. "I just reminded her that the view from the top is only clear because people like her stay in the basement," she replied, her voice regaining its clinical edge. "She tried to play the 'sorry' card. I just reminded her that the house always wins, and she’s not even playing in the same casino anymore."

Will squeezed her hip, his expression softening. He knew the history—the messy, jagged edges of the betrayal that had nearly derailed Natasha's mental game a year prior. He didn't judge her for the coldness; in their world, mercy was often mistaken for weakness, and Natasha had fought too hard for her current position to let a lingering ghost haunt her headspace. "Fuck Tash. You okay?".

Natasha shrugged. "I'm not letting her or Kyle ruin this weekend for me. Personally, I've moved in with you, we're building something together as equal, committed partners. Professionally I'm on the role of my career, holding three promotions top titles. I'm wrestling Mickie fuckin James and tomorrow i'm in a four way for the AEW Women's World title in my hometown at the largest venue in this country at the biggest wrestling weekend in history. I'm more than okay, Will. I'm untouchable."

Will stopped walking and turned her toward him, his gaze intense. "That's the spirit. The world is basically your playground right now, and I've got a front row seat to watch you dismantle everyone in your path." He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to her forehead.

Drilla Moloney x OC (Bethany Clark)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea

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Dan Moloney sighed deeply as he sat in the Bullet Club War Dogs locker room. It had been exactly a month since Beth had walked out of his apartment in Tokyo for the last time. A month since he'd forgotten their three year anniversary. A month since his life had become a series of long flights and empty nights alone.

There was only so many shots that could numb the pain he felt every time he looked at the empty side of the bed. He'd truly lost the love of his life and it felt shit. He'd never been the guy who'd wallow when a relationship ended, but this time it felt different. Beth was different. It had only taken him loosing her to finally realise that she was the only thing that really mattered to him.

But he couldn't stop himself from looking. Every night, the blue light of his phone became his only companion. He’d scroll through her Instagram stories with a thumb that felt heavy and clumsy, watching her live a life that no longer included him. He saw the flashes of Tokyo’s neon streets, the blurred photos of post-match celebrations with the Oedo Tai girls, and the way she laughed in the background of someone else's video. She looked radiant, her energy unchecked and wild, as if the space he had occupied in her life had been seamlessly filled by the chaos of the ring and the loyalty of her friends. He'd noticed that she'd changed up her hair after months of contemplation. Gone was the all blonde, replaced with dipped purple tips that matched her unit's colours.

Gone were the cheesy good morning texts, the memes, the critique after matches and the zoomed in arse shots with heart eye emoji's that he had become accustomed too for the last three years. Instead, his screen provided a curated, one-sided window into her world. He’d spend hours scrolling through her "Highlights" section, tracing the timeline of their collapse. The inspirational quotes she’d posted three weeks ago felt like a targeted strike; the videos of her training at the gym, looking leaner and more focused than ever, felt like a reminder that she wasn't just moving on—she was ascending.

He found himself analyzing the background of her photos with the precision of a forensics expert. A stray gym bag in the corner of a mirror selfie, a specific brand of energy drink on a table—he tried to piece together who she was with and where she was going. He knew the rhythm of her day by the timestamps of her posts. He knew she was spending more time with Thekla lately, the two of them forming a tight, impenetrable circle of steel and chaos that left no room for a grieving ex-boyfriend.

The ritual became a kind of digital penance. He would lie in the dim light of his room, the air conditioner humming a low, monotonous tune, and double-tap a photo of her laughing in a ramen shop. He wondered if she ever did the same, if she ever checked his profile just to see if he was still miserable or if he’d found some new distraction to fill the silence. He suspected not. Beth didn't do things halfway; when she cut someone out, she did it with the same surgical precision she used in the ring.

"Oi, D! Put the fucking phone away before you burn a hole through the screen," Gabe yelled, slapping the back of Dan’s head with a heavy palm. The sound echoed through the locker room, snapping Dan out of his digital trance. They had just come off a brutal victory, the adrenaline still humming in their veins, and the rest of the War Dogs were already buzzing. The energy in the room was electric, a stark contrast to the vacuum of silence Dan had been inhabiting for the last four weeks.

"We're celebrating, not mourning," Clark added, his tone softening slightly as he noticed the vacant look in Dan's eyes. "Drinks are on the house—or at least, on whoever loses the first round of darts. Get your gear off and let's get going. There's alot of single people in this city, and you're far too miserable to be this handsome."

"Fine, fine," Dan muttered, though a small, reluctant smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. He stood up, the joints in his knees popping after the match, and moved toward his bag. He didn't want to look like he’d been rotting in a hotel room for a month, but he didn't want to try too hard either. He pulled on a pair of charcoal skinny jeans that hugged his legs just enough to show the work he'd put in at the gym, pairing them with a simple black vest top that left his tattooed arms free. It was a standard kit for him—low effort, high impact.

He laced up his Jordans with a focused intensity, the rhythmic tug of the laces grounding him. The final touch was the black leather jacket; it was heavy and smelled faintly of old rain and city streets, a piece of armor that made him feel less exposed than he actually was. As he caught his reflection in the locker room mirror, he didn't see the heartbroken man who had spent the last hour scrolling through Instagram. He saw Drilla Moloney, a man who looked like he belonged in a crowded bar, even if his chest felt like a hollowed-out shell.

The walk to the bar was a blur of neon signage and the loud, boisterous laughter of the War Dogs. Gabe and Clark were in rare form, recounting the match with exaggerated gestures, their voices booming over the noise of the Tokyo nightlife. Dan walked a half-step behind them, letting the adrenaline of the victory finally begin to override the dull ache of loneliness. By the time they pushed through the heavy oak doors of the club, the dim amber lighting and the roar of a Friday night crowd had almost managed to distract him.

The music was loud enough to vibrate in his teeth, a pulsing house beat that competed with the clinking of highball glasses. The War Dogs claimed a corner booth with the practiced ease of men who took up too much space, sliding into the cracked leather seats with a triumphant roar. Gabe immediately flagged down a waitress, ordering a round of shots that looked dangerously clear and smelled like pure ethanol. For a while, Dan let himself drift, nodding along to Clark’s play-by-play of a particularly nasty suplex, the warmth of the alcohol beginning to blur the sharp edges of his anxiety.

He was halfway through his second drink when he felt a sudden, instinctive shift in the room's gravity. It wasn't a sound, but a feeling—a familiar electricity that usually preceded a storm.

"Well fuck me. She looks like she likes it dirty". Clark smirked, his chin tilting toward the far end of the bar where the crowd thinned out near the jukebox.

Dan followed the line of Clark's gaze, and for a second, the pulsing bass of the club seemed to mute, leaving only the thud of his own heart against his ribs. There, perched on a high velvet stool with one leg crossed over the other, was Beth. She was leaning back, laughing at something Thekla was saying, her head tilted in that specific way that meant she was genuinely amused. The purple tips of her hair caught the strobe of a nearby light, flashing like a warning signal in the dimness of the bar. She looked effortless, wearing a cropped leather jacket that matched Thekla's energy, her eyes sparkling with a chaotic light that Dan knew all too well.

He froze, his glass halfway to his lips, the ice clinking softly against the rim. He had spent a month seeing her through a five-inch screen, analyzing pixels and timestamps, but seeing her in three dimensions was a different kind of violence. She looked smaller than she did in the ring, yet she seemed to occupy more space in the room than anyone else. The sight of her—the way she gestured with a cocktail glass, the familiarity in the way she leaned into Thekla—made the air in his lungs feel heavy and insufficient.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Dan growled, slamming the glass down with such force it could've shattered.

Clark smirked. "I said she looks like she likes it dirty. Look at those leather pants and boots, Dan. It’s practically a uniform for a wild night. Don't tell me your tastes have gone bland in four weeks." He didn't back down, instead leaning further into the booth with a playful, challenging glint in his eye, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just stepped onto a landmine.

Dan didn’t think; he reacted. The combination of the ethanol in his system and the sudden, jarring sight of Beth triggered a primal reflex. He lunged across the cracked leather seat, his hand snapping out with the precision of a strike, fingers locking firmly around Clark’s throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to shut off the air entirely, but the intent was there—a sudden, violent surge of protectiveness and possessiveness that had no place in a public bar. For a split second, the noise of the club vanished, replaced by the sound of his own ragged breathing and the startled gasp from Clark.

"Say it again," Dan hissed, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. "Say one more fucking word about her."

Before the tension could snap into a full-blown brawl, a pair of strong arms wrapped around Dan’s chest, yanking him backward with enough force to make his heels skid on the sticky floor. Gabe had moved in with lightning speed, his grip like a vise around Dan's ribs, while David Finlay stepped in to shove Clark safely out of reach.

"Easy D". Gabe grunted, his boots sliding on the floor as he fought to keep Dan’s momentum from carrying them both over the table.

Clark didn't look intimidated; if anything he looked confused. "What the fuck's your problem?".

"What's going on?". David Finlay asked, glancing between the two, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass.

Clarke rubbed his neck, a bewildered grin slowly returning to his face. "I just made a comment about a chick and he snapped".

"Which one?". Gabe asked, though he didn't let go of Dan's chest, keeping him anchored to the booth like a wild animal on a leash. He looked over Dan's shoulder, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on the velvet stools by the jukebox.

"Blonde with purple tips". Clark added rubbing the spot Dan had gripped, his voice returning to its usual smug cadence. "Just a bit of banter, mate. I thought she'd be your type."

Gabe let out a sharp, knowing exhale, finally loosening his grip on Dan’s chest but keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Oh yeah she's his type. She's also his ex Mrs you wanker," Gabe groaned, shaking his head at Clark. "We've been listening to Dan mope around the gym for a month, and you decide to treat his ex like a piece of meat right in front of him?"

Clark blinked, the gears turning. "Fuck I didn't know. I've never met her before," he stammered, though the smugness hadn't entirely evaporated from his voice. He started to reach out a hand in a gesture of apology, but Dan wasn't in the mood for a truce.

Dan wrenched himself away from Gabe’s grip, the sudden movement sending a shudder through the booth. He didn't look at Clark; he couldn't. If he looked at him, he might actually start a fight that would get them all kicked out of the venue before the first round of celebratory drinks was even finished. Instead, he leaned in close enough for Clark to smell the sharp tang of the clear liquor on his breath. "Fuck yourself, Clark. Seriously. Just… fuck yourself."

Without waiting for a response, Dan spun on his heel and pushed through the crowd. He didn't care who he bumped into or whose drink he nearly knocked over. He needed air—real air, not the recycled, perfume-and-sweat oxygen of the club.

"Aren't you going after him?". David Finlay asked, watching the retreating line of Dan’s broad shoulders disappear into the sea of neon-lit bodies.

Gabe just shrugged, as he downed two shots. "Na. Imma give him five minutes to cool down. You're lucky you still have your dick".

Dan shoved through the heavy oak doors, the sudden silence of the Tokyo night hitting him like a physical weight. The cool breeze caught the back of his neck, but it did nothing to dampen the heat radiating from his skin. He paced the narrow alleyway, his Jordans crunching on grit and broken glass, his mind looping the image of Beth’s laughter. He could still feel the ghost of Clark's throat under his fingers, a reflexive act of ownership over a woman who had spent the last thirty days proving she belonged to no one but herself. He leaned his forehead against the cold brick wall of the building, closing his eyes and trying to slow his heart rate, but the image of those purple hair tips remained burned into his retinas.

Reaching into the pockets of his jacket he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, striking it to life, the small flame flickering in the dark. The smoke filled his lungs and he exhaled, watching it dance in the neon lights of the bar's sign. His thoughts swirled like the smoke around him, a tornado of anger, regret, and desire. Hearing his so called friend disrespecting his ex-girlfriend, Moloney's anger grew. Granted he hadn't known, but still. The cigarette in his hand felt like a small spark in a keg of dynamite, his emotions ready to blow. He took another deep drag, trying to keep his cool, but the memory of her smiling face and the way she had once looked at him made his stomach twist. He had never truly gotten over her, and the fact that she had moved on so easily was a knife in the gut.

Bethany had been different. She had seen through the bravado and the tough exterior that Moloney wore like armor. She had seen the man beneath, the one who craved love and stability amidst the chaos of his life. But he had been too blinded by the camaraderie of the War Dogs, the adrenaline of the ring, and the easy thrill of the lifestyle to commit to her. It was a decision he had come to regret, especially when she had walked away. He had truly allowed himself to finally start to let someone in, and he had lost her. Through his own stupid actions. He'd allowed himself to fully open up. To tell her about his upbringing, his rough start, and childhood on a council estate in the rough neighbourhoods of Birmingham. The nights he'd spent fighting for survival and the days dreaming of escape. He had told her of his ambitions, the fiery drive that had brought him to this very moment. But when she had asked for more, for commitment, for a future together, he had been too scared to let her in fully.

He took another drag, his thoughts going right back to Beth. Her smile, her willingness to see the good in people, especially him. She brought out a new side to himself, a more tender side. He'd liked it, for a while at least. But when it came to the crunch, his "lads first" mentality had won out, as it always did. She had been the one to end things, saying that she deserved better. And now she was here, in the same bar, with her friends and a guy, who Moloney assumed was her new boyfriend, laughing and seemingly happy without him.

He recalled their first date, the way she always laughed at his stupid dad jokes. How some nights she could drink him under the table, and she did. He recalled her distinctive smell, vanilla with a hint of caramel, and how they were intimate. Connors had been right, Beth did like it rough, but it was never just that. With her, it was always more, a passionate dance of dominance and submission that left him feeling alive and connected in a way he hadn't felt before, but Connors had also been wrong. There were times when they'd been gentle and sweet, moments of tenderness that had taken his breath away.

What did it matter now? She obviously had moved on with her life, while he only had the memories of their shared past to keep him warm at night.

Finishing his cigarette, Moloney tossed the butt to the ground and stepped on it with the heel of his boot, the hiss of extinguishing embers satisfying his pent up aggression. He took a deep breath and turned back to the bar's entrance, deciding to let the matter with Connors slide for now. Before he could make it back inside, the door swung open and out stepped the object of his obsession - Beth. She looked stunning, her hair cascading down her back, the leather jacket giving her an edgy look that made his pulse quicken.

"Hey Daniel," she called out, her voice cutting through the chilly night air like a hot knife through butter.

Moloney's heart skipped a beat as he turned to face her. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief that had once been reserved just for him.

No one other than Beth and his own mother called him Daniel. It was a name that brought back memories of a softer, more vulnerable time. A time he had buried deep within himself as he climbed the ranks of the wrestling world. He turned to face her, the coolness of the night air doing nothing to soothe the heat of his emotions.

"Beth." His voice was gruff, betraying none of the tumultuous thoughts churning inside him.

"I saw the slight tension with your mate. I wanted to check on you. You okay?". Bethany's voice was sweet, but there was an underlying edge to it that told him she knew exactly what had happened.

He nodded curtly, his throat tight. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed some air."

Bethany sighed. "Daniel don't lie to me. I know you better than that." She took a step closer, her eyes searching his. "What did he say?"

"What makes you think he said something?".

Moloney's question was met with a knowing look from Bethany. "Because that's what you do, Daniel. You let things build up inside until you're ready to explode. You looked like you were ready to knock him through the wall."

Her words stung, but she had a point. He had always been one to bottle up his emotions, especially when it came to her. "It was nothing," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

"It wasn't nothing. Tell me Daniel," she pressed, taking another step closer so that their bodies were almost touching. Her perfume wrapped around him like a warm embrace, and for a moment, he was transported back to their shared past.

He could smell the vanilla and caramel of her perfume, so faint yet so potent it was like a punch to the gut. "He said something about a woman in there that I took exception too."

Her eyes searched his, a flicker of something - anger? Pity? - passing over her features. "It was about me, wasn't it?"

Moloney didn't answer, his jaw clenching as he stared at the ground.

Bethany stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his arm. "Dan, talk to me."

Moloney looked up at her, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and pain. "It's nothing, Beth. Just some idiot making a joke at the wrong time."

"You'd really rather brush what he said off than tell me what he said?". Bethany's hand remained on his arm, her grip firm. Moloney felt the heat of her touch, the electricity that had always been there between them, and he knew he couldn't lie to her.

"He said that he bet you liked it rough and dirty. It was before Gabe told him you were my ex. Happy now?" Moloney's voice was low, his eyes never leaving hers.

Bethany's hand fell from his arm, her cheeks flushing with anger. "Connors is such a prick. Why are you letting that wanker get to you? You're better than that Dan."

Dan took a step back, creating space between them. "It's not just Connors, it's all of it, Beth. This whole fucking life. The matches, the fans, the parties, it's all just a show. And you… you're the only real thing I ever had."

Her eyes searched his, and for a moment, the anger melted away, replaced by a softness that made his chest ache. "Then why did you push me away?"

The question hung in the air, a silent accusation that Dan had heard a thousand times in his own head. "You know why," he said, his voice gruff. "I was too busy chasing the titles, living the dream. Partying hard and feeding into the bullshit of the War Dogs."

Bethany's gaze never left his, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and understanding. "The dream didn't leave much room for me, did it?"

"I know I fucked up Beth. I just… I didn't know how to balance it all. And when you asked for more, I was scared." Moloney's voice was raw with emotion, the cool façade he had worn for so long cracking at the seams. "Fucking petrified actually. That's right, big hard man Drilla Dan Moloney was fucking petrified to commit to the only woman who ever truly knew him."

Bethany looked at him, her eyes glistening in the neon light. "You didn't have to be, Dan. I would've supported you, been there for you, no matter what. But you didn't give me that chance. Why didn't you give me a chance?"

"Look at you, and look at me. What could I have given you Beth? I'm a fucking twat. A dyslexic kid from a broken home who barely got G.C.S.E's." Moloney's words were filled with self-loathing.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "You're not just that Dan, you never were. You're smart, you're caring, and you're one of the strongest people I know. And as for the War Dogs, I knew what you were getting into when you joined them. You didn't have to choose between me and them, you just had to make time for us. Make me a priority once in a while. Not forget our anniversary. It's not hard, we both work in the same country now, for fuck's sake."

Moloney sighed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I know, I know. I was just…"

"Just what? Let me in Dan. For once let me in and be fucking truthful and vulnerable with me." Her voice was a whisper, yet it resonated through his entire being.

Dan's shoulders slumped. "I was scared, Beth. Scared of losing you, scared of losing myself, scared of failin' ya. I always have to self sabotage myself whenever something good comes along. Like I always have to be broken. That I don't deserve love, compassion or anything good in my life".

Her eyes searched his, looking for the truth that laid behind the bravado. "But why? What makes you think you're not good enough?"

He took a deep breath, the weight of his fears and insecurities heavy on his shoulders. "It's just… I've never had anything good in my life that didn't come with a cost, you know? The War Dogs, the titles, the money, it all came at a price. And when I had you, it was like I couldn't believe it was real, like I was waiting for someone or something to fuck me over. When it didnt come, I did it to myself".

Bethany's eyes searched his, her expression one of sadness and anger. "I never asked you to change who you are, Dan. I just wanted us. A day off, something. Not being taken for granted".

"I'm sorry Beth." Moloney's voice was hoarse, the weight of his regret thick in the air. "I never knew how to be that guy for you."

Bethany's expression softened, the anger dissipating slightly. "It's not about being a certain type of guy, Dan. It's about making a choice. Choosing to be present, to care for someone else as much as you care for yourself and your career."

"Guess it doesn't matter now. I lost the love of my life. You've probably got someone new, someone who can give you everything I couldn't. And me, well I'm destined to be alone, which is what I probably deserve." Moloney's words hung in the air, heavy with defeat.

Bethany's gaze grew intense, her voice firm. "You're not destined to be alone, Dan. You just need to get your shit together."

"I'm trying, Beth." Dan's voice was raw with emotion, the truth of her words cutting through the layers of his defenses. "But it's hard when every time I look at you, all I see is what I pissed away."

Her gaze softened, and she reached up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently brushing away the beads of sweat that still clung to his skin. "You're not a lost cause, Dan. You're just… misguided."

He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the feeling of her skin on his. "I miss you, Beth," he murmured. "Fuck, I miss us."

Her hand dropped to her side, and she took a step back, the coolness of the air filling the space between them once more. "I miss you too, Dan," she said softly. "But you've got to figure out what you want."

"I want you Beth. I want us. I want a future with you, with kids, dogs and that fucking white picket fence you always joked about." Moloney's voice was earnest, his eyes pleading.

Bethany looked at him, the sadness in her eyes unyielding. "But is that what you truly want, Dan, or is it just the fear of losing me that's making you say that?"

"I truly want it, give or take the white picket fence. I think black's more our style anyway," Moloney said, attempting to lighten the mood with a smirk, but it faltered at the sight of Beth's unconvinced expression. He knew he had to show her, not just tell her. "I've changed, Beth. I've been doing therapy, working on myself. I don't want to keep repeating the same mistakes."

"Therapy? I thought you said therapy was for the weak," Bethany said with a raised eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Yeah, well, I was wrong," Moloney admitted, his face flushing slightly. "I've realized that I need to face my shit if I ever want to be the man you deserve."

Bethany searched his eyes, looking for the sincerity she so desperately wanted to see. "You really mean that?"

Dan nodded, his heart hammering in his chest. "More than anything. I've been going to therapy, working on my issues. I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't want to lose you."

Bethany's eyes searched his, looking for the truth behind his words. "And what about the War Dogs, the parties, the lifestyle?"

"I'd nuke it all if you'd ask me too, Beth." Dan's words were earnest, his eyes searching hers for any sign of belief. "You've always been the one thing that was real to me. I'd leave it all behind for another shot with you."

"Even when it took you years to get to New Japan Pro Wrestling?" Bethany's voice was soft, but the challenge in her question was unmistakable.

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "If it means a chance at a real life with you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'd go back to the shittiest UK indies and get a full time job again if it meant we could build something together."

Her eyes searched his, looking for any trace of doubt, but she found none. Just the raw honesty that she had once loved so much. "Okay," she said finally, her voice a whisper.

"Okay?". Dan's eyes searched hers, hope sparking in his chest. "Does that mean…?"

Bethany took another step closer, her eyes never leaving his. "It means I'll give you a chance, Dan. One last chance, but you have to prove it to me. You have to show me that you're ready to be the man I need."

"You know I will," Dan said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll do whatever it takes to make it right."

Bethany nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Good. Because I'm not going to make it easy for you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way". Dan smiled. "Now bring that sexy arse over here and let me make this official."

Bethany chuckled, shaking her head slightly. "You haven't changed that much, have you?"

Moloney stepped closer, his eyes alight with hope and a hint of the mischief they had once shared. "I know you love it, love."

He leaned in, and for a moment, it felt like time had rewound, the bar, the noise, and even the chilly night air fading into the background as their lips met in a fiery kiss. The passion between them hadn't disappeared. It was just buried beneath layers of pride and regret. Bethany melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as the kiss grew deeper, her fingers threading through his hair. The taste of him was as familiar as it was thrilling, a reminder of all the moments they had shared and all the moments they could still have. Dan deepened the kiss, one hand resting on her waist, the other one cupping her ass cheek, pulling her closer, feeling the heat between them reignite.

"The fuck? I leave you to sulk for ten minutes and your lipsing someone, bro". Gabe's voice cut through the night like a chainsaw, shattering the intimate moment between Moloney and Bethany.

When they pulled apart, Moloney wrapped an arm around Bethany's waist, keeping her close. "Thanks for ruining the moment you fucker".

"I was worried, that's all." Gabe grinned, noticing the blush on both their faces. "Beth nice to see ya, lookin killer as ever".

Bethany rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile that played on her lips. "Gabe."

"I'll leave you two lovebirds to it," Gabe said, slapping Moloney on the back before heading back inside.

"Admit it, you've missed Gabe". Dan's arm was still around her, his hand warm through the leather of her jacket.

Bethany rolled her eyes playfully. "Missed him and his terrible flirting? Not a chance." But the way she leaned into him told a different story.

"I can't believe you're actually letting me back in," Dan murmured, his voice dropping to that low, private frequency that always seemed to make Bethany’s expression soften. He didn't loosen his grip on her waist, terrified that if he created even an inch of distance, the neon lights would flicker and she’d vanish back into the curated images of his Instagram feed. The reality of her—the warmth of her body against his, the slight scent of vanilla clinging to her skin—was almost too much to process.

Bethany leaned her head against his shoulder, letting out a long, shaky exhale. "Don't make me regret it, Daniel. I mean it. No more 'lads first' when it comes to the big things. No more forgetting the dates that actually matter. If you slip up, I’m not just walking out; I’m taking the dog you said you wanted and moving to a country where you can't find me."

Dan let out a genuine laugh, the first one that had reached his eyes in over a month. "Deal. Although, we don't even have a dog yet."

"Details, details," she teased, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "Now, as much as I love this romantic alleyway aesthetic, Thekla's probably wondering why I’ve disappeared. She’s got the patience of a hungry tiger, and if she thinks you’ve kidnapped me, she’ll probably come storming out here to powerbomb you into the pavement."

"Text her. We could go back to mine? Talk or watch a movie or something," Dan suggested, his voice hopeful but cautious. He didn't want to push his luck; the fragile bridge they had just rebuilt felt like it could collapse if he stepped too heavily on it.

Bethany paused, her gaze flickering toward the heavy oak doors of the bar and then back to him. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "Slow your roll, Moloney. We just agreed to a 'chance,' not a full-blown reunion tour. I still have to deal with the fallout of you almost strangling your teammate in there, and Thekla is currently holding my drink. If I don't go back and get my whiskey she'll drink it herself, and that's a waste of good liquor."

Dan felt a flicker of the old frustration, but he suppressed it, remembering the vulnerability he’d just shared. He didn't pull away, but he loosened his grip slightly, giving her space to breathe while still keeping her within his orbit. "I've got an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker back at my place that would make that whiskey look like apple juice," he countered, his voice regaining some of that confident, playful rasp.

Bethany laughed, the sound light and genuine, and it felt like a victory. She reached up and patted his cheek, the gesture affectionate but firm. "You’re still a pushy bastard, aren't you? Fine. Let me go say goodbye to the chaos in there, and then maybe—just maybe—I’ll consider the offer. But you're paying for the Uber."

As she turned to head back toward the bar, Dan watched her walk away, the sway of her leather pants and the confidence in her stride making his chest swell. He felt a sudden, sharp surge of gratitude toward Gabe. The man was a loud-mouthed nuisance, but without his interruption, Dan might have just stood in that alleyway forever, terrified to make the first move. He stepped back toward the door, leaning against the brick wall and lighting one last cigarette, the smoke curling around his head as he watched the door.

When Bethany returned a few minutes later, she wasn't alone. Thekla was beside her, looking like she had just stepped out of a high-fashion riot, her eyes narrowed as she scanned Dan from head to toe. Thekla didn't do "subtle." She stopped a few feet away, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm glad you've reconciled, but you hurt her again and I'll rip out your balls and wear them as earrings. Got it?". Thekla's voice was crisp, cutting through the humid night air with the precision of a surgeon. She didn't wait for a response, her gaze shifting to Bethany with a protective flicker. "Go have fun".

"Will you be okay?". Beth asked, glancing back at Thekla, who was already halfway back to the entrance with a look of profound skepticism.

"Yeah. I'll have fun with the dogs. See if they live up to their name," Thekla called back over her shoulder, her voice trailing off as she disappeared back into the neon haze of the bar. She didn't look back, but the threat about the earrings lingered in the air, a stark reminder that while Beth might be giving Dan a chance, the rest of her circle was still holding him to a very high standard of conduct.

Dan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He stepped toward Bethany, the tension in his shoulders finally dissipating. "She's charming. Truly. A real ray of sunshine," he joked, though he knew Thekla’s brand of aggression was exactly why she and Beth got along so well. They were two sides of the same chaotic coin.

Bethany laughed, reaching out to take his hand. Her fingers interlaced with his, the fit perfect, as if the last month of silence had been nothing more than a brief pause in a long conversation. "She loves you, Dan. In her own, terrifying way. Now, about that Uber? Because my feet are killing me in these boots."

Dan grinned. "I can give you a piggyback, but I reckon the driver would prefer we didn't arrive with you clinging to my neck like a koala."

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the app. As the car confirmed, he felt a strange, quiet shift in the atmosphere. For the last month, his life had felt like a series of loud, crashing noises—the ring, the gym, the arguments with himself in the mirror. But as he stood there with Bethany, the silence of the Tokyo night felt peaceful for the first time. He felt her lean her weight against him, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he realized he wasn't just fighting the fear of losing her; he was fighting the fear of whether he could actually be the man she needed.

The ride to his apartment was quiet, but it wasn't an awkward silence. It was the kind of stillness that happens after a storm has finally passed and you're just surveying the landscape. Dan kept his arm draped over her shoulders, her hand resting on his thigh, the connection grounding him. Every time the car hit a bump or slowed for a red light, he felt her shift against him, a physical reminder that this wasn't a dream brought on by too many drinks and desperation.

When they finally stepped into his flat, the place felt smaller than usual, the air heavy with the scent of old gym gear and expensive cologne. Dan didn't bother turning on the main lights, letting the dim glow of the city skyline filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He walked over to the kitchen counter and produced the bottle of Johnnie Walker, pouring two glasses with a steady hand. He handed one to Bethany, who leaned back against the counter, her eyes tracing the lines of his face in the half-light.

"You look tired, Dan," she said softly, taking a sip of the amber liquid. "Not just the kind of tired that comes from a match. You look… worn."

Dan leaned back against the opposite counter, the glass cold in his hand. "I haven't been sleeping well," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time I closed my eyes for the last few weeks, I just saw the look on your face when you walked out that door. It’s like a loop that won't stop playing."

Bethany set her glass down with a soft click, stepping into the space between them. She didn't reach for him this time; she just stood there, her gaze searching his. "Is that why you've been obsessing over my Instagram? I saw the views, Daniel. I knew you were watching."

He let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle, glancing down at the floor. "Couldn't help it. I wanted to know if you were okay. I wanted to know if you were seeing someone who actually knew how to remember an anniversary."

"I wasn't seeing anyone, you idiot," she said, a playful spark returning to her eyes, though her voice remained tender. "I was just living. I was trying to find a way to be happy without waiting for a man who treats his emotions like a secret he has to keep from himself."

Dan looked away, the admission hanging heavy in the air. He felt a sudden, sharp need to move, to break the intensity of her gaze, and he shifted toward the living area to set his drink down. As he did, he caught Bethany’s eyes drift toward the wall beside the television. She froze, her posture softening as she looked at the small gallery of framed photos that had occupied that space for three years.

There was a shot of them in a rain-drenched London alleyway, both of them laughing hysterically after a botched shoot for a wrestling magazine. Another was a candid from a trip to Japan, where Dan looked completely bewildered by a piece of street food and Beth was looking at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. He had spent the last month convincing himself that he should tear them down, that keeping them was a form of self-torture. But every time he had reached for the frames, his hands had shaken too much to actually pull the nails from the wall.

"You kept them," Bethany whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. She walked closer to the wall, her fingertips grazing the glass of the photo where they were curled up on a sofa, exhausted and happy. "I thought for sure the second the door slammed a month ago, you'd have scrubbed every trace of me out of this place. That's what you do, right? You burn the bridge so you don't have to admit you're still standing on it."

Dan stepped up behind her, not touching her yet, but close enough to feel the radiation of her warmth. "I tried," he confessed, his voice rough. "I stood right here on Tuesday night and told myself that keeping these up was pathetic. That it was just holding onto a ghost. But then I looked at the one from the coast—the way you were looking at me—and I realized that if I took the pictures down, I’d be lying to myself about what we actually had. The pictures aren't the problem, Beth. I am."

"Well you're working on yourself. That's a start". Beth turned around, leaning her back against the wall, her shoulder resting against the frame of the photo from the coast. She looked up at him, her expression guarded but the hardness in her eyes had finally dissolved. "Most blokes in your position would have spent the last month deleting every digital trace and tossing the physical ones into a skip. The fact that you couldn't even bring yourself to touch the nails in the wall tells me you're more of a romantic than you let on, Daniel."

Dan felt a phantom pressure in his chest, a tightening that came from the realization that he didn't have to perform for her. With the War Dogs, he was the powerhouse; in the ring, he was the aggressor. But here, in the dim light of his living room, he was just a man who had almost lost the only person who truly understood his silence. He reached out, sliding his hand around her waist and pulling her flush against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in that familiar scent of vanilla and caramel, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

"I don't want to be that guy anymore, Beth. The one who scares the people he loves away because he's too proud to say he's struggling," he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. "The therapy… it's weird, right? Talking to a stranger about how I feel? It makes me feel like a kid again, just trying to figure out where everything fits. But for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I'm just reacting to things. I'm actually seeing the mess I've made."

Bethany sighed, her arms winding around his neck and pulling him closer. "It is weird. And it's terrifying. But it's better than the alternative, which is usually you slamming a door or picking a fight with a teammate because you don't know how to say 'I'm sad'." She pulled back slightly, a small, mischievous smirk returning to her lips. "Though, if you think you've 'seen the mess,' you've got another thing coming. We've got three years of your emotional stuntedness to unpack, Dan. This isn't a quick fix."

"I can handle it," Dan replied, though his voice cracked slightly. He stepped back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression earnest. "Even if it takes three more years of unpacking, I'm not going anywhere. I'll do the work, Beth. I'll be the one making the plans and remembering the dates. I'll be the one who actually listens when you tell me something's wrong, instead of just telling you to 'deal with it'."

Bethany studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. The city lights outside shifted, casting long, amber shadows across the hardwood floor. She let out a soft, tired laugh and rested her forehead against his chest. "You're so dramatic, Daniel. You’re lucky you’re cute."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest where she leaned. "Is that all I am? Cute?"

El Phantasmo x OC (Sam Taylor)

Warnings: Language | TW: Mentions of Cancer and Surgery

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Riley tossed and turned, his sheets twisting into a tight knot around his ankles. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the sterile white tiles of a surgical wing, a mental loop that kept his mind racing long after the house had gone silent. It had been less than a week since his diagnosis, and the logistics of the upcoming procedure—the specific removal of his left testicle—felt like a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, making the air in the room feel thick.

Cancer ran in his family so he knew what to expect, but he never thought it would happen to him. He never thought that he’d be the one counting down the days to a surgical theater. He shifted his weight again, the fabric of his pyjama pants rubbing against his skin with a coarseness that felt magnified in the silence of the room. He wasn't even thirty seven yet—not for another few hours—but the milestone felt less like a celebration and more like a deadline. He'd been looking forward to his birthday for months, envisioning a quiet weekend of recovery and relaxation. Every year since they'd started dating Sam would sneak out and decorate the living room, filling the space with an absurd amount of balloons and a cake that always tasted like home. But now, the balloons felt like a joke, and the cake felt like a burden. He felt like a burden.

Riley kept seeing Sam's face. When she'd initially found the lump, then when he'd first gone to Dr Chen's office to get it checked out. The heartbreaking look when Dr Chen had broken the news that it was cancer. It was that look he could not get out of his head. He wondered if she looked at him now and only saw a patient, or if she still saw the man who could take a bump from a ten-foot ladder and walk away laughing. She'd been absolutely incredible, a rock actually made of stone, but Riley couldn't shake the feeling that he was just taking and taking, while she was the only one providing.

She had shifted into "nurse mode" with a precision that was both comforting and terrifying. It wasn’t just the way she tracked his symptoms or organized the folder of medical records on the bedside table; it was the quiet, rhythmic way she managed the atmosphere of the house. Sam had an uncanny ability to anticipate the exact moment his spiraling thoughts were about to peak, stepping in with a glass of water or a random, distracting question about a wrestling booking from ten years ago just as the silence became too loud. She had become the buffer between Riley and the reality of the pathology reports, filtering the clinical coldness of the hospital into something he could actually digest.

For the last few days, her care had manifested in these small, grounding gestures. She’d make sure his favourite hoodies were clean and smelling of laundry detergent, and she’d lean her weight against him on the sofa, a physical reminder that he wasn’t floating away into a void of medical terminology. There were times he caught her staring at him when she thought he was asleep—not with the pity he feared, but with a fierce, protective intensity. It was the look of someone who had already decided that the outcome was a victory, even if the battle hadn't officially started yet.

Riley rolled onto his side, the mattress creaking under the shift. He remembered the way she had held his hand in the car after the appointment with Dr. Chen, her grip so tight it almost hurt. She hadn't said a word for the entire drive home, but her thumb had rubbed small, soothing circles into the back of his knuckles, a silent Morse code telling him that he wasn't alone in the wreckage. It was a strange dichotomy—the woman who spent her shifts managing the chaos of a pediatric ward was now managing the quiet collapse of his confidence, and she was doing it with a grace that made him feel both profoundly loved and utterly fragile.

"You're not a patient, Riley. You're just a guy who needs a tune-up," she had whispered into the crook of his neck two nights ago. It had happened in the kitchen, amidst the mundane clatter of dinner plates and the hum of the refrigerator, when the weight of the surgery finally snapped the thin wire of his composure. He hadn't just cried; he had collapsed into her, a physical surrender that left him shaking and breathless. He had felt the sudden, terrifying realization that his body—the tool he had spent his entire adult life honing and protecting—had betrayed him in the most intimate way possible.

Sam hadn't tried to fix it with medical jargon or a checklist of recovery milestones. She hadn't told him it would be okay or that he was being brave. Instead, she had simply anchored him. She’d wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him flush against her, letting him sob into her shoulder until his breath hitched and his muscles went slack. She had held him with a steady, unyielding pressure, as if she could physically hold the pieces of his confidence together until the glue dried. In those moments, the professional nurse had vanished, replaced entirely by the woman who had loved him for six years, who knew exactly where the cracks in his armor were and how to fill them.

As the clock on the bedside table ticked closer to midnight, Riley felt a strange shift in the air. The heavy, clinical fog of the last week seemed to lift slightly, replaced by a familiar, buzzing anticipation. Sam stirred beside him, blinking slowly as she felt the mattress shift for the tenth time in an hour. She shifted closer, resting a warm hand on his shoulder to anchor him back to the room.

"Still awake superstar?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but soft.

Riley let out a long, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders giving way as he leaned into her touch. "Just thinking," he admitted, his voice sounding small in the quiet of the room. He didn't specify what he was thinking about; they both knew the mental map he'd been tracing for days. He turned his head to look at her, the dim light from the hallway casting soft shadows across her face. Even in her sleep-muddled state, there was a clarity in her eyes that always managed to pull him back from the edge.

"Wow, did it hurt?". Sam teased, her voice suddenly wide awake and bright. She sat up abruptly, leaning over him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Riley blinked, momentarily confused by the non sequitur. "Did what hurt?"

"You thinking" she grinned, poking him lightly in the ribs. "All that mental gymnastics must be exhausting. You’re practically panting from the effort."

Riley couldn't help it; a small, genuine laugh escaped him, the first one in days that didn't feel forced. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. "That's mean. Here I am at death's door and you're making fun of my cognitive functions," he joked, though the phrase 'death's door' felt a bit too heavy for the room, and he quickly corrected himself. "I mean, I think someone needs to work on their bedside manner."

Sam laughed, a bright sound that cut through the oppressive silence of the bedroom. She didn't let the joke linger too long, instead sliding back down to press her forehead against his. "My bedside manner is excellent, thank you very much. I have the reviews to prove it. Now, stop trying to win the heavyweight championship of overthinking and talk to me."

Riley sighed, the sound fluttering between them in the narrow space. "I just keep thinking about the gear," he admitted, his voice dropping. "Not the wrestling gear, but… everything. The way I move, the way I’ll feel after the surgery. I’ve spent my whole life trusting my body to do exactly what I tell it to do, Sam. Now it feels like there’s a glitch in the system, and I don’t know how to reboot it."

Sam didn’t offer a clinical explanation or a statistic from a medical journal. Instead, she shifted her weight, hooking a leg over his and pulling him closer until they were tangled together in the sheets. "You’re not a machine, Riley. You're a human being who happens to be very good at pretending to be a superhero for a living. The glitch is fixable. Dr. Chen is the best, and you've got a head nurse right here who is going to make sure you don't try to do a moonsault off the sofa three days post-op."

He chuckled, the vibration rattling in his chest. The image of himself trying to maintain his ring persona while recovering from an orchiectomy was absurd enough to actually distract him. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the fatigue she’d been hiding behind her cheerful facade. There were faint circles under her eyes, a testament to the double shifts she'd been pulling at the hospital and the emotional overtime she'd been putting in at home. The guilt flickered again, but the warmth of her presence outweighed it.

"Wrestling's all I've ever wanted to do Sammy," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he stared at the ceiling. "The thought of not being able to trust my own skin for a while… it's weirder than any bump I've ever taken."

Sam stroked his hair, her fingers tracing the familiar line of his scalp. "You’re not losing your skin, Riley. You’re just shedding a part that doesn't belong there. It’s basically like trimming a bad piece of gear." She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her expression softening. "And for the record, your skin is still very trustworthy. It's held up through a hundred matches and a thousand flights. It can handle one little tune-up."

"We can't predict what's going to happen or how long it'll take for you to recover, but we can trust Dr Chen and Medicare," Sam said, her voice returning to that steady, grounding frequency. "I know you're terrified baby. You've had to make a lot of important decisions over the last few days. Fuck there's five containers of your legacy sitting in a freezer right now because you were a good sport about it."

Riley groaned, burying his face in his pillow, though the smile was evident in the way his shoulders shook. "Do not bring up the sperm bank. Please. I can still feel the sterile fluorescent lighting and the awkwardness of that tiny room."

"Hey, five jars, Riley! That's a gold medal in the biology Olympics," she teased, nudging him with her hip. "You handled the most awkward appointment of your life with the grace of a champion. If you can survive the psychological trauma of a clinic waiting room and a stopwatch, you can survive a little bit of downtime. You've already done the hardest part—the deciding. The acting. The… depositing."

The absurdity of the image—him, the flamboyant and feared El Phantasmo, reduced to a series of clinical vials in a cryogenic freezer—finally broke the last of the tension. He rolled over, pulling her into a tight embrace, the smell of her shampoo cutting through the lingering scent of hospital-grade soap that seemed to haunt his skin lately. It was a strange kind of comfort, knowing that even in the face of a diagnosis that felt like an erasure, they had already built a safety net. They had planned for the 'what ifs' with a practical, quiet bravery that he hadn't fully credited until this moment.

"I did that for you Sammy. For us, for the future," he murmured, his voice muffled against her shoulder. The mention of the sperm bank had shifted the conversation from the immediate fear of the knife to something broader—the idea of a life continuing beyond the diagnosis. It was a heavy realization, but for the first time in a week, it felt like a foundation rather than a weight.

"I know you did," she whispered, her voice vibrating against his chest. "And it's the most selfless thing you've ever done, which is saying a lot for a man who lets people throw him off ladders for a living."

Riley rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. I don't do ladder matches all the time. I don't have a death wish".

"Whatever. My point is, you've survived mountains of tests, jerking off into five jars in a small room with a clock ticking, and my relentless teasing," Sam smiled. "Surgery and rehab will be a piece of piss".

"So eloquent. It's like Eliza Doulittle over here," Riley joked, though he didn't let go of her. He tightened his grip, savoring the silence that wasn't filled with the imagined sound of a heart monitor. For the first time since the biopsy, the air in the room felt like it belonged to them again, rather than to a medical chart. He could feel the steady beat of her heart against his ribs, a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaotic drumming of his own anxiety.

"Oh fuck off and go to sleep," Sam whispered, though she was smiling. She glanced passed him and to the digital clock on the nightstand which had just flipped to 12:00. "Happy thirty-seventh, Riley. You've officially survived another year of being a menace to society, and another year of me not suffocating you with a pillow".

"Thirty-seven," Riley repeated, the number feeling foreign. He expected it to sound like a countdown, but with Sam’s arms around him, it just sounded like a fact. "I don't feel thirty-seven. I feel like I've aged about a decade in the last couple of days."

Sam pulled back, her expression shifting from teasing to something deeply tender.

"You've aged in wisdom, maybe," she whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "But you're still the same idiot who forgets where he puts his keys while he's literally holding them." She gave him a quick, firm kiss on lips.

"I'll have you know those keys were strategically misplaced," Riley countered, though the fire in his voice was replaced by a sleepy contentment. He let his eyes drift shut, the rhythmic sound of Sam’s breathing acting as a natural sedative. For a few hours, the surgical theater and the pathology reports receded into the background, pushed away by the simple, tactile reality of their shared warmth. He didn't dream of white tiles or sterile corridors; instead, he dreamed of all the adventures he'd shared with Sam over the last six years. From their first meeting in London when she'd stitched him up after an independent show, to the long flights and the quiet mornings in Canada, the memories felt like a protective layer of armor.

When he finally woke, the room was flooded with the soft, diffused light of a Canadian morning. The house was unnervingly quiet, save for the distant, muffled sound of something clinking in the kitchen. For a split second, the panic flared up—the reflexive fear that he'd woken up in a hospital ward—but then he smelled it. Not the sharp, ozonic scent of disinfectant, but the rich, buttery aroma of toasted sourdough and melting maple butter. He blinked, realizing Sam was already up. He checked the clock; it was barely eight.

He rolled out of bed slowly, his body feeling heavy but the mental fog having cleared significantly. As he padded down the hallway in his socks, he noticed something strange. A single, bright red balloon was tied to the banister, bobbing gently in the draft from the air vent. He stopped, staring at it. It was a small, almost absurd gesture, but it hit him with a force that made his throat tighten. It was the first sign that today wasn't just another day of being a patient; it was actually his birthday.

Walking into the kitchen, he found Sam standing by the counter, wearing one of his oversized hoodies and humming a song that sounded vaguely like a 90s pop hit. She was focused on a plate of pancakes, meticulously stacking them into a tower that defied gravity. Beside the plate sat a glass of fresh orange juice and a small, hand-written card that simply said '37 & Still a Pain in the Arse in her looping cursive. She didn't look like a pediatric nurse in that moment; she looked like the woman who knew exactly how to make him feel like the center of the universe.

"You're awake!" Sam beamed, spinning around with a spatula in one hand. She didn't rush over to check his temperature or ask how he was feeling—she didn't ask the 'nurse' questions. Instead, she pointed a finger at the pancake tower. "Don't just stand there looking like a confused puppy. Sit down before the structural integrity of this breakfast fails."

Riley sank into the kitchen chair, the wooden seat cool against his skin. He looked at the pancakes, then back at her, feeling a lump form in his throat that had nothing to do with the cancer. For the past week, every interaction had been filtered through the lens of his diagnosis. Every touch was a check for swelling; every question was a probe into his pain levels. But here she was, treating him like the man who loved maple butter and bad pop songs, effectively pushing the surgical schedule out of the room.

"You did all this," he murmured, reaching out to touch the card. "I thought you'd be exhausted after yesterday."

"I am exhausted," she admitted, sliding the plate in front of him with a triumphant grin. "But the rules of the house are very clear: birthday mornings are a protected sanctuary. No medical talk, no scheduling, and absolutely no worrying about the 'glitch' until at least noon. That is a professional order from your head nurse."

"Who am I to argue with my head nurse?". Riley grinned as he tucked into the pancake tower. "Hey, since you're my head nurse, when can I expect you to don a nice nurses outfit for the birthday boy?"

Sam let out a loud, genuine snort, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. "Dream on, Viger. I've spent twelve hours a day in scrubs this week; the last thing I want to do is put on more polyester for your amusement. You'll have to settle for this oversized hoodie and my sparkling personality."

"I thought as the birthday boy I got to make the rules," Riley teased, his mouth half-full of pancake. He leaned back in the chair, feeling a lightness in his limbs that had been missing for days. For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the scrape of a fork against the ceramic plate and the distant chirping of birds outside their window. It was a fragile peace, but it was a peace nonetheless, and he clung to it with everything he had.

"Dr Chen said no strenuous activities before or after surgery. Do you really think you could keep your hands to yourself if I caved and wore a skimpy nurses outfit?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. She reached over to refill his orange juice, her fingers lingering briefly on the back of his hand. "Because we both know your self-control is about as reliable as a referee in a chaotic six-man tag match."

Riley laughed, a deep sound that finally reached his eyes. "I'm a professional, Sam. I can be very disciplined when the stakes are high."

"Right. The same discipline that led you to buy a life-sized cardboard cutout of yourself for the living room three years ago," she countered, her eyes twinkling. She moved back to the stove to clear away the pancake batter, her movements fluid and relaxed. By refusing to treat him like a fragile object, she was giving him back a piece of his identity that the diagnosis had tried to steal. He wasn't just a chart number or a surgical candidate; he was the man who bought ridiculous merchandise and teased his partner over breakfast.

"That was a good investment and you know it".

As he finished the last bite of the maple-drenched stack, Riley felt a sudden surge of clarity. The fear hadn't vanished—it was still there, a cold current running beneath the surface—but the warmth of the kitchen and the steady presence of Sam acted as a bulkhead against the tide. He realized that the 'burden' he had felt himself becoming was a ghost he’d been chasing. To Sam, he wasn't a project to be managed or a patient to be cured; he was simply Riley.

"Since you're so focused on your 'professionalism,' I've planned a very disciplined itinerary for the day," Sam announced, sweeping the remaining crumbs off the table with a decisive motion. She reached into her hoodie pocket and produced a small, laminated piece of paper. "First on the agenda: a complete ban on looking at your phone. Second: a high-stakes tournament of Mario Kart. And third: a nap. A long, guilt-free nap where you don't wake up thinking you've forgotten to hydrate."

Riley looked at the list, then back at her, a small, skeptical smile playing on his lips. "A nap? You've got the 'birthday' part confused with 'retirement home' part, Sammy. Where’s the chaos? Where’s the adrenaline?"

"The adrenaline is currently being reserved for when I beat you in Rainbow Road," she retorted, grabbing the controllers from the coffee table and tossing one at him with a precision that spoke of years of practice. "Now, move it. The track is calling, and your dignity is on the line."

The living room, usually a place of quiet recovery over the last week, was suddenly transformed into a battlefield of digital karts and colourful shells. For the first hour, the surgery didn't exist. There was only the frantic clicking of buttons, the glow of the television, and the sound of Sam shouting in victory every time she managed to clip him with a red shell just before the finish line. Riley found himself leaning into the turns, his body subconsciously mimicking the movement of the car, his focus narrowing down to the pixelated road ahead. It was the first time in days his brain hadn't been running a background program of pathology reports and recovery timelines.

"You're cheating! There's no way you got that mushroom timing perfectly," Riley yelled, though he was grinning wide enough to make his cheeks ache. He lunged forward in his seat, trying to recover from a spin-out, his competitive instinct overriding the lingering lethargy of the morning.

"It's called skill, Viger! Maybe if you spent less time brooding and more time practicing your drifting, you'd actually see my taillights," Sam shot back, her voice light and teasing. She leaned her shoulder against his, their sides pressed together on the sofa. In the heat of the game, the physical contact wasn't a clinical check-in or a grounding anchor; it was just two people being idiots on a Tuesday.

As the tournament wound down, the energy in the room shifted from manic to mellow. They ended up in a dead heat for the final race, the tension building as they neared the finish line. But as the screen flashed 'Finish!', Riley didn't immediately celebrate or complain. He let out a long, slow breath and leaned his head back against the cushion, the silence of the house returning, but this time it felt soft rather than heavy. He looked over at Sam, who was staring at the screen with a look of mock-concentration that slowly melted into a genuine, warm smile.

"You actually did it," Riley breathed, staring at the screen. "You actually beat me on my own turf. On my birthday. That's just cold-blooded, Sammy."

"The goddess of racing has spoken," she declared, dropping her controller with a dramatic flourish and stretching her arms high above her head. "Unless you don't want your presents. Because I'm pretty sure the winner gets to decide when the birthday boy actually gets to open them."

Riley let out a mock groan, sliding further down into the sofa until he was nearly horizontal. "Using the presents as leverage? That's a heel move, Sam. Absolute villainy." He reached out, hooking his arm around her waist and pulling her down beside him. The competitive fire had burned out, leaving behind a comfortable, warm exhaustion. For a moment, he just listened to the hum of the console and the distant sound of a neighbor's lawnmower, feeling the weight of the day—the actual, joyful weight of it—replacing the clinical pressure that had lived in his chest for a week.

Sam rested her head on his shoulder, her breathing syncing with his. "In all seriousness," she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge but keeping its warmth, "you look like you're actually here. Like you've come back from wherever you've been hiding since the biopsy."

Riley tightened his hold on her, closing his eyes. "I think I was just waiting for someone to tell me it was okay to stop being a patient for a few hours," he admitted. "It’s weird. I feel like if I stop worrying, I’m somehow letting my guard down against the thing. Like the anxiety is a shield."

"The problem with using anxiety as a shield is that it’s made of cardboard," Sam replied softly, her voice vibrating against his collarbone. "It doesn't actually stop the arrows; it just makes you tired of holding it. Put it down for the afternoon, Riley. The surgery is still happening on the same day, whether you spend the next five days vibrating with stress or eating your weight in cake."

Riley let out a huff of a laugh, the tension in his jaw finally dissolving. He shifted, rolling onto his side to look at her, finding her gaze already waiting for him. There was a quiet strength in her expression, the kind of unwavering certainty that usually belonged to the people she cared for in the pediatric ward—the kids who didn't understand the science but trusted the smile of the person holding the clipboard. He realized then that she wasn't just managing his crisis; she was absorbing the impact of it so he didn't have to take the full hit alone.

"Fine," he conceded, his voice a low rumble. "Cardboard shield is officially discarded. Where are these presents you’ve been using as political leverage?"

Sam beamed, springing up from the sofa with an energy that suggested she’d been pacing herself all morning. "Follow me, oh Great One. But be warned: some of these require a level of maturity you have yet to demonstrate."

She led him back toward the bedroom, where a small pile of packages sat on the duvet, wrapped in paper that looked like it had been applied with a level of enthusiasm that ignored all rules of symmetry. Riley approached the pile with a cautious curiosity. He’d expected the usual—maybe some new gaming gear or a piece of clothing he’d mentioned in passing—but as he tore into the first box, he found a high-end, oversized weighted blanket in a deep charcoal grey.

"So you don't steal mine during movie nights," Sam commented, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. "Plus, since you've decided to become a professional overthinker, I figured you needed something to actually keep you pinned to the mattress when your brain starts doing laps at 3:00 AM."

Riley ran his hand over the heavy fabric, feeling the dense beads shift beneath the cloth. It wasn't a medical device, though he knew the clinical benefits of deep pressure therapy. To him, it just felt like a giant, permanent hug. He looked up at her, the playful banter momentarily pausing. "Thanks, Sammy. Seriously."

"Don't get all mushy on me yet; we're only on gift number one," she teased, though her eyes softened. She pointed toward a smaller, flatter package wrapped in bright blue paper. "That one is from the 'actually useful' category. Open it."

He tore through the paper to find a high-quality, leather-bound journal and a set of professional sketching pencils. For a moment, Riley just stared at them. He hadn't picked up a pencil to draw in months; the creative spark that usually fueled his character work and gear designs had been smothered by the sterile monotony of the last few weeks. He’d felt like his identity was being rewritten as 'Patient 402,' and the thought of trying to create something had felt pointless when he didn't even know who he was supposed to be on the other side of the surgery.

"I remember you saying you missed the design process," Sam said softly, stepping closer to him. "And I know you’re terrified of the downtime after the operation. So, instead of staring at the ceiling and counting the tiles, you can draw. Draw the gear you want for your comeback or those sick programmable LED sunglasses you were talking about. Just… do something that isn't a Google search for 'orchiectomy recovery timelines.'"

Riley traced the grain of the leather cover, his fingers lingering on the smooth surface. It was an invitation to be an artist again, a reminder that his brain was still capable of imagining something that didn't involve a sterile surgical theater. He looked at the pencils, then back at Sam, who was watching him with a quiet, expectant hope. The gesture was so simple, yet it felt like she was handing him a map back to himself.

"You're dangerously good at this," he murmured, pulling her into his space and resting his forehead against hers. "The nursing is great, but the partner side of things is really carrying the team right now."

"Well, someone has to be the MVP while you're in your 'injured reserve' phase," she joked, though she squeezed his hand tightly. She stepped back, her expression shifting back to that mischievous glint. "Now, put the sketchbook on the nightstand. There is one more gift, and it is the most important one. It requires a change of location. To the dining room, please."

"We never use the dining room," Riley noted, glancing back toward the living room where the comfort of the sofa still beckoned. "The dining room is for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and that one time your cousin came to visit and we had to pretend we were adults for three hours."

"Exactly. Today is a special occasion, and special occasions require the formality of a proper table," Sam replied, her voice brimming with a secret. She led him into the room, and Riley stopped short. The heavy oak table, usually home to a stack of mail and a stray coaster, had been transformed. A simple white linen cloth had been laid across the surface, and in the center sat a single, large silver platter covered by a domed lid. There were no candles or roses—too cliché for them—but there was a bottle of expensive Japanese whiskey and two heavy crystal glasses already poured. Resting against the glasses was a gold envelope.

Riley frowned, his curiosity piqued. "Sam, what is this? You're acting like you've just won the lottery."

"Open the envelope, Viger," she commanded, crossing her arms with a triumphant smirk.

He slid the card out of the gold paper. Inside weren't words, but two printed boarding passes and a hotel confirmation. He squinted, reading the destination and the dates. His jaw dropped. "London? Two weeks? In December?" He looked up at her, the math clicking in his head. "Wait, that's Christmas. That's… that's two months away. Right after the recovery window closes."

"Surprise, you beautiful idiot," Sam beamed, her eyes dancing with excitement. "I thought that when you beat this it'd be nice for us to visit our roots. Or, well, your adopted roots. And my actual ones. A proper homecoming tour, minus the wrestling rings and the travel-sized shampoo bottles. And not to boast but, London at Christmas would be a great place for a proposal. If I recall correctly you said that after you beat this you were finally gonna make an honest woman of me".

"Damn you and your good memory". Riley laughed. "Not that you'd given it much thought or anything. I'm sure you've just been daydreaming about the ring and the dress since the moment I mentioned it."

"I’ve actually been daydreaming about a very specific type of roast beef sandwich from a pub in Camden," she corrected, stepping into his space and looping her arms around his neck. "But the ring part is a close second. Now, don't get too excited. This is a future reward. A carrot on a stick to keep you motivated during your physical therapy."

Riley looked at the boarding passes, then back at the woman who had spent the last few days absorbing his panic so he could breathe. The London trip felt like a promise—a tangible, dated confirmation that there was a world waiting for him after the hospital. The cancer had tried to shrink his horizon down to the size of a sterile exam room, but Sam had just expanded it by three thousand miles. He felt a sudden, sharp prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes and quickly blinked them away, not wanting to ruin the momentum of the mood.

"You're a menace, Sam Taylor," he murmured, pulling her flush against him.

"Only took you six years to figure it out," she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. She pulled back just enough to glance at the silver platter. "Now, since you’ve been such a brave little soldier and survived a morning of gaming and emotional breakthroughs, you can finally see the centerpiece of the day."

Riley reached for the handle of the domed lid, lifting it with a slow, dramatic flourish. He expected a fancy cake or perhaps a curated platter of appetizers. Instead, he found a mountain of high-end, gourmet donuts—a dozen of them, glazed in every color of the rainbow, stacked in a precarious pyramid. Tucked into the side of the platter was a small, hand-drawn sign: The Official 'One Ball, Still a Badass' Celebration Cake.

He stared at the donuts, then at Sam, and let out a loud, barking laugh that echoed through the dining room. "You are absolutely savage. I can't believe you're making a joke out of it while I'm literally staring at the 'cake'."

"Laughter is the best medicine, Riley. Well, besides anesthesia and a very skilled surgeon," Sam retorted, already reaching for a raspberry-filled one. "Besides, if we’re going to face this thing, we might as well make it a bit of a joke. It takes the power away from the diagnosis when you can turn it into a pun about your anatomy."

Riley reached for a maple-glazed donut, the sugar crystals glistening under the dining room light. He took a massive bite, the sweetness momentarily grounding him. He looked at the sign again—One Ball, Still a Badass—and felt a strange sense of relief. For the last week, he had been treating the diagnosis like a fragile piece of glass, afraid that any loud noise or wrong word would cause his entire psyche to shatter. Sam had just walked in and intentionally knocked the glass over, proving that even in shards, they could still find something to laugh about.

"You know," Riley said, talking through a mouthful of dough, "most people would have gone with something more… subdued. A nice dinner, maybe a quiet walk. You decided to lean into the absurdity of my shrinking inventory."

"Subdued is boring, and you are many things, Riley, but boring isn't one of them," Sam replied, leaning her hip against the table and watching him with an expression of quiet pride. "Besides, the 'brave face' act is exhausting. I can see you doing it. The way you're trying to be the 'strong one' for me and your family. Fuck I thought your mom was going to wrap you in a blanket when you told her. Newsflash: I'm a nurse. I deal with scary things for a living. You don't have to be a statue in your own house."

Riley paused, the donut halfway to his mouth. The realization hit him that while he had been worrying about being a burden, Sam had been watching him struggle with the perceived need to be invincible. He set the donut down on the platter and looked at her, really looked at her. The soft light of the dining room caught the slight tiredness in her eyes—the kind of fatigue that comes from holding a perimeter for someone else—but her smile remained steady.

"I guess I'm just used to the ring," Riley admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "In the ring, if you show a crack, the other guy finds it and exploits it. You don't let them see you're winded or that your ankle is screaming. You just keep selling the match until the bell rings."

"The difference is, I'm not the opponent, Riley," she said, reaching out to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble of his chin. "I'm the one in your corner with the water bottle and the ice pack. You don't have to sell the match to me. You can just be a thirty-seven-year-old man who's a bit scared and really likes donuts."

Riley leaned into her touch, the armor he’d worn for years—not just in the ring, but in his own mind—finally sliding off. He felt a sudden, sharp need to be seen, not as the high-flyer or the fearless competitor, but as the man who was currently terrified of a sterile operating room. He let out a long, shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against hers. For a moment, he didn't say anything, just let the silence be filled by the soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words feeling heavy and honest. "For not letting me hide."

Sam smiled, her gaze softening as she stepped closer, her arms finding their way around his waist. "Someone has to keep you honest, Viger. Now, enough with the emotional breakthroughs for ten minutes. I believe there is a maple-glazed donut with your name on it, and if you don't eat it, I’m going to tell everyone in the locker room that you cried during the Mario Kart tournament."

Will Ospreay x OC (Aliana Caddel)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aliana Caddel had a voice that could make a wrestling arena sit up straight—smooth as bourbon but sharp enough to cut glass when she needed it. Right now, though, she wasn’t announcing titles or hyping up crowds. She was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, holding up two dresses like they’d personally offended her.

"Okay, which one says ‘I had fun at mini-golf but I’m also secretly impressed you're not an arsehole’?" she muttered, flicking a glance at her phone where Will’s last message glowed: Wear something you can move in. Trust me.

Her best friend Alice, sat cross-legged on the bed with a bag of crisps, squinted at the options. "The red one says ‘I’m here to tango with your ego,’ and the black one says ‘I could still judo flip you if this goes sideways.’"

Aliana snorted, tossing the red dress onto the bed. "You're useless."

"Accurate though." Alice crunched loudly. "Look, it’s Will. Billy boy once took a Canadian Destroyer off a balcony in the Tokyo Dome. If he wanted a posh dinner date, he wouldn’t have texted you that. You need to chill".

Aliana sighed. "Is it too late to cancel and tell him I've developed a sudden pharmaceutically-induced allergy to fun?"

"What's wrong with you, you're not usually this stressy, especially about what you wear," Alice said, tossing a crisp at Aliana's head. It bounced off her temple and landed in the discarded red dress's folds like a surrender flag.

Aliana caught her own reflection again—cheeks flushed, fingers drumming against her thigh. "Because it's Will Ospreay," she hissed, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. The man had a reputation for being relentless—in the ring, sure, but also in how he moved through the world, like gravity owed him favors.

Her phone buzzed again. Bring trainers. Seriously 😉

Alice cackled. "Oh my god, he's taking you dancing. You're gonna die."

"How do you know. It could be rock climbing," Aliana shot back, but her fingers were already digging through her closet for the pair of barely-worn trainers she'd bought as an impulse purchase when they were on sale. The soles were still pristine—embarrassingly so.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Yeah because a dress screams rock climbing. You're in denial".

"No, that's a river in Egypt," Aliana muttered, shoving the trainers into her bag with more force than necessary.

Alice's grin widened, "Oh my fucking God, you're blushing. You like him. After one fucking date." She tossed another crisp, this time deliberately aiming for Aliana's cleavage. It missed and skittered under the bed. "I bet he's got some ridiculous plan—like, actual salsa dancing in some abandoned warehouse with fairy lights or some shit. The man doesn't do normal."

Aliana threw a hairbrush at her. "Shut up. And help me pick shoes." She hesitated, staring at the trainers. "Do I look like I'm trying too hard if I wear these right away? Or is that the point?"

"Mate, he’s seen you in fishnets and boots announcing his matches. He knows what you look like when you're ‘trying.’ Relax." Alice flopped onto her back, arms spread. "Also, you're overthinking this. Just wear the trainers if he said to wear trainers. It’s not a test."

Aliana exhaled through her nose, tossing the black dress onto the bed and snatching up the red. "I'm just nervous okay? He's the first guy I've gone on a date with in ages that didn't make me want to gouge my own eyes out halfway through."

Alice rolled onto her stomach, chin propped in her hands. "Wow, high praise. 'Didn't actively want to maim him.' Romance isn't dead after all."

"Shut up," Aliana muttered, but she was grinning as she shimmied into the dress—knee-length, fitted but stretchy, with a low back that made Alice wolf-whistle. She spun once, the fabric flaring just enough to prove Alice right: she could move in this. The trainers felt absurd with the dress, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Will’s entire career was built on doing things that shouldn’t work and making them look effortless.

"Okay I'm jealous. You look sexy as fuck and if I batted for the other team I'd be all over you," Alice said, lobbing another crisp at Aliana, who caught it midair with her teeth. "Where have you been hiding those curves? Do you even eat?"

Aliana rolled her eyes. "Stop being weird. And yes, I eat—unlike certain wrestlers I could mention."

"I'm you're hype woman Ali, this is my job," Alice grinned, tossing the crisp packet aside and grabbing her phone. "Now pose. I need blackmail material for when you two get married."

Aliana flipped her off but adjusted her stance anyway—one hand on her hip, the other tucking a loose curl behind her ear—just as Alice's camera flashed. The trainers felt ridiculous with the dress, but the combination also made something reckless curl in her stomach. Will had seen her in everything from sequined gowns to sweat-drenched training gear. He knew what she looked like when she was polished and when she was a mess. That should’ve been terrifying. Instead, it felt like permission to stop performing.

She grabbed her bag, double-checking for wallet, keys, phone. "If I end up murdered in a warehouse, avenge me."

Alice saluted with a crisp. "Got it. Call me after, Harry will be in bed and the soaps are shit. I need drama."

Aliana snorted, grabbing her keys just as her phone buzzed again. Outside. Don’t freak out. She peeked through the blinds—Will was leaning against his black Audi, arms crossed, grinning like he’d already won something. The sight of him in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, made her stomach flip.

"You’re so dead," Alice hissed, peering over her shoulder. "Look at him. That’s not a ‘let’s go salsa dancing’ outfit, that’s a ‘I’m about to ruin your life in the best way’ outfit."

Aliana elbowed her. "Shut up."

"Remember safe sex if you wanna jump his bones and climb him like a monkey climbing a tree. I'll lock up," Alice called as Aliana stepped out the door, flipping her off without turning around. The crisp autumn air bit at her bare arms, and she regretted not grabbing a jacket—until Will straightened up at the sight of her, his grin widening into something downright predatory.

"Fucking hell Al. You look…"

"Like you're about to regret telling me to wear trainers," Aliana shot back, but her pulse hammered in her throat as Will's gaze raked over her—appreciative, yes, but with a flicker of something sharper underneath. Like he was already calculating how to dismantle her defenses.

Will pushed off the car, his laugh low and warm. "Nah, you look gorgeous. And the trainers? Perfect." He opened the passenger door with a flourish, nodding at the backseat where a pair of sleek black dance shoes sat. "Brought you these too, just in case. Figured you’d want options."

Aliana arched an eyebrow, sliding into the seat. "You’re awfully confident I won’t bolt the second I realize what we’re doing."

Will shut the door behind her, circling the car with that same infuriating swagger. "You won’t," he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life. "Because you’re too competitive to admit you can’t do something. And I’ve seen you move—ring announcing’s just your day job. You’ve got dancer’s feet."

She scoffed, but the compliment curled pleasantly in her chest. "You’re full of shit."

Will grinned. "So I've been told. But you'll see." He tossed his phone into the center console—playlist already queued up—and pulled away from the curb with the same easy confidence he had in the ring. Aliana caught herself watching his hands on the wheel, the way his fingers flexed slightly when he shifted gears.

"So where's this mysterious dance lesson happening?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she fiddled with the air vent. "Some underground salsa club? A community center after hours? Please tell me you didn't rent out a ballroom like some Regency romance hero."

Will snorted. "Nah. My mate Javier’s studio. He teaches Latin fusion—salsa, bachata, some zouk. Does private lessons and doesn’t mind if I drop in for practice." He shot her a sidelong glance. "You nervous?"

Aliana rolled her shoulders back, her fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her thigh. "Only if you expect me to not step on your feet."

"Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to break my toes." He grinned, teeth flashing in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. "Relax. It’s just moving. You’ve done that before."

"Yeah, in a ring. With rules. And usually someone trying to kill me."

"Well you won't have that problem. I'm a professional".

Aliana chuckled. "Y'know, I never would've guessed the mighty Will Ospreay was a secret dancer." She turned in her seat to study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a botched moonsault last year. "What's next, ballet?"

Will snorted. "Nah, that's ZSJ's thing." He flicked the indicator, turning onto a quieter street lined with converted warehouses. One had a neon sign flickering pink and gold: Javier's Movimiento. "Started learning when I was fourteen. My mum kinda made me. I can ballroom dance too, but this is between us. I don't want the locker room calling me twinkle toes Ospreay."

Aliana arched an eyebrow. "Your secret's safe with me. Unless you step on my toes."

The Audi rolled to a stop. Through the studio's floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see a wiry man in his late forties adjusting a speaker system. Javier had salt-and-pepper curls tied back with a bandana, his movements economical and precise—like he'd spent a lifetime making every step count.

Will killed the engine. "Javi used to dance competitively in Havana before he moved here. Got tired of the politics, opened this place instead. Teaches everyone from kids to old ladies who want to impress their grandkids." He grinned. "Also lets me practice my footwork when I'm not wrecking my knees in the ring."

The moment Aliana stepped into the studio, the scent of polished wood and faint citrus cleaner hit her—clean but lived-in, like a space that had seen countless missteps and triumphs. Javier turned at the sound of the door, his face splitting into a grin as he spotted Will. "Ah, el campeón!" he called, arms spread wide before his gaze flicked to Aliana. "And you brought a victim. Excellent."

Will laughed, clapping Javier on the shoulder. "This is Aliana. Try not to scare her off before we start."

Javier’s eyes crinkled as he took her in. "Red dress, trainers. Bold. I like it." He gestured to the shoes in Will’s hand. "But those will serve you better if you’re serious."

Aliana hesitated, glancing down at her pristine trainers—the ones she’d bought on sale and never worn. Will nudged her gently. "Told you. Options."

"Is he always such a smartarse Javier?". Aliana took the proffered shoes—black leather with delicate straps and a heel just high enough to make her arch look dangerous.

Javier chuckled, adjusting the waistband of his loose linen pants. "Only when he's right. Which is often, unfortunately." He turned to face Will. "I like her. She's got bite."

Aliana smirked, sliding into the dance shoes with a practiced twist of her ankle—years of wrestling boots had taught her how to break in new footwear fast. The leather hugged her arches snugly, and she flexed her toes experimentally. "These feel like cheating," she admitted.

Will's grin was all teeth. "Wait till you feel the floor."

Javier clapped his hands once, crisp as a snare drum. "Alright, enough flirting. Basics first—I assume you've never done salsa?"

"Unfortunately the only salsa I know is the one you eat with chips," Aliana admitted, rolling her shoulders back as she stepped onto the sprung wooden floor. The surface had just enough give to make her think of wrestling rings—that same slight bounce underfoot that promised both stability and the potential for flight.

Javier snorted, adjusting the volume on the speakers. "Then we start simple." He flicked a switch, and the studio flooded with the rich brass and syncopated percussion of a classic son cubano track. The rhythm hit Aliana’s bloodstream like a shot of espresso.

Will extended his hand, palm up—a silent challenge. "Trust me?"

She eyed him, then his hand. "Depends. Are you about to drop me on my arse?"

"Not if I want a third date," Will said, fingers curling slightly—a wrestler’s calloused palm turned soft with invitation. Aliana hesitated, then slid her hand into his, the warmth of his grip startling even as Javier barked a laugh behind them.

"Good. Now—posture." Javier tapped Aliana’s shoulder blade with two fingers. "Shoulders back, chin up. Salsa isn’t wrestling. You don’t hunch to protect your ribs here." His accent thickened around the edges as he demonstrated, spine straight as a blade. "You are showing off, sí? Like you own the room."

Aliana exhaled, adjusting her stance—years of ring psychology made the shift instinctive. Will’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, a silent approval that sent a traitorous flush up her neck. "Better," Javier said, nodding. "Now, Will—basic step. Show her."

Will shifted effortlessly into the rhythm, his hips rolling in a way that had no business being legal outside a nightclub. His lead foot slid forward, weight transferring smooth as silk. "It’s all in the hips," he said, grinning when Aliana’s gaze flicked downward. "Eyes up, Caddel. I’m teaching you to dance, not seduce you."

"Maybe he's doing both". Javier smirked, adjusting the music's tempo with a twist of the dial. The percussion tightened, a sharper counterpoint to the brass now. "But focus. Left foot forward—no, not like a lunge. Like you're stepping into a shadow." He demonstrated, his own worn dance shoes whispering against the wood.

Aliana mimicked the motion, acutely aware of Will's fingers still curled around hers. Her first attempt landed too heavy, the heel of her borrowed shoe clacking like a misfired starting pistol. Will's chuckle vibrated through his palm. "Easy. It's not a stomp. Think of it like—" His free hand hovered near her waist, not touching but close enough that the heat of him prickled through the red fabric. "Like you're testing water with your toes."

"Poetic," Aliana deadpanned, but she tried again, lighter this time. The rhythm caught her mid-step, the music's pulse syncing with her heartbeat in a way that felt unnervingly intimate. Will's grip adjusted, guiding her into the next movement—a sideways shift that made her hips sway. She stumbled, her shoulder bumping his chest. "Shit—"

"Relax," Will murmured, his breath stirring the curls at her temple. "You're thinking too hard. It's just counting. One-two-three, pause. One-two-three, pause." His thumb traced a slow circle on her wrist, the touch deliberate. "Like breathing."

Javier clapped his hands sharply. "Enough whispering, Ospreay. You're supposed to be teaching, not flirting." The older man adjusted the music again, this time to a slower tempo with a deeper bassline that thrummed through the wooden floor. "Aliana, watch his feet. Mimic the rhythm—don't fight it."

Will shot Javier a look but obediently stepped back, giving Aliana space to observe. His movements were liquid grace—hips rolling, shoulders loose, feet gliding as if the floor was made of ice. Aliana frowned, trying to dissect the mechanics. "You make it look easy."

"That's because he's been doing this since he was a teenager," Javier said, folding his arms. "But even champions start somewhere. Will's first lesson, he tripped over his own feet and took out a potted plant."

Will groaned, executing a sharp turn to hide his grin. "Traitor."

"What I want to make her feel at ease," Will muttered under his breath, executing a sharp spin that made his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned abdomen. Aliana caught herself staring and jerked her gaze back to his feet, but not before Javier caught her with a knowing smirk.

"Alright, enough showing off," Javier said, nudging Will aside with his hip. "You"—he pointed at Aliana—"stop analyzing it like a wrestling match. This isn't about counters or reversals. It's about letting the music move you." He snapped his fingers twice to the rhythm. "Close your eyes."

Aliana hesitated, glancing at Will, who nodded encouragingly. She exhaled and shut her eyes, instantly hyperaware of the music's pulse vibrating through the floorboards, the faint citrus-and-sweat scent of the studio, the warmth of Will's proximity just inches away.

Javier's voice cut through the haze. "Now, just step. Don't think. Left foot forward on the beat—yes, like that—now right foot to the side. Good." His words synced perfectly with the music's cadence, guiding her like a metronome. "Feel how your weight shifts? That's the heart of it. The rest is just decoration."

The moment Aliana stopped overthinking, her body seemed to remember things her brain hadn’t learned yet. Her left foot slid forward on the next beat, her hips instinctively rolling to follow the shift in weight. Will’s breath hitched audibly—a tiny, gratifying sound—and his grip tightened fractionally on her hand.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, just as Javier let out a delighted laugh.

"Natural!" Javier clapped once, sharp as a gunshot. "Now open your eyes and look at him—no, don’t stiffen up. Keep moving."

Aliana blinked her eyes open to find Will staring at her with an expression she’d only seen mid-match, right before he went for a killing strike—half hunger, half awe. His thumb brushed her wrist again, this time with deliberate pressure. "Told you," he said, voice low enough that Javier wouldn’t hear. "Dancer’s feet."

Aliana's laugh caught in her throat as Will spun her outward, his grip firm but not controlling—more like an invitation to follow his lead. The motion sent her dress flaring, the fabric brushing against his thighs as she pivoted back into him. "Cheeky," she muttered, but the thrill of the movement lingered in her muscles, electric and new.

Javier switched the track to something slower, the brass melting into a sultry bachata rhythm. "Now, closer," he instructed, nudging Will's shoulder. "This isn't salsa—no space for showboating here."

Will didn't hesitate. His hand slid from her wrist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The sudden proximity made Aliana's breath stutter—his chest warm through the thin fabric of her dress, his heartbeat a steady counterpoint to the music's languid pulse. "Still think I'm just a wrestler?" he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

"Still think I'm just an announcer?" she shot back, but her bravado faltered when his hips rolled against hers in a slow, deliberate grind. The movement was downright filthy, all sinuous muscle and precision, and Aliana's knees nearly buckled. Javier's chuckle from across the room was downright obnoxious.

The music pulsed through Aliana’s veins like adrenaline, and she could’ve sworn the studio’s temperature spiked ten degrees when Will’s grip tightened on her waist. His smirk was pure trouble as he guided her into the next step, his thigh slotting between hers with practiced ease. "Eyes up, Caddel," he teased, but his own gaze dropped to her mouth for a heartbeat too long.

Javier cleared his throat loudly, tossing a water bottle at Will’s head. "Less flirting, more footwork. You’re teaching, not seducing."

Will caught the bottle one-handed without breaking rhythm. "Who says I can’t do both?"

Aliana rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, too focused on matching the fluid roll of Will’s hips. The bachata rhythm was slower than salsa but somehow more intimate—every shift of weight, every brush of fabric between them felt deliberate. Her borrowed shoes slid effortlessly across the polished wood, and when Will spun her outward again, she anticipated the movement this time, her body arching into the turn like she’d been doing it for years.

The music swelled, horns blaring as Will guided her into a series of quick steps, their feet moving in sync like they'd been partners for years instead of minutes. Aliana caught the rhythm, her body responding before her brain could overthink—left, right, spin, his hand firm on her back as he led. She'd spent years calling matches, analyzing every grapple and counter, but this was different. There was no script here, no predetermined finish. Just the heat of Will's palm through her dress and the way his breath hitched when she rolled her hips just so.

"Show-off," Will muttered when she executed a sharp turn without missing a beat, her dress flaring around her thighs. His fingers flexed against her waist, pulling her closer than the dance strictly required.

Aliana grinned, sweat dampening the curls at her temples. "You started it." She could feel Javier's amused stare from across the room, but she didn't care. The music, the movement, the way Will's biceps flexed under his rolled-up sleeves—it was intoxicating.

Javier clapped his hands sharply. "Enough. Switch." He gestured for Will to step back as he moved toward Aliana, his posture straightening into something more formal. "Now, the real test. Let's see if he taught you properly or just flirted you into submission."

Javier's hands were cooler than Will's, his grip firmer but less electrifying as he took Aliana's right hand and placed his other palm flat against her shoulder blade. "Proper frame," he instructed, nudging her elbow up with his forearm. "None of that lazy, slouchy nonsense Ospreay lets you get away with." He shot Will a look over her shoulder. "Your bad habits are contagious."

Will leaned against the studio's mirrored wall, arms crossed, water bottle dangling from his fingers. "Oi, I taught her the basics just fine."

Javier ignored him, guiding Aliana into a basic step sequence—forward, back, side, his movements precise as a metronome. "Feel the difference?" His accent curled around the words. "No slop. Clean lines. This is technique, not—" He broke off to swat at Will's hip with his free hand when Will attempted to sneak in behind Aliana. "No cheating, campeón. She learns properly first."

Aliana bit back a laugh at Will's wounded expression, focusing instead on the way Javier's lead felt—unambiguous, almost mathematical in its precision compared to Will's fluid, instinctive style. Her borrowed shoes whispered against the floor as she followed Javier's cues, her posture straightening automatically under his no-nonsense guidance.

The moment Javier released her, Will was there—his hand sliding back to the small of Aliana’s back like it belonged there. “Don’t let him scare you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing idle circles through the thin fabric of her dress. “He’s just pissed because I picked up bachata faster than he did.”

Javier snorted, adjusting the music to a fiery salsa track. “Lies. You tripped over your own ego for months.” He tossed a towel at Will’s head. “But she’s got potential. If you don’t ruin her with your terrible leading.”

Aliana arched a brow, twisting out of Will’s grip to face Javier. “Oh, so now I’m your project?” Her pulse still thrummed from the dance, her skin humming where Will’s touch had been.

“Someone has to save you from his footwork,” Javier deadpanned, spinning her into a sudden turn that made her yelp. The move was all sharp angles and precision—nothing like Will’s easy fluidity—but Aliana caught the rhythm just in time, her hips swaying into the next step.

Javier released Aliana with a flourish, and she stumbled back into Will’s chest, his arms looping around her waist to steady her. His laugh vibrated against her shoulder blades, warm and low. "See? Even Javi thinks you're a natural," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear just long enough to make her shiver.

Aliana twisted in his grip to face him, her pulse skittering when his hands settled on her hips like they’d been measured for the exact space. "I’m just competitive," she said, breathless from the dance and the way his thumbs were tracing absent circles through the fabric of her dress. "Tell me I can’t do something, and I’ll prove you wrong."

Will’s grin was all teeth, the kind he usually reserved for when he was about to spring off the top rope. "Dangerous thing to say to me, Caddel." His grip tightened slightly, guiding her into a slow sway that had nothing to do with the music still pulsing through the speakers. "Next thing you know, I’ll be daring you to learn the Argentine tango by next week."

Javier groaned, tossing his hands up. "Enough. Out." He pointed to the door with the same exasperation of a man who’d seen this exact scenario play out too many times. "Take your flirting somewhere else. I have actual students coming in twenty minutes."

Will feigned offense, clutching his chest with one hand while keeping the other securely on Aliana’s waist. "Javi, you wound me. I pay you in exposure."

"Exposure doesn’t pay my rent, idiota," Javier shot back, already wiping down the floor where their shoes had left faint scuffs. He tossed the towel at Will’s head again—this time with enough force to make Aliana snort. "Go. Before I charge you double for corrupting my studio with your terrible flirting."

Outside, the night air was crisp enough to make Aliana shiver, the adrenaline from dancing still simmering under her skin. Will shrugged out of his jacket—black, predictably, and still warm from his body heat—and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. "You’re shivering," he said, fingers lingering at her collarbone for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Aliana tugged the jacket closer, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy with a citrus bite—mixed with the residual warmth of the studio. "So, what’s next, Ospreay? Midnight tapas? A clandestine foxtrot in a parking garage?"

Will's grin was all mischief as he unlocked the Audi with a click of his key fob. "Would you believe me if I said I had a playlist for that exact scenario?" The car's interior lights flickered on, illuminating the faint flush still high on his cheekbones from the dance.

Aliana slid into the passenger seat, the leather creaking softly under her. Will's jacket sleeves draped past her fingertips, and she caught herself rolling the cuffs absently—like she was already staking claim to something. "I'd believe you've got a playlist for every scenario," she said, watching him circle the car with that loose-hipped stride of his. "Probably one called 'emergency seduction.'"

Will laughed as he dropped into the driver's seat, the sound rich and warm in the enclosed space. "Track seven." He tossed his phone into her lap—the screen lit up with a Spotify queue titled Backup Plans (DON'T JUDGE). Aliana snorted, scrolling past "Rainy Day Jazz" and "Post-Win Bangerz" to find—sure enough—"Emergency Seduction Mix" tucked between "Airport Goodbye" and "Gym Pump."

"You're ridiculous," she said, but her thumb hovered over the play button.

The car purred to life as Will pulled onto the deserted street, the city lights streaking past the windows in liquid gold. Aliana tapped the phone screen—hesitant, then decisive—and the opening notes of "Emergency Seduction Mix" filled the Audi’s cabin: a slow-burning R&B track with a bassline that throbbed like a pulse.

Will shot her a sidelong glance, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming the gearshift. "Bold move, Caddel."

Aliana stretched her legs, the borrowed dance shoes digging into the footwell. "You left it in my lap. What did you expect?"

"Honestly? For you to mock me relentlessly." He downshifted at a red light, the engine growling low in his throat. The streetlamp painted his profile in amber—sharp jaw, the scar above his brow, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he smirked.

"Oh, that's to come, trust me," Aliana said, stretching her arms behind her head with deliberate nonchalance. The movement made Will's jacket slip off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone. She watched his gaze flicker downward for a fraction of a second before he snapped it back to the road, knuckles tightening on the wheel. "First, you owe me an explanation. Since when does the Undisputed British Heavyweight Champion secretly moonlight as a dance instructor?"

Will shifted gears, the Audi's engine purring like a pleased cat. "Since my mum decided to sign me up for anything and everything to keep me put of trouble as a kid. Football, gymnastics—" He shot her a grin. "Dance class every Thursday after school. Stuck with it because, well." A shrug, but his fingers flexed on the wheel. "Turns out footwork's footwork, whether you're dodging a dropkick or leading a spin."

Aliana arched an eyebrow. "So what you're saying is, all those flawless matches where you make physics your bitch? Just glorified salsa."

Will barked a laugh, swerving around a slow-moving cyclist with the same effortless precision he'd shown on the dance floor. "Nah. Ring's all improvisation. Dance?" His thumb tapped the wheel to the beat. "That's a conversation. You listen as much as you lead."

The song shifted to something slower, sultrier—a bassline that thrummed through the seats. Aliana curled her fingers into the sleeves of his jacket, the leather warm against her palms. "And tonight? What was that conversation saying?"

Will didn't answer immediately. He slowed the car as he turned onto a quieter road, the amber glow of the streetlights rhythmic as they passed over the windshield. He reached over, his fingers brushing against Aliana’s knee for a fleeting second before he rested his hand on the center console, palm up—a mirror of the invitation from the studio.

"It was saying that you’re a lot more dangerous than you let on," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "The way you took to that bachata… most people spend three lessons just figuring out where to put their feet. You just looked at me and decided you owned the rhythm."

Aliana felt a familiar spark of challenge ignite in her chest, though it was softened by the lingering warmth of his jacket around her. "I told you, I'm competitive. I don't do 'beginner' very well."

"I noticed," Will said, his gaze flickering to her with an intensity that made the air in the car feel thick. "You've got this way of looking at things—like you're dissecting them, figuring out exactly where the weak point is so you can exploit it." He paused, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I spent half the lesson wondering if you were trying to learn the steps or just trying to outmaneuver me."

Aliana leaned back into the leather seat, a slow, feline smile spreading across her face. "Maybe I was doing both. It’s called multitasking, Will. You should try it sometime."

Will let out a soft, huffing laugh and eased the car toward the curb, eventually sliding into a parking spot beneath a canopy of overarching plane trees. The engine died with a final, shuddering purr, leaving them in a sudden, heavy silence. The "Emergency Seduction" playlist was still humming at a low volume, the bass vibrating through the floorboards and into the soles of her feet.

He didn't move to get out. Instead, he turned in his seat, leaning his arm over the center console. The dim light of the streetlamps filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across his face. "You know," he murmured, his voice now a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Aliana's chest, "most people would have just thanked me for the lesson and asked where we were going for dinner."

"Most people aren't me," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifted, the red fabric of her dress rustling against the seat. The distance between them had shrunk, and she could smell the fading heat of the dance studio clinging to him—citrus, exertion, and something uniquely Will.

Will smiled. "That's true. You're a unique enigma Aliana Caddel." He didn't move away; instead, he leaned in a fraction more, his eyes searching hers with a curiosity that felt more intimate than any move he'd made on the dance floor. "The question is, now that the lesson is over, do you still want to outmaneuver me? Or are you finally ready to admit that you're impressed?"

Aliana felt the pull of him, a magnetic tension that made the small space of the Audi feel like the center of the universe. She let her gaze drop to his lips, then back up to his eyes, playing the game with the same precision she used when calling a main event. "Okay fine, I'll admit that you've impressed me Ospreay," she murmured, her voice dipping into a playful, husky register. "But don't let it get to your head. I’ve seen your match tapes; your ego already has its own postcode."

Will let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet cabin. He didn't pull back; instead, he reached out, his fingers grazing the side of her jaw, his touch light as a feather but leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "Careful, Caddel. You're playing with fire."

"I've always liked the heat," she countered. She shifted, her movement causing the leather seat to creak and bringing her close enough that she could feel the steady thrum of his heart. The confidence she’d found on the dance floor—the way she’d stopped fighting the rhythm and started owning it—carried over into the car. She reached up, her fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt and gently pulling him the remaining few inches.

When his lips finally met hers, it wasn't the tentative exploration of a first kiss. It was a collision of two competitive forces finally finding a middle ground. The kiss tasted of late-night adrenaline and shared secrets, a slow-burn intensity that mirrored the bachata they’d just danced. Will groaned softly, his hand sliding from the console to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her curls as he deepened the kiss, pulling her flush against him as much as the gearshift would allow.

The kiss broke slowly, leaving them both breathless in the dim, amber-lit cabin. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the cooling engine and the distant, muffled hum of the city. Will rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He looked less like the feared champion and more like a man who had finally found something he couldn't quite quantify with a win-loss record.

"So," he murmured, his voice raspy and low, "did that count as a successful outmaneuver?"

Aliana let out a laugh that was more of a breathless sigh, leaning her head back against the headrest. "Technically, you were the one who leaned in first, so I’d say it was a tactical error on your part."

Will chuckled, the sound vibrating through the small space. He didn't pull away, instead shifting his weight to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Tactical error? Is that what we're calling it? I’d call it a strategic submission."

"In your dreams, Ospreay," she teased, though she didn't move to create any distance. The tension in the car had shifted from the electric energy of the dance floor to something slower and more grounded. The "Emergency Seduction" playlist had faded into a low, humming ambient track, providing a soundtrack to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Aliana finally sat up, the movement causing Will’s jacket to slide further down her arm. She looked at him—really looked at him—without the artifice of the ring or the performative bravado of the studio. There was a softness in his eyes, a genuine warmth that he rarely showed the public. It was a side of him that felt earned, a secret shared between them in the quiet of the Audi.

"So, I believe I was promised dinner".

Robbie Eagles x OC (Nora Ellington)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the oc and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robbie Eagles had a habit of sleeping diagonally, a chaotic sprawl that usually resulted in him occupying three-quarters of the mattress and leaving exactly one narrow strip of linen for anyone else. He woke up on a Tuesday morning with his left arm flung wide, his palm landing on a cold, flat expanse of cotton. For a split second, he didn't register the silence of the house, only the absence of the rhythmic, soft breathing that usually anchored his mornings. He shifted, instinctively reaching for a waist that wasn't there, his fingers meeting only the smooth, chilled fabric of an empty pillowcase.

The stillness of the bedroom felt heavy, an unnatural vacuum that amplified the ticking of the clock on the bedside table. He stayed there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, feeling a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. It wasn't a sharp pain, but rather a dull realization of space—the physical distance between Sydney and Kyoto translating into a palpable gap in the bed. The room felt too large, the air too still, as if the house itself was holding its breath in sympathy with his sudden sense of isolation.

He eventually rolled over and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while glancing at the digital clock. He did the quick, subconscious math, calculating the time difference to ensure he wasn't calling her in the middle of a high-pressure dinner service or during her few precious hours of sleep. The gap between their time zones felt like a physical wall, one that turned a simple "good morning" into a coordinated logistical operation. He reached for his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dim morning light, and was immediately greeted by his lockscreen. A picture of him and Nora’s last holiday together in Thailand—both of them wind-swept and laughing on a beach—seemed to mock the sterile quiet of the bedroom.

The house was far too quiet. Normally, the morning soundtrack consisted of the distant hum of the espresso machine and the rhythmic clinking of Nora’s jewellery as she got ready for the day. Instead, he heard only the muffled sound of a neighbour's lawnmower and the occasional chirp of a magpie outside. It was a strange sort of sensory deprivation; he knew exactly where she was supposed to be, and the fact that the space was occupied by nothing but cold air felt like a glitch in his reality.

"If you tell me you've already had three espressos, I'm hanging up," Robbie murmured to the empty room, though the message was still just a draft on his screen. He navigated the stairs with a practiced, athletic lightness, his bare feet slapping rhythmically against the hardwood. The kitchen was a shrine to Nora’s efficiency—everything had a designated place, from the spice rack organized by frequency of use to the precise angle of the toaster. It was a space designed for a culinary mind, and in her absence, it felt like a museum of her habits.

He moved through the motions of his morning ritual with a mechanical precision that mirrored her own. He filled the kettle, the sound of rushing water filling the void of the house, and reached for the bag of beans she had insisted on buying from a boutique roaster in Surry Hills before she left. As the grinder whirred into a loud, aggressive buzz, he finally unlocked his phone and scrolled through their text chain. The thread was a chaotic mosaic of time-stamped contradictions: his "Goodnight" messages colliding with her "Just woke up" photos of neon-lit Kyoto streets and meticulously plated appetizers that looked more like modern art than food.

He leaned against the marble countertop, the steam from the brewing coffee beginning to cloud the air. He lingered on a photo she had sent twelve hours ago—a shot of a singular, perfect radish carved into a chrysanthemum, resting atop a bed of shimmering dashi. Underneath, she had written: The head chef thinks I'm a genius, but I actually almost dropped the whole tray because I was thinking about how much you'd probably try to eat the garnish in one bite. Robbie chuckled, the sound echoing softly in the tiles, and felt a sudden, sharp tug of longing that had nothing to do with the physical space of the bed.

He began to type, his thumbs hovering over the screen. The garnish is the best part, and you know it. Also, the house is too quiet. The magpies are judging me for how many times I've checked the clock today. He paused, wondering if she was currently in the middle of a frantic prep session or if she was finally allowing herself a moment of stillness in her hotel room. He knew the pressure she was under; a Michelin star wasn't just a title, it was a relentless pursuit of perfection that didn't pause for homesickness.

They should be use to it. They'd been dating for three years. They were use to the erratic schedules—his travel for matches and her late-night closures. This time it felt different. Maybe it was because he was the one home while Nora was in Japan, or maybe it was because Kyoto was a world away, not just a flight.

He hit send and set the phone face-up on the counter, leaning back to wait. It didn't take long. The phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with an incoming FaceTime call. Robbie practically dove for the device, sliding the green icon with a grin that felt like it had been waiting all morning to break.

Nora’s face filled the screen, framed by the stark white of a chef’s coat. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun that didn't allow a single strand to escape, but her eyes were soft, underlined by the faint, purple shadows of a woman who hadn't slept more than five hours a night for a week. She was sitting on a small balcony, the grey-blue light of a Kyoto evening settling behind her and the distant, muted chime of a temple bell ringing in the background.

"Good evening gorgeous". Robbie smiled. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Please tell me you've actually sat down for more than five minutes today."

Nora let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping an inch away from her ears. She leaned her head back against the balcony railing, closing her eyes for a moment. "I think this is the first time I've been stationary since six a.m. I spent three hours arguing—politely, of course—about the viscosity of a soy-reduction glaze. My brain feels like it's been put through a food processor." She opened one eye, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Are you eating actual food, or are you just surviving on protein shakes and optimism?"

"Hey, I've only just woken up Nora. Give a guy a chance huh. Y'know I did survive on my culinary skills before we met," Robbie joked, lifting his coffee mug into the frame to show her he was barely functioning. He leaned back against the counter, his expression softening as he looked at her. Even through the pixelated lag of a long-distance call, the exhaustion in her posture was evident. She looked smaller than usual, swallowed up by the oversized white coat, her face pale against the deepening indigo of the Japanese twilight.

Nora sighed, a small, genuine sound that wasn't for the benefit of the head chef or the trainees. "I miss the noise," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not the kitchen noise—I can't stand the sound of a whisk hitting a stainless steel bowl right now—but the noise of the house. Your loud music, the way you leave your trainers in the middle of the hallway… I’d give anything to trip over one of your shoes right now."

Robbie let out a soft laugh, his heart twisting slightly. He knew that specific tone; it was the one she used when the professional armor began to crack. "I can send you a photo of the hallway if that helps. It's currently a disaster zone. I think there's a stray sock near the sofa that's starting to develop its own ecosystem."

Nora chuckled, the tension in her forehead finally smoothing out. "Don't you dare clean it up. Keep it exactly that messy for me." She shifted her position, leaning closer to the camera so her face filled the screen. The distant sound of a scooter buzzing through a narrow street drifted through the call, a reminder of the thousands of kilometers of ocean and earth between them. "How was training yesterday? Did you actually hit that new sequence, or did you spend half the time chatting with the refs?"

"Oi! I am a professional," Robbie retorted with a playful grin, though he didn't deny it. He began to pace the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of his movement helping to bridge the gap. He told her about the soreness in his shoulders and a particularly grueling sparring session, keeping the tone light and rhythmic. He could see her listening, her eyes fluttering shut occasionally as if she were imagining his voice filling the room instead of coming through a tiny speaker. For a few minutes, the conversation drifted into the mundane, the kind of effortless banter that served as the bedrock of their relationship.

"Wait, hold on," Nora said, her voice shifting as she sat up straighter. She shifted the phone, angling the camera toward the small wooden table beside her. On it sat a tiny, ceramic bowl containing a single, translucent piece of fish draped over a sliver of pickled ginger, garnished with a speck of something deep purple. "I can't stop thinking about it. The balance is almost there, but it needs something… grounded. Something that tastes like home, but doesn't scream 'Australian BBQ'."

Robbie stopped pacing, leaning in close to the screen to squint at the plate. To him, it looked like a very expensive piece of jewelry, but he knew the intensity currently firing through Nora's synapses. This was the "fusion" part of her mission—the delicate, high-wire act of blending her heritage with the rigid discipline of Kyoto's culinary elite. "What are you thinking? Something earthy?"

"Exactly," she murmured, her professional focus momentarily overriding her exhaustion. "I tried a hint of smoked salt, but it was too aggressive. I want it to feel like a summer afternoon in the backyard, but translated into a language the head chef will actually respect. If I can get the acidity right without overpowering the fish, it could be the centerpiece of the whole menu."

Robbie watched her, admiring the way her eyes lit up when she talked shop. The tiredness was still there, but the passion had returned, acting like a second wind. He knew that for Nora, cooking wasn't just about flavor; it was about architecture and emotion. "Maybe you're overthinking the salt. What about something slightly sweet? Like that honey-glaze stuff you used to do with the carrots? Not the honey itself, but that kind of floral undertone."

Nora paused, her gaze drifting away from the camera and toward the small, meticulously arranged pantry in the corner of her suite. She didn't answer immediately, her mind clearly racing through a mental library of flavor profiles. Robbie waited, knowing better than to interrupt the "chef trance." He could almost see the invisible blueprints of a recipe being drawn in the air around her, a complex web of chemistry and memory.

"Floral," she whispered, the word sounding more like a question than a conclusion. "Something like a wattle seed infusion? No, too nutty. But maybe a hint of lemon myrtle, just a whisper of it in the dashi…" She suddenly bolted upright, nearly knocking the phone off the table. "Robbie, you idiot, you're a genius! If I steep the myrtle in a cold-press, it keeps the brightness without the bitterness. It bridges the gap between the ginger and the fish perfectly."

Robbie beamed, leaning back against the marble counter with a smug expression of triumph. "See? This is why you keep me around. I'm not just a pretty face who can take a bump; I'm a culinary consultant."

Nora laughed, a real, bubbling sound that reached her eyes and chased away the lingering shadows of her long day. For a moment, the distance seemed to shrink; the pixelated screen vanished, and it was just the two of them, sharing a victory in the quiet of their shared language. She looked back at him, her expression softening into something deeply tender. "I don't know what I'd do without you to ground me when I'm spiraling into the weeds."

"You'd probably just keep tweaking that glaze until the restaurant closed for the season," Robbie replied, his voice dropping to a warm, teasing hum. He watched her on the screen, noting how the sudden burst of inspiration had physically lifted her. The slump in her shoulders was gone, replaced by the rigid, electric energy of a woman who had just found the missing piece of a puzzle.

Nora lingered on the moment, her gaze searching his face through the lens. The silence that followed wasn't the hollow kind he'd experienced upon waking; it was a shared breath, a quiet acknowledgment of the tether stretching across the ocean. "I really miss you, Rob," she said softly. "The food is incredible, the city is stunning, and the challenge is everything I ever wanted, but it’s all so… quiet. Even when the kitchen is screaming, it feels quiet because you're not here to make fun of me for being too intense."

"I'm practicing my material," he joked, though he stepped closer to the phone, as if trying to lean into her space. "I've got a whole new set of jokes about the gym's new squat rack that are just dying for a tough crowd. You're the only one who actually appreciates my timing."

Nora smiled, leaning her cheek against her hand. "Save them for me. I want a full report on everything—the boring stuff, the frustrating stuff, and exactly how many times you've actually put your laundry away this week. Don't lie to me, I know your patterns."

"I can't believe you miss me after two weeks of peace and quiet," Robbie replied, though he was already glancing toward the laundry basket in the hallway with a look of genuine concern. "Admit it, you're just missing the chaos. The silence of Kyoto is starting to make you twitchy."

Nora let out a soft, melodic laugh and shifted the phone, giving him a brief glimpse of the cityscape. The sky had deepened into a velvety plum, and the warm, amber glow of street lanterns began to flicker to life along the narrow alleys below. "It is beautiful, Rob. Truly. But it’s a different kind of beauty. Everything here is so curated, so intentional. Sometimes I feel like if I breathe too loudly, I’ll knock a piece of history off balance. Coming home to your voice is the only thing that reminds me I'm allowed to be a bit of a mess."

Robbie’s expression softened. He knew that pressure—the weight of expectation that came with performing at the highest level. He felt it every time he stepped through the curtain and into the roar of the crowd, the sudden transition from a normal human being to a persona that had to be flawless. "You're not a mess, Nora. You're a Michelin-star whirlwind. And for the record, the house is definitely missing its whirlwind. The plants are looking depressed, and I think the toaster is offended that you're not the one operating it."

"You're such a liar," she teased, but her voice was thick with affection. She sighed, her gaze drifting back to the small, translucent piece of fish on the ceramic bowl. The professional fire was still there, but the exhaustion was creeping back in, pulling at the corners of her eyelids. "I miss you Eagles. I miss you hogging the bed and making that face when you try to be serious about your diet."

Robbie chuckled, shifting his weight as he leaned against the counter. "Hey, the diet is a delicate science! Besides, someone has to be the disciplined one in the house while you're off becoming a legend in Japan." He watched her on the screen, noting the way she finally let her guard drop, her posture slumping just a little more as she leaned into the comfort of their conversation. "Go on, get some actual sleep. If you keep staring at that fish, you're going to start hallucinating that it's talking back to you."

Nora let out a soft hum of agreement, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. "You're probably right. I should probably try to find a way to shut my brain off for a few hours before the 5 a.m. market run." She paused, a thought crossing her face. "Do you think the lemon myrtle will actually work? Or am I just desperate to taste something that reminds me of a Saturday morning in the garden?"

"Trust the instinct, Nora," Robbie said, his voice steady and encouraging. "You've got the palate of a machine. If you think it bridges the gap, it'll bridge the gap. Just don't let the head chef catch you experimenting with the 'secret weapon' until you've nailed the reduction."

"I'll take my chances," Nora murmured, her voice trailing off as she began to actually move, the phone swaying slightly as she stood up. She gave him one last, lingering look—the kind that tried to memorize the exact crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I love you, Rob. Keep the sock on the floor for me."

"Will do, chef. Love you too. Hey, only a month and a half to go," Robbie said, his voice softening. He watched her image flicker and then vanish as the call disconnected, leaving him staring at the black reflection of his own face on the screen. The silence of the kitchen returned, but it didn't feel quite so hollow anymore. He set the phone down and looked at the laundry basket in the hallway. With a small, mischievous grin, he deliberately kicked a stray sock further into the middle of the floor, ensuring it was perfectly positioned for her eventual return.

/*/

In Kyoto, Nora set her phone on the bedside table and stood in the center of her small, minimalist room. The silence here was a different kind of heavy—it was a respectful, curated stillness that felt like it belonged in a museum. She looked at the small ceramic bowl of fish and then at the distance to the kitchen. The exhaustion that had been weighing her down for a week had shifted; the "chef trance" had evolved into a focused, electric energy. The suggestion of the lemon myrtle had acted like a key turning in a lock, unlocking a version of the dish that felt honest.

She didn't go to bed. Instead, she stepped back into the small kitchenette of her suite, her movements now precise and purposeful. She reached for a small vacuum-sealed pouch of Australian botanicals she had brought in her suitcase—a "survival kit" of flavors from home that she had barely touched. She carefully measured a pinch of the dried myrtle, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. She began to prepare a cold-press infusion, watching as the water turned a pale, golden hue, the scent blooming around her—bright, citrusy, and unmistakably home.

As she tasted the infusion, her eyes closed. It wasn't just the flavor; it was the memory of the salt air and the kind of laughter that only happened when Robbie was trying to convince her that a wrestling move was "actually quite scientific." The tension in her chest, the knot of homesickness that had been tightening since she landed, loosened just a fraction. She realized that the fusion wasn't just about blending Japanese precision with Australian ingredients; it was about bringing the parts of herself that Robbie loved into a space that demanded a sterile, flawless exterior.

The next morning, the Kyoto fish market was a chaotic symphony of shouting vendors and sliding crates. Nora moved through the damp aisles with a focused intensity, her boots clicking against the wet concrete. Beside her, the head chef, Kenji, watched her with a level of scrutiny that usually made Nora feel like a specimen under a microscope. He was a man of few words and exacting standards, but today, he noticed the way she bypassed the usual premium options and headed straight for a specific, smaller variety of sea bream.

"The acidity will be higher in this batch," Nora explained, her voice steady despite the roar of the market. "It will cut through the richness of the reduction without needing more citrus."

Kenji paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked from the fish to Nora. He didn't smile—Kenji didn't really do smiling—but he gave a sharp, single nod of approval. It was the equivalent of a standing ovation. As they walked back toward the restaurant, the early morning sun began to bleed gold across the city's tiled rooftops, and Nora felt a surge of confidence that had nothing to do with her technical skill. She felt anchored.

Back in the kitchen, the atmosphere was electric. The trainees were already in position, their movements synchronized and silent, like a choreographed dance of stainless steel and white linen. Nora stepped into her station, the "secret weapon" infusion she had prepared in her hotel room tucked discreetly into a small glass vial. As she began to plate the tasting sample, she could feel the weight of the room shifting toward her. The dish was a risk; the head chef valued tradition above all else, and introducing a foreign botanical into a classic dashi-based preparation was a gamble that could either cement her status or result in a stern lecture on the sanctity of the craft.

Nora placed the finished sample on the pass—a single, translucent slice of sea bream resting on a bed of dashi that shimmered like liquid silk. She had used the lemon myrtle infusion not as a dominant note, but as a ghostly whisper that appeared only after the initial hit of ginger. It was a culinary sleight of hand, a hidden bridge that connected the disciplined structure of Kyoto to the wild, sun-drenched coastlines of her home.

Kenji approached the plate with the deliberation of a judge at a high-stakes trial. The rest of the kitchen fell into a vacuum of silence, the only sound the distant, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a commis chef finely dicing shallots across the room. Kenji lifted the tasting spoon, bringing the fish to his lips. He tasted it once, his expression remaining as impassive as a stone garden. Then he tasted the dashi, closing his eyes.

For several seconds, Nora felt the sudden, sharp return of the pressure she had felt during her first few days in the city. She wondered if the "home" element was too loud, too nostalgic, or if the balance had tipped into something that felt like an intrusion rather than an evolution. She caught her own reflection in the polished stainless steel of the counter; she looked poised, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the workstation.

"The brightness," Kenji said, his voice low and gravelly. "It does not fight the fish. It lifts it." He looked at Nora, and for the first time, the rigid lines of his face softened. "It is a brave choice, Ellington-san. It tastes of a place I have not been, but it feels familiar. This will be the third course."

"Third course," Nora repeated, the words feeling like a victory lap. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her posture finally relaxing from the rigid tension of the last few minutes. The "secret weapon" hadn't just worked; it had earned her a seat at the table of the restaurant's inner sanctum. For a fleeting moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to pull her phone from her pocket and scream into the FaceTime app, but the professional atmosphere of the kitchen demanded a quiet, focused dignity.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in a blur of high-intensity precision. The kitchen was a machine, and she was one of its most critical gears, refining the proportions of the dashi and ensuring the temperature of the sea bream was consistent to the degree. Every time she caught the scent of the lemon myrtle blooming under the heat of the pan, she thought of Robbie’s smug face on the screen. He had provided the spark, but the execution was hers, and that synergy—the way his intuition complemented her technicality—was a reminder that their partnership worked just as well in the kitchen as it did in the bedroom.

By the time the dinner service wound down and the last of the guests had departed the dining room, Nora was physically spent. Her feet throbbed in her clogs, and her white coat was stained with a few rogue drops of soy and oil, but her mind was humming. She retreated to her suite, the cool night air of Kyoto greeting her as she stepped onto the balcony. She didn't even bother to take off her coat before dialing Robbie.

He picked up on the second ring, his face illuminated by the harsh, bright light of a Sydney afternoon. He was wearing a gym shirt, sweat clinging to his brow, and he looked like he had just finished a set of heavy lifts. "Tell me you've got good news," he beamed, his voice booming through the speaker. "Did the boss call you a genius, or are you currently scrubbing floors with a toothbrush as punishment for your 'bold' choices?"

"Third course," Nora breathed, her voice buzzing with a level of excitement she usually reserved for finding a perfectly ripe heirloom tomato in the dead of winter. "He actually put it in the third course, Rob! He said it was a 'brave choice.' From Kenji, that’s basically the equivalent of a gold medal and a handwritten letter of commendation."

Robbie let out a loud, triumphant whoop that probably startled half the people at his gym. He pumped a fist into the air, his face splitting into a grin. "I knew it! See, this is why you listen to the consultant. I’ve got the instinct for the bold moves. Now, tell me the truth—did you use the 'floral undertone' tip exactly as suggested, or did you actually listen to my genius and then tweak it until it became your own?"

Nora laughed, leaning her back against the balcony railing and letting the cool Kyoto night air settle the adrenaline in her veins. "Both. I took your spark and then spent three hours arguing with myself about the cold-press ratio. But you were right about the direction. It grounded the whole thing. It stopped being a 'concept' and actually started tasting like something real."

Robbie’s expression softened, the high energy of the victory settling into something warmer. He shifted the camera, giving her a glimpse of the bustling Sydney gym behind him, where the afternoon sun was streaming through the high windows in dusty, golden shafts. "I’m proud of you, Nor. Seriously. I know how much you were stressing over that menu. To go from 'spiraling in the weeds' to 'brave choice' in twenty-four hours is a hell of a run."

Noora blushed. "Yeah, well I can't take all the credit. I had a very helpful, very loud, very sweaty consultant on the other end of the line."

"Hey, the sweat is part of the process. It's where the wisdom leaks out," Robbie joked, leaning his back against a weight rack. He looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed the way the tension had finally left her jaw. "You look different today. Less like you're fighting a war and more like you're winning one."

"I feel like I've finally stopped apologizing for being here," Nora admitted, her voice quiet. "The first week was just… I felt like a tourist in my own profession. Everything was so rigid, and I kept trying to fit myself into a mold that wasn't designed for me. But that dish… it was the first time I felt like I wasn't just mimicking a style, but actually contributing something."

Robbie smiled, a slow, genuine expression of pride. "That's the 'Nora effect.' You don't just enter a room, you rewrite the floor plan. Now that you've got the head chef on your side, I bet you're going to run that kitchen like a well-oiled machine by the time you leave."

"Thanks, but I still can't wait to come home. I've been thinking. Maybe when I get back, we can take the next step in our relationship". Nora paused, her voice dipping into a territory that made Robbie’s posture straighten. "I mean, the real next step. Not just 'living together' in a way that involves you occasionally doing the dishes".

Robbie’s eyes widened, a slow, surprised laugh escaping him. He looked at the gym weights surrounding him, then back to the screen, his expression shifting from shock to a tender, glowing warmth. "Wait, are you proposing to me via FaceTime? In the middle of a gym? Because if so, the lighting is terrible and there's a guy in the background trying to deadlift three hundred pounds who is currently staring at me".

Nora laughed, the sound bright and liberated. "I'm not proposing yet, you pick! I'm just saying that I’ve spent the last few weeks in a city where everything is about the long-term—the legacy, the tradition, the way things were a hundred years ago and how they'll be a hundred years from now. It makes you realize that the 'right time' is kind of a myth. There's only now."

Robbie leaned his head back against the metal rack, his voice softening. "So. What are you suggesting? Because if we're talking about the 'real' next step, I might need to start practicing my 'surprised' face for when you eventually do it for real."

Nora smiled, her gaze drifting to the quiet, indigo horizon of Kyoto. "I’m suggesting that maybe we should get a companion. A puppy or maybe adopt a rescue. Keep us company when the other one is traveling for a match or a guest residency. Something that requires a strict schedule and a lot of patience—basically a tiny, furry version of Kenji."

Robbie’s face lit up, a look of genuine delight crossing his features. "A dog? Now we're talking. Though, knowing you, you'll probably try to put it on a meal plan with organic, locally sourced kibble and a curated selection of chew toys." He paused, his voice turning thoughtful. "But seriously, Nor… I love that. I love the idea of us building something that isn't just about the next contract or the next menu. Something that just is."

The conversation drifted into a playful debate over breeds—Robbie wanting something high-energy to keep up with his training, Nora leaning toward something soulful and calm—until the battery icon on Nora's screen began to flash red. She sighed, the reality of her early wake-up call returning. "I have to go, Rob. If I don't get at least four hours of sleep, I'm going to start mistaking the sea bream for a decorative centerpiece tomorrow."

Swerve Strickland x OC (Thalia Lawless)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alarm on the bedside table didn't just ring; it emitted a frantic, rhythmic chirping that sounded more like a distressed cricket than a wake-up call. It was the kind of noise that made one wonder if the device had developed a conscious desire to be noticed. This particular clock had been a gift from a chaotic cousin in New Jersey, and it operated on a philosophy of aggressive insistence, ensuring that no one—regardless of their sleep cycle or level of exhaustion—could possibly remain unconscious past 6:00 AM.

"Fuck. Why did I suggest breakfast?" Thalia groaned, her voice a gravelly contrast to the polished, poised tones she used on stage as Rachel Maron. She slapped the snooze button with enough force to nearly send the clock sliding off the mahogany surface, finally silencing the nightmare.

"Ten minutes," she whispered to the empty room, as if negotiating with the morning itself.

Thalia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms, trying to scrub away the remnants of a dream involving a runaway stage prop and a very confused director. She ran a hand through her curls, which had devolved overnight into a wild, untamed thicket that defied the laws of gravity and hairspray. She surveyed the bedroom of her penthouse suite, plump decorative cushions from the bed were strewn across the floor like landminds. The black jumpsuit that she'd worn the previous evening was unceremoniously thrown over the overstuffed armchair in the corner, while her Louboutins lay side-by-side on the carpet, looking exhausted.

Her mind drifted back to the previous night, specifically the moment the air in the restaurant had shifted. She had been attempting to tune out what one of the studio execs her manager had thrust upon her was saying, when she first noticed Stephon. He hadn't just entered the room; he had commanded it, though he did so with a casual grace that felt effortless. The first thing that had struck her wasn't his fame or the way the light caught the jewelery at his wrist, but the way he looked at her—not as a Disney alumna or a West End star, but as a puzzle he was genuinely interested in solving. He had approached her with a smile that reached his eyes, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to the frantic energy of the crowded room.

It had been a brief encounter, a few minutes of leaning in close to hear one another over the din, but the chemistry had been an immediate, physical thing. He had a way of listening that made her feel like the only person in the room, his gaze steady and appreciative, tracing the line of her expression with a curiosity that felt daring yet respectful. When he’d leaned in to whisper a joke about the pomposity of the event, his shoulder had brushed hers—a momentary contact that had sent a jolt of electricity straight to her fingertips. It wasn't the practiced charm of a celebrity; it was a genuine, magnetic pull that had left her feeling breathless before the night had even peaked.

"The audacity of this man," Thalia murmured, though the smile playing on her lips betrayed her. She reached for her phone, which was currently nestled between a stack of scripts and a half-empty glass of water. On the lock screen, a notification from Swerve's number glowed against the dim morning light.

You’ve got a light about you, Thalia. Hope you’re dreaming of something as interesting as you are.

It was bold, bordering on arrogant, but delivered with a wink that she could practically hear through the screen. She looked at the timestamp, exactly five minutes after she'd finally fallen asleep, and felt a sudden, sharp surge of adrenaline that bypassed her need for caffeine. Most men in her orbit approached her with a cautious reverence, as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain, but Stephon had treated her like a challenge. She stared at the words a light about you and felt a flush creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen as she typed a reply, her movements rhythmic and practiced. The audacity of a man who thinks he can keep me awake until midnight and then send a text at dawn 😏 I'm still deciding if you're an inspiration or a nuisance, Strickland.

She hit send and followed it up quickly with another message. Don't forget our little appointment. The Wolseley. 7:00 AM. Don't be late, or I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu on your tab.

The reply was almost instantaneous, a simple You can tell me at The Wolsey. Challenge accepted btw 😏 See you soon, egomaniac. At least you won't steal my table this time

Thalia tossed the phone back onto the bed and sprang into action. The process of transforming from a bed-ridden disaster into a West End leading lady was a choreographed ritual. Thalia pulled off the comforter with a flourish and sprung out of bed, the silk of her pyjama shorts and camisole stuck flush against her warm skin. The grin never left her face as she stepped into the bathroom, where the oversized mirrors reflected a woman who looked more like a shipwreck than a star. She caught the eye of her reflection and gave a small, determined nod. If she was going to face a man who viewed the world as his own personal playground, she couldn't exactly show up looking like she’d been wrestled by a duvet.

The shower was a sanctuary of steam and high-pressure luxury. Thalia leaned her forehead against the cool marble tile, letting the hot water hammer away the last vestiges of sleep from her shoulders. She spent an indulgent amount of time massaging a citrus-scented scrub into her skin, the warmth of the water turning her limbs supple and waking up her senses. As the steam filled the room, she found herself humming a few bars of Queen of the Night, her voice returning to its melodic, resonant depth. She stayed under the spray long enough for her fingertips to prune, imagining the look on Stephon's face when she walked into The Wolseley looking effortless.

Once dried and wrapped in a plush robe, Thalia tackled the "thicket" of her hair. A blow-dryer and a round brush worked their magic, smoothing the wild curls into a polished, cascading wave that framed her face. She opted for a makeup look that whispered rather than screamed—a bit of gold shimmer on the lids and a swipe of nude gloss—wanting to maintain a balance between "off-duty actress" and "unforgettably stunning."

The wardrobe was less of a storage space and more of a curated gallery, a sliding mahogany kingdom of sequins, silks, and structured blazers. Only a small selection from her closet that she'd packed eight months previously when she started the London contract actually fit her current mood. She bypassed the "safe" options—the modest dresses that screamed sophisticated theater lead—and instead reached for something that mirrored the energy Stephon had brought into her orbit. She settled on a pair of black, high-waisted tailored leather trousers that hugged her hips, paired with a cropped, cream-colored cashmere knit that dipped just enough to be suggestive without being overt. It was a look that said she had woken up effortlessly beautiful, even if it had taken a rigorous amount of planning to achieve that exact level of "effortless."

As she stepped into the trousers, the fabric sliding smoothly over her skin, she paused to consider her footwear. A stiletto would be too aggressive for breakfast, and a flat would be too casual for a man who treated every entrance like a main event.

She scanned the row of designer heels, then paused, her gaze drifting toward a special shelf where her more eclectic treasures resided. With a decisive smirk, Thalia bypassed the stilettos entirely. She reached for her Swarovski-encrusted Jordan 1s, the crystals catching the morning light and scattering tiny, prismatic shards across the white carpet. They were a bold choice—a collision of street culture and high luxury—but they felt right. They were a nod to the girl who had grown up in the Disney spotlight, the one who knew how to play the part of the polished star while keeping a playful, rebellious streak intact. If Stephon thought he was the only one in the room who could command attention with a singular look, he was in for a surprise.

To balance the sparkle of the footwear, she slid the strap of her black and cream Coach Tabby handbag over her shoulder. The bag was compact and structured, echoing the tones of her cashmere knit and leather trousers, providing a grounding element to an outfit that flirted with the edge of extravagance. She checked her reflection one last time, adjusting the strap and tossing her hair over one shoulder. She looked like a woman who could navigate a red carpet and a street fight with equal ease. Satisfied, she grabbed her phone and Coach bag, the crystals on her sneakers clicking softly against the hardwood as she exited the penthouse, leaving the silence of the suite behind for the anticipation of the morning.

"Morning, Ms. Lawless. You're looking particularly lethal today," Marcus remarked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that acted as the perfect anchor to Thalia’s buzzing energy. He was already standing by the curb, the engine of the blacked-out Range Rover idling with a patient, rhythmic thrum that seemed to vibrate through the pavement. Marcus had been her driver in London for six months, a man of few words and an uncanny ability to navigate the city's chaotic arteries without ever letting the passengers feel the jerk of a sudden brake or the stress of a missed turn. He opened the door with a practiced, fluid motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the Swarovski crystals on her sneakers with a subtle, approving nod.

"Thank you Marcus". Thalia slid into the cabin, the heavy door closing with a muted thud that instantly severed her from the morning noise of the city. The interior of the Rover was a cocoon of chilled air and charcoal leather, smelling faintly of expensive cedar and new upholstery. As Marcus glided away from the curb, the world outside became a blurred tapestry of red double-decker buses and grey stone facades, filtered through the deep tint of the windows. Thalia leaned her head back against the headrest, feeling the subtle, powerful surge of the engine as Marcus navigated the narrow lanes of Mayfair with a precision that felt more like artistry than driving.

She spent the ride checking her reflection in the vanity mirror, not out of vanity, but as a final strategic check. She traced the line of her eyeliner, wondering if Stephon was already there, nursing a black coffee and thinking of a way to get under her skin. There was something about the way he carried himself—a mixture of absolute confidence and a playful, mocking edge—that made her feel like she was playing a high-stakes game of chess where the rules changed every few minutes. She liked it. For too long, she had been the center of every room by default; with Stephon, she felt she had to actually earn the spotlight.

The Range Rover slowed to a crawl as they approached Piccadilly, the traffic thickening into a sluggish river of black cabs and delivery vans. Marcus caught her eye in the rearview mirror, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The Wolseley is a bold choice for a seven o'clock, Ms. Lawless. Most people are still in their pyjamas, or they're on their way to a gym they’ll never actually visit."

Thalia laughed, "That's the point Marcus. The early bird gets the best table, and the early ego gets the best leverage." She checked her watch, noting she was arriving with precisely three minutes to spare. The Range Rover glided to a halt in front of the grand facade of The Wolseley, the car's matte black finish acting as a stark, modern contrast to the opulent, old-world glamour of the establishment. Marcus stepped out with the synchronized precision of a royal guard, rounding the vehicle to open her door before she even had a chance to reach for the handle.

As she stepped out, the morning air of Piccadilly nipped at her exposed collarbone, but the adrenaline kept her warm. Thalia paused for a second, feeling the weight of the Swarovski crystals on her feet as she pivoted.

"Oh Marcus".

"Yes Miss Lawless?" Marcus asked, his expression neutral but his eyes twinkling with the patience of a man who had seen every side of Thalia’s theatrical nature.

"If Megan calls asking where I am, don't tell her. I wanna make her sweat a little before the rehearsal," Thalia said, flashing him a mischievous grin. She gave him a quick wave and turned toward the grand entrance of the restaurant, the crystals on her sneakers catching the morning light one last time before she stepped inside.

The Wolseley was a temple of European grandeur, all high ceilings and polished brass that seemed to amplify the quiet hum of early morning conversations.

The maître d', a portly gentleman in his fifties with a handlebar mustache, immediately recognised her, his expression shifting from professional neutrality to a welcoming warmth. He didn't need to ask for the name on the reservation; Thalia’s presence tended to announce itself before she even spoke.

"Miss Lawless, welcome to The Wolseley," the maître d' beamed, gesturing toward the dining room with a flourish of his hand. "Your guest has already arrived and is waiting for you in the corner booth."

Thalia didn’t need to look far to find him. Stephon was leaned back in the plush velvet seat, his posture a masterclass in relaxed dominance. He was dressed in a tailored ensemble that blurred the line between high fashion and street luxury, his presence acting as a focal point that seemed to pull the rest of the room's energy toward him. As she approached, his eyes traveled from the cascading waves of her hair down to the shimmering crystals on her sneakers, a slow, appreciative scan that made Thalia feel as though she were being read like a favourite book.

"You're precisely on time," Stephon noted, his voice a smooth, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. He didn't stand immediately, instead letting his gaze linger on her face with a smirk that suggested he knew exactly how much effort had gone into her 'effortless' look. "And I see you decided to bring the jewelery for your feet. Bold. I respect the commitment to the aesthetic."

Thalia slid into the booth opposite him, the leather of her trousers creaking softly. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I figured if you were going to try and outshine me, I needed to bring some reinforcements. Besides, these are a conversation piece."

Stephon finally shifted, sliding out of the booth to pull her chair out for her. The movement was fluid, a subtle display of the athletic grace that defined his career, but his eyes remained locked on hers, challenging her to blink first. "Reinforcements," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "You talk like you're preparing for a siege, Thalia. Relax. The only thing under attack here is the breakfast menu."

He settled back into his seat, the movement bringing him closer, his presence filling the space in a way that made the cavernous dining room feel suddenly intimate. A server appeared almost instantly, pouring fresh orange juice into two crystal flutes with a precision that mirrored the room's formality. Thalia watched him as he leaned in, the light from the overhead chandeliers catching the gold of his watch and the genuine, warm curiosity in his expression. He wasn't performing for her; he was simply existing in a way that demanded attention.

"So," Stephon began, glancing at the menu before sliding it aside without really looking at it. "The West End. The lights, the applause, the dramatic pauses. Tell me—does it get old? Knowing exactly how the night ends every single time the curtain goes up?"

Thalia paused, surprised by the direction of the question. Most people asked about the fame or the costume changes, but he was asking about the psychology of the craft. She felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "It’s not about the ending, Stephon. It’s about the energy in the room. Every night is different because the audience is different. One night the crowd is breathless, and the next, they're barely paying attention. The challenge is making them care, regardless of the mood they walked in with."

"Very eloquent," Stephon replied, his smile widening as he leaned back, crossing one arm over his chest. "You’re basically saying it’s a gamble. You step out there and hope the chemistry hits. I can respect that. My world is similar, though my 'audience' usually spends the first five minutes screaming that they hate me before they realize they actually love the show."

Thalia laughed, a genuine, light sound that drew a few curious glances from the surrounding tables. "I can't imagine the mental shift. Going from a Disney set to a stage where you're playing a woman under constant threat, and then meeting a man who makes a living in a ring. We’re a bit of a chaotic pairing, aren't we?"

"Chaos is where the fun is," he said, his gaze softening. He didn't look away, and for the first time since she had sat down, Thalia felt the strategic armor of her outfit fade. The "game" of the encounter was shifting into something warmer, more grounded. He reached for the water carafe, pouring a glass for her first before filling his own. "But since you're the one with the rehearsal today, I'll give you the floor. Is the London theater scene as cutthroat as they say, or is that just something we tell the tourists to make the tickets seem more prestigious?"

"It's a different kind of cutthroat," Thalia admitted, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "It's not about who's the loudest; it's about who can hold a silence the longest. The Brits have this way of judging you with a single raised eyebrow that can make you question every choice you've made since primary school."

Stephon laughed, the sound a rich, low vibration that seemed to harmonize with the clinking of silver against porcelain. "A raised eyebrow, huh? I can deal with that. In my line of work, the judgment usually comes in the form of ten thousand people screaming that I’m a coward while I’m staring at a man twice my size trying to put me through a table."

Thalia leaned back, her interest piqued. She had spent her life in the curated bubbles of studio lots and dressing rooms, where the stakes were measured in ratings and reviews. Stephon’s world was visceral—a collision of physical grit and psychological warfare. She found herself wondering what happened when the music stopped and the spotlights faded.

"All that intensity, all that… theatrics," she said, gesturing vaguely toward him. "What does the 'Swerve' version of a Tuesday look like? I mean, when you aren't commanding a ring or making entrances that probably cost more than my first car, who is the man who actually wakes up at 6:00 AM?"

Stephon paused, his gaze drifting for a moment as if he were scanning a mental map of his own life. He didn't give her the rehearsed, polished answer of a press junket. Instead, he leaned in, his voice taking on a softer, more intimate quality. "The Tuesday version? That guy is a lot quieter. A lot of early gym sessions where the only sound is the iron hitting the floor. A lot of time spent staring at a ceiling wondering if my knees are actually going to hold up for another decade. It’s a cycle of high highs and very lonely lows, Thalia. You probably know a bit about that, even if your 'ring' has a velvet curtain."

"And where do you call home when you're not in a wrestling ring or a hotel suite?" Thalia asked, her curiosity shifting from the professional to the personal. She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, her gaze searching his. "Because I’ve spent so much of my life in transit that 'home' has become a collection of different zip codes and hotel loyalty points. I want to know what the real anchor is for the man who manages to look this composed while the rest of the world is screaming."

Stephon’s expression shifted, the playful smirk receding to make room for something more contemplative. He leaned in, the distance between them shrinking until she could see the gold flecks in his eyes. "Home is Orlando. I moved there back in 2019 when I signed with WWE. Before that, home was Mount Joy, Pennsylvania. I lived in Virginia for a bit when I was training to be a wrestler. I lived in Frankfurt until I was nine and I was born in Tacoma, Washington". Stephon explained. "But I thought you would've googled me. That or get your PI to dig it up. You're a star, T, you usually have the dossier before the first date."

Thalia let out a soft, scoffing laugh, leaning back into the velvet of the booth. "A dossier? Stephon, I’m a Disney alumna, not a CIA operative. Wikipedia can be edited and I only hire my PI for after the second date—usually to make sure you don’t have a secret family in the Cotswolds." She tilted her head, her gaze becoming more focused, cutting through the curated layer of the 'Swerve' persona. "Besides, a Google search tells me what you want the world to know. It doesn't tell me what you actually like. I want the unedited version. I don't want Swerve Strickland, I was Stephon Strickland".

Stephon’s gaze softened, the playful challenge in his eyes replaced by a quiet, reflective warmth. He shifted his weight, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm. "The unedited version, huh? Well, the unedited version starts with a lot of discipline and a lot of military precision," he said, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Both my parents were in the Army. My dad was a Sergeant First Class—though his primary weapon wasn't a rifle, it was a spatula. He was a cook, keeping the troops fed and focused. That's how we ended up in Frankfurt for a while. I spent the first nine years of my life in a world of drills, regulations, and the kind of structure that either makes you crave total freedom or teaches you exactly how to manipulate it."

Thalia watched him, her heart skipping a beat at the vulnerability in his tone. The image of a young Stephon in Germany, surrounded by the rigid expectations of military life, added a layer of depth to the man sitting across from her. It explained the precision of his movements and the way he commanded space; he hadn't just learned how to be a star, he had been raised in an environment where presence was a requirement. "A Sergeant First Class cook," she murmured, her voice laced with genuine admiration. "So you grew up with a man who knew how to handle the heat in more ways than one. I imagine the dinner table was a very disciplined place."

"Oh, it was," Stephon chuckled, the sound low and rich. "But that’s the secret. When you grow up in that kind of structure, you learn how to find the cracks. You learn how to be a rebel within the rules. That’s probably where the 'Swerve' persona comes from—the need to shake things up just to see if the foundation will hold. My parents gave me the discipline, but the ring gave me the outlet for everything else."

The intimacy of the conversation was punctured by the arrival of a young woman in a crisp white apron, clutching a leather-bound order pad with a grip that was slightly too tight. She had been gliding toward the table with the practiced, invisible efficiency of the Wolseley staff, but as she stepped into the radius of their booth, her pace faltered. Her gaze locked onto Thalia, and for a split second, the professional mask of the server slipped, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, breathless recognition.

"Oh my god," the girl whispered, her voice barely audible over the morning clink of silverware. "You're… you're Thalia Lawless. I mean, the Thalia Lawless. I watched The Suite Life and Hannah on repeat when I was ten! I can't believe you're actually sitting here, eating breakfast."

Thalia’s transition was seamless; the "star" reflex kicked in with a warm, practiced grace. She gave the girl a dazzling, genuine smile that reached her eyes, leaning slightly toward her. "Good morning! I hope you're having a lovely shift so far," she said, her voice honey-smooth. "And thank you for watching—though I’m not sure my ten-year-old self would recognize the woman I am now."

The server blushed, momentarily stunned by the directness of the attention, before she remembered her duty. She cleared her throat, glancing quickly at Stephon—who was watching the interaction with an amused, arched eyebrow—before returning her focus to the orders. "Of course! Sorry, I just… I'm a huge fan. Whenever you're ready, I can get some coffee or juice started for you."

"Coffee and juice would be a great start," Stephon interjected, his voice carrying a playful edge as he leaned back, glancing at Thalia. "And maybe some patience for us while we decide on the food. We’re having a very intense debate about the merits of a traditional English breakfast versus something a bit more… refined."

The server nodded frantically, her eyes still wide, and hurried away to fetch the beverages. As she vanished into the bustle of the dining room, Stephon let out a low whistle, turning his gaze back to Thalia. "The 'Disney effect' is a powerful thing, isn't it? I thought for a second she was going to ask for an autograph on the napkin before she even brought the water."

Thalia laughed, the sound genuine and light, as she settled further into the velvet booth. "It’s a strange kind of immortality. I’m practically a different person now, but to some people, I’m still the girl in the sequins from a sitcom filmed in a studio lot. I actually enjoy it, though. It’s like having a universal key to people’s kindness."

"You handle it well," Stephon noted, his expression shifting into something more appreciative. He wasn't just complimenting her poise; he was observing the way she navigated the intersection of her public image and her private self. "Most people in your position would either be too guarded or too performative. You just… exist. It's a rare trait."

"What can I say? I've had a lot of practice playing different versions of myself," Thalia replied, her voice softening. She reached for the glass of orange juice as the server returned, her fingers brushing against Stephon’s as she moved. The contact was brief, but the lingering warmth from the previous night returned, a subtle hum of electricity that made the air between them feel thick. "But the 'existing' part is the hardest. It's the only role that doesn't have a script."

Stephon watched her, his gaze steady and focused. He didn't look away, nor did he rush to fill the silence. He simply let the moment breathe, acknowledging the weight of her admission. "Well, for what it's worth, the version of you that doesn't have a script is the one that's actually interesting. The sequins are great for the posters, but the way you look at me right now? That's the part that's worth getting a 7:00 AM breakfast for."

Thalia felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the restaurant's heating. She shifted her gaze to the menu, though the words blurred into an insignificant haze. "Is that your way of telling me you're impressed, Strickland? Because I should warn you, the 'interesting' version of me is far more demanding than the Disney version."

"I've dealt with demanding," he countered, a playful smirk returning to his lips as he finally leaned in, his shoulder nearly touching hers. "I deal with promoters, trainers, and crowds that want to see me get hit in the head for a living. I think I can handle a West End leading lady. In fact, I'm counting on it. Keeps me on my toes."

The server returned with the precision of a clockwork toy, though her hands trembled slightly as she navigated the distance to the table. She descended upon the white linen with a flurry of porcelain and crystal, the silver tray rattling softly as she deposited two flutes of vibrant orange juice and two steaming cups of black coffee. The aroma of dark-roasted beans collided with the sharp, citrusy zest of the juice, creating a sensory bridge between the morning’s alertness and its luxury. As she leaned over to place Stephon’s coffee, she caught another glimpse of Thalia’s shimmering sneakers, her eyes darting between the high-fashion leather and the Swarovski crystals with a look of sheer, bewildered admiration.

"Everything is just perfect, thank you," Thalia said, her voice a soothing balm to the girl's nervous energy. She offered a small, encouraging wink that seemed to ground the server, who gave a frantic, happy nod before retreating toward the kitchen as if she had just survived a brush with royalty.

Stephon watched the girl disappear, then turned back to Thalia, his gaze sliding from her face to the coffee and back again. He wrapped his hand around the mug, the heat of the porcelain seeping into his palm. "You’ve got a real gift, you know? You just turned a terrified twenty-something into a confident professional in under thirty seconds. That’s a level of crowd control even I haven't mastered."

"It's all in the framing," Thalia replied, taking a slow sip of her juice. The coolness of the drink contrasted with the sudden heat in her cheeks. "If you make them feel like they're in on a secret, they stop being afraid and start feeling like partners. It's the same way I approach a scene with a new co-star. You give them a little bit of warmth, a little bit of validation, and suddenly they're willing to follow you anywhere."

"A partner, huh?" Stephon murmured, his eyes dropping to the menu as he finally flicked it open. He didn't look at the prices, but his finger traced the columns of the 'Breakfast' section with a slow, rhythmic curiosity. "I like the way you think, T. But let's see if we can apply that same logic to the menu. Because looking at these options, I can't decide if I want to be a refined gentleman or a man who needs three different types of potatoes to survive the day."

Thalia leaned in, her shoulder grazing his as she peered over the top of her own menu. The leather-bound book was a catalog of indulgence: smoked salmon, eggs Benedict, kippers, and thick slices of toasted sourdough. "The 'refined gentleman' is a bit boring, don't you think? Where's the drama in a simple omelet? I'm feeling something with a bit more… architectural ambition."

"Architectural ambition," Stephon echoed, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Alright, so we're going for the 'everything' approach. The 'give me the whole farm' special." He looked at her, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right. I’m thinking the Full English. Sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms—the works. It’s the only way to properly fuel a man who has to maintain this level of charisma before noon."

Thalia smirked, her finger landing decisively on a selection. "I’ll play the contrast. Eggs Royale—poached eggs and smoked salmon on English muffins with Hollandaise. It’s sophisticated, slightly decadent, and’s it’ll leave me feeling light enough to actually hit my marks during rehearsal without falling asleep in the wings."

When the server returned, still looking slightly dazed by Thalia’s presence, the ordering process became a choreographed dance of confidence. Stephon didn't even look at the page; he spoke with a fluid, commanding certainty that made the ordering process feel like a victory speech. He added a side of grilled tomatoes and a bowl of mixed berries for the table, his voice smooth and steady, treating the server with a genuine kindness that balanced his inherent intensity. Thalia followed suit, her voice melodic and precise, adding a fresh grapefruit to the order with a playful tilt of her head.

As the server hurried away, Stephon leaned back, his arm draping casually over the velvet upholstery of the booth. The space between them had shifted; the initial spark of competition had melted into a comfortable, simmering curiosity. He watched her over the rim of his coffee mug, the steam curling around his face. "You know, most people I meet are too afraid to let the 'star' version of themselves slip. They're so worried about the image that they forget to actually be in the room. But you… you're actually here. It's a dangerous quality, Lawless."

Thalia felt the comment land with more weight than a simple compliment. She traced the gold clasp of her Coach bag, feeling a sudden, grounding sense of connection. "Being 'in the room' is the only place where anything real actually happens," she replied softly. "Everything else is just a rehearsal for a play that never opens. I've spent a lot of years being a reflection of what people wanted to see. It's refreshing to be looked at by someone who isn't trying to find a specific version of me."

Stephon’s gaze intensified, the playful smirk softening into something more sincere. He didn't speak immediately, letting the ambient noise of The Wolseley—the distant chime of porcelain and the low hum of Mayfair morning gossip—fill the gap.

"So, what does a star do when she's not centre stage?". Stephon asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though it carried a weight that cut through the morning bustle. He wasn't asking about her skincare routine or her gym schedule; he was asking about the silence that followed the applause, the part of the day where the costumes are packed away and the lights go dark.

Thalia paused, her gaze drifting to the opulent ceiling of the dining room. "I read," she said, finally looking back at him. "A lot. I have this obsessive need to inhabit worlds that don't require me to be 'on.' Sometimes I'll spend an entire Sunday in a library or a museum, wearing a hat and glasses, just… blending in. It’s the only time I feel like I’m actually breathing." She shifted, her leather trousers creaking as she leaned in closer.

"And where do you call home?". Stephon asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though it carried a weight that cut through the morning bustle. He wasn't asking about her skincare routine or her gym schedule; he was asking about the silence that followed the applause, the part of the day where the costumes are packed away and the lights go dark.

Thalia smiled. "I live in LA but I've got a place in Atlanta. Next door to my grandparents place, where I grew up. I like having that tether, you know? A place where the neighbors remember me as the kid who used to trip over her own feet rather than the girl on the billboard." She watched him, noticing the way he absorbed the information, not just listening but processing it. "It's my sanctuary. No agents, no scripts, just the smell of my grandmother's garden, my grandpa playing his jazz records and a lot of old photo albums."

Stephon nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her with a quiet intensity. "The anchor. I get that. That's why I keep the family close. In this business, if you don't have people who knew you before the money and the muscles, you start believing your own hype. And once you believe your own hype, you're just a character in your own movie." He shifted his weight, his shoulder brushing hers again, a casual contact that felt intentional. "It's funny. We're both professional chameleons. You change your voice and your posture for a role; I change my entire aura to manipulate a crowd. It makes the quiet moments—like this—feel almost surreal."

Thalia felt a genuine warmth spread through her chest, a feeling of being seen that went beyond the superficial recognition of her fame. "Is that why you're so guarded with the 'Swerve' persona?" she asked, her voice softening. "Because it's easier to let the world fight the character than to let them see the man who misses his dad's cooking?"

Stephon let out a short, dry laugh, though his eyes remained tender. "Caught me. You're a dangerous woman, Lawless. You've got the intuition of a seasoned detective." He paused, his expression turning playful again as he glanced toward the kitchen. "But let's see if your intuition can tell me when the food is actually coming, because the 'refined gentleman' is starting to lose the battle against the 'man who needs potatoes.'"

As if on cue, the server returned, her balance significantly improved from her first trip. She descended upon the table with two heavy porcelain plates, the aroma of seared sausage, buttery hollandaise, and toasted sourdough instantly filling the air. The Full English was a mountainous display of hearty proteins, while Thalia’s Eggs Royale looked like a piece of edible art, the yellow sauce glistening under the chandelier light. The server set the plates down with a flourish, her smile now confident and relaxed. "Enjoy your breakfast," she beamed, giving Thalia a small, respectful nod before gliding away.

"So, what about your parents?". Thalia asked, her voice light but curious. She picked up her fork and carefully pierced one of the poached eggs, the golden yolk breaking and cascading over the smoked salmon.

"Divorced, happier together. What about yours?". Stephon answered, his voice casual as he sliced into a sausage with surgical precision.

"Divorced. When I was eight," Thalia replied, her voice steady but carrying a hint of a nostalgic frown. "Dad cheated on my mom with her best friend. It was a real-life soap opera, complete with shouting matches in the driveway and a lot of broken ceramics. I spent a few years being the middleman, the little peace treaty in a war zone." She took a bite of the Eggs Royale, the richness of the hollandaise grounding her. "But it’s where I learned to read people. I had to know exactly which version of me to be depending on whose house I was at. If Mom was crying, I was the rock. If Dad was trying to apologize, I was the judge."

Stephon stopped chewing, his fork poised mid-air. He didn't offer a platitude or a generic "I'm sorry." Instead, he looked at her with a raw, knowing respect. "Hyper-vigilance," he murmured. "You learned how to scan the room for danger before you even knew how to tie your shoes. That's a heavy way to grow up, T. It makes you an incredible performer because you're always tuned into the frequency of everyone else's emotions, but it makes it damn hard to hear your own."

Thalia felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The way he dissected her experience—not as a therapist, but as someone who understood the survival mechanics of a fractured home—hit her with a sudden, visceral force. "You're very good at this," she whispered, a small, appreciative smile playing on her lips. "The 'detective' work. I thought you just hit people for a living."

"I do," he chuckled, the sound low and resonant. "But you can't hit a man where it hurts if you don't know where the hurt is. The ring is just a physical manifestation of a psychological game. If I can figure out what makes a guy tick—what he's scared of, what he's protecting—I've already won the match before the bell rings." He leaned in, his presence once again filling her periphery. "Which brings us back to you. You're not just 'existing' here, Thalia. You're analyzing me. You're trying to find the seams in the costume."

"Maybe I am," Thalia conceded, her voice dropping to a playful, velvet hum. She set her fork down, the meal now a secondary concern to the magnetic pull of the man across from her. "But you have to admit, the costume is very well-tailored. It’s a challenge. Most people are an open book; you’re a locked vault with a very expensive alarm system."

Stephon grinned, a slow, predatory expression that lacked any malice and brimmed with genuine attraction. He leaned back, the movement stretching the fabric of his shirt across his shoulders. "The alarm is only for the people who don't know the code. You, however, seem to be picking the lock with a very steady hand." He paused, his eyes scanning her face with a level of focus that would have been intimidating if it weren't so warm. "The real question is, once you get inside the vault, what do you expect to find? Gold? Secrets? Or just a guy who really likes his sleep and hates early mornings?"

"I'm hoping for the guy who hates early mornings," she replied, her gaze locking onto his. "The gold is boring. I’ve spent my whole career surrounded by gold plating and glitter. I want the grit. I want the part of you that doesn't have a theme song."

The conversation drifted then, floating away from the heavy architecture of their pasts and into the lighter, flickering energy of the present. They talked about the absurdities of their respective travels—the bizarre hotel requests, the loneliness of the road, and the shared struggle of trying to maintain a semblance of a healthy diet while living out of suitcases. Thalia found herself laughing more than she had in weeks, the kind of unrestrained laughter that made her forget the precise posture her acting coach had drilled into her. With Stephon, she didn't feel the need to be the leading lady; she felt like a woman who was simply being enjoyed.

"So when alls said and done, what do you want your legacy to be Ms Thalia Lawless?" Stephon asked, leaning back and watching her with a curious, analytical tilt of his head. He had finished the bulk of his breakfast, leaving only a few scattered baked beans and the remnants of his coffee.

Thalia paused, her gaze drifting to the bustle of the restaurant. She thought about the accolades, the Disney fame, and the prestige of the West End. For a moment, she considered giving the 'correct' answer—the one about artistic growth or inspiring young girls—but she looked back at Stephon and realized that answer wouldn't fit in this vault.

"I want to be remembered as someone who was actually brave," she said, "I want to be remembered and highly thought of like legends like the Chaka Khan, Whitney Houston… people who didn't just hit the notes, but who owned the air they breathed. I don't want to be a nostalgic memory for people who grew up in the 2000s. I want to be an icon that survives the trend." She smiled, a bit of that competitive fire returning to her eyes. "I want the kind of legacy where people are still arguing about my best performance fifty years from now."

Stephon let out a slow, appreciative hum, his gaze never leaving hers. "The hunger. I love that. Most people in your position start talking about 'giving back' or 'finding peace' because they're tired. But you're not tired. You're just getting started." He reached out, not to touch her hand this time, but to gesture toward the room at large. "That’s the difference between a job and a calling. A job is something you survive. A calling is something you conquer. I can respect the hell out of that."

Thalia shrugged. "I do want to give back too, but I think I can do more for the world by being undeniable than by being polite." She shifted her weight, the crystal on her sneakers catching a stray beam of sunlight and throwing a tiny, dancing rainbow across the white tablecloth. "Besides, being polite is for the red carpets. In the rehearsal room, politeness is just a way of saying you aren't pushing hard enough."

Stephon smiled, a look of genuine kinship crossing his features. "Exactly. If you're the most comfortable person in the room, you're probably not growing. That's the trap. The moment you stop feeling that little bit of friction—that feeling that you might actually fail—is the moment you start becoming a caricature of yourself." He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "You've got a lot of friction in you, Thalia. It's a good look."

"And what about you Swerve Strickland. What do you want your legacy to be? Or is the goal just to be the man with the most belts?" Thalia asked, her voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. She leaned in, the scent of her perfume mingling with the fading aroma of the coffee, her eyes challenging him to be as honest as she had been.

Stephon didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of the last of his coffee, his gaze drifting toward the window where the morning traffic of Piccadilly began to swell into a roar. "The belts are just hardware," he said quietly. "They're the proof of the work, but they aren't the point. I don't want to be remembered as the guy who won the most matches. I want to be remembered as the one who changed the game. I want the people who come after me to look at the way I moved, the way I spoke, the way I carried myself, and realize the ceiling was higher than they thought."

He turned back to her, his intensity returning, though it was tempered by a soft, knowing smile. "I want to be the standard. I want to be the ghost that every new kid in the locker room is trying to chase. I’m not interested in being a legend in a history book; I want to be the reason the book has to be rewritten. Personally I wanna make sure my family are taken care of. That they can choose whatever life they want without ever having to worry about the price tag or breaking their body. I risk mine so they don't have to."

Thalia felt a quiet ache of admiration in her chest. It was a grounded, selfless ambition that contrasted sharply with the loud, peacocking nature of his public persona. He wasn't just playing a character; he was building a fortress. "The provider," she murmured. "That's a different kind of weight to carry. It's a lot more permanent than a championship title."

"It's the only title that actually matters," he replied. He shifted his position, his hand coming to rest on the table just an inch from hers. He didn't close the gap, but the invitation was there, an unspoken question hanging in the air. "You've got that same drive, T. I can see it. You're not just playing Rachel Maron because you can sing the parts; you're playing her because you want to see if you can dominate the role. So you can do Whitney proud".

Thalia felt a shiver of excitement at the mention of Whitney, the ultimate benchmark. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The pressure is immense, but the thrill is better. There's this specific moment in the second act where the music swells and the audience just… holds their breath. In that silence, it's just me and the ghost of the legends who did it before. If I can make them forget they're watching a former Disney kid and make them believe I'm a woman on the edge of a breakdown, then I've won."

Stephon watched her, his eyes tracking the animation in her expression. "That's the high we're both chasing," he admitted, his voice resonant. "That moment where the crowd stops being a crowd and becomes a single, pulsing entity that's exactly where you want them to be. It's a drug, man. Once you've felt that kind of control, everything else feels like a rehearsal."

He finally closed the gap, his hand sliding over hers. His palm was warm and calloused, a physical reminder of the grit behind the glamour. Thalia didn't pull away; she let her fingers lace through his, feeling the strength in his grip. The air between them seemed to tighten, the ambient noise of the restaurant fading into a distant hum. For a moment, they weren't a West End star and a world-renowned athlete; they were just two people who spoke the same secret language of ambition and loneliness.

"So. How would you feel about a second date?". Stephon asked, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic arc across the back of her hand. He didn't sound like he was asking a question so much as stating a possibility, his confidence returning now that the emotional heavy lifting of the morning had settled into something warmer and more tangible.

Thalia let out a soft, humming sound, her eyes dancing as she looked from their joined hands back up to his face. "A second date? You're very bold, Strickland. I haven't even decided if I like the way you eat your eggs." She didn't pull her hand away, however; instead, she tightened her grip on his, her fingertips pressing into his skin. "But I suppose it would be a tragedy to let all this intellectual chemistry go to waste. Though, I should warn you, I'm not a 'dinner and a movie' kind of girl. If we're doing this, it has to be something that matches the energy of this breakfast."

Stephon laughed, the sound vibrating through the table. "Believe me, the last thing I want is a boring movie. I’ve spent enough of my life being watched from a distance. I’m thinking something a bit more… chaotic. Maybe a hidden jazz club in Soho, or a walk through some part of this city where the tourists don't go. Somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think without a waiter asking if we want more coffee every ten minutes."

"A hidden jazz club," Thalia repeated, the idea appealing to the part of her that loved the 'invisible' life of libraries and museums. "You're surprisingly romantic for a man who gets paid to throw people across a ring. I almost feel bad for the guy who has to face you in your next match. He's going to be wondering why you're suddenly so focused on the nuance of a saxophone solo."

"He'll be too busy worrying about the three-count to notice my taste in music," Stephon replied, his grin widening. He didn't let go of her hand, the warmth of the connection acting as a grounding wire amidst the clinking silverware and morning chatter of the room. He began to pull back slightly, though not to break the contact, but to create a space for the final movement of their breakfast. "But since you're the local expert for the time being, maybe you can help me out. Where's the best place in this city to get a drink that doesn't feel like a tourist trap?"

Thalia leaned back, her eyes narrowing in a playful, calculating way. "Now we're talking. I've spent the last few months mapping out the spots that aren't in the brochures. There's a little basement spot in Covent Garden—no sign, just a red door and a very grumpy man with a guest list. It's the kind of place where the lighting is so dim you can barely see your drink, but the music makes you feel like you're in a noir film."

"A red door and a grumpy gatekeeper," Stephon echoed, his voice appreciative. "Sounds exactly like my kind of scene. You've got a knack for the dramatic, T. I can see why they cast you."

As they began to gather their things, the transition from the intimate bubble of their conversation back to the reality of the public eye felt seamless. Thalia slid her Coach bag over her shoulder, the Swarovski crystals on her shoes catching the light one last time as she stood. The server returned to clear the plates, her gaze lingering on the joined hands of the two stars with a flicker of realization. She didn't say anything, but the small, knowing smile she gave Thalia as she retreated was enough.

"So, about this second date," Stephon said, his voice dropping an octave as he stood to his full height. He didn't let go of her hand immediately, the lingering contact creating a bridge between the sanctuary of the booth and the exposure of the sidewalk. "Do I need a special code for this red door, or is my charming personality enough to get us past the grumpy gatekeeper?"

Thalia let out a soft, melodic laugh, finally slipping her hand from his with a slow, reluctant motion. "Oh, you'll need more than charm, Strickland. You'll need to look like you belong there—which, given your wardrobe, shouldn't be a problem. Just try not to accidentally intimidate the bartender; he’s about eighty and considers himself the spiritual guardian of the gin."

Stephon stepped back, giving her a slow, appreciative once-over that felt like a standing ovation. "The spiritual guardian of the gin, huh? I'll make sure to bring my most respectful 'don't-mind-me' face. Though, if he gives us any trouble, I might have to show him a little bit of that 'Swerve' energy." He paused, his eyes twinkling. "But for you, I think I can play the role of the well-behaved gentleman for at least one evening. I'll even let you lead the way."

As they stepped out of the opulent quiet of The Wolseley and into the crisp, waking roar of Mayfair, the city seemed to hit them with a sudden surge of energy. The contrast was jarring—from the velvet hush of the restaurant to the frantic pace of London taxis and rushing commuters. Thalia felt the shift in her own posture, the instinct to pull her sunglasses down and instinctively shrink into the crowd, but she felt Stephon’s presence beside her like a physical anchor. He didn't crowd her, but he occupied the space around her with a protective, effortless confidence that made the sidewalk feel like a private corridor.

"I'll text you the date and time," Thalia said, glancing over her shoulder at a group of tourists who were beginning to linger and point. The bubble of privacy was finally popping, replaced by the familiar, buzzing static of public recognition. "But don't think the 'well-behaved gentleman' act gets you a pass on the bill. I'm a West End lead now; I've got a reputation for being expensive to maintain."

Stephon let out a hearty laugh, the sound cutting through the urban noise. He reached out, his hand grazing the small of her back to guide her toward the curb where a black car waited. "Please. I’ve dealt with promoters and corporate sponsors for years; I know exactly how to handle a high-maintenance production. Just make sure the red door is actually open, Lawless. I’d hate to have to break it down just to get a drink with you."