#cmpunkfanfic

     You’re a brand-new face on the main roster, only a couple months removed from NXT. The whole San Francisco trip was supposed to be exciting, but instead you’ve spent the last two hours rolling back and forth in bed, the nerves for tomorrow’s Raw gnawing at you.

Your phone glows on the nightstand, 2:04 AM.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, shoving the covers off. Laying here isn’t helping. Neither is the shower you took earlier, the rain sounds you tried with your AirPods in, or that guided meditation video you found on YouTube.

Your stomach twists with nerves for tomorrow, another live Monday Night Raw, another chance to prove you belong here. But right now, the only thing you’re proving is that you’re terrible at sleeping under pressure.

With a groan, you swing your legs out of bed and dig through your bag for your sneakers. If you’re not going to rest, you might as well move. A late-night workout couldn’t hurt.

The hotel is quiet when you slip into the hallway, the buzzing of the lights above and the faint sound of someone snoring the only sound you can make out. The elevator ride feels endless in the silence, the only sound the faint hum of machinery. When the doors slide open to the lobby, you head straight for the door tucked in the corner that reads GYM. You knew no one was going to be up this late working out, so you just threw on a pair of gym shorts and an oversized camo tee, not trying to impress anyone.

But when you push open the door, you’re hit with the rhythmic hum of a treadmill.

You freeze.

Because there he is, CM Punk.

Sleeves shoved up, hoodie slightly damp with sweat, air pods in his ears as he runs. Your reflection catches him in the mirror, and he slows to a jog before stepping off, grabbing a towel.

“You kinda startled me,” he says, taking his air pods out of his ears and shoving them into the pocket of his gym shorts.

“Startled you? I didn’t think anyone would be working out this late,” you say, shrugging, trying to act casual despite the flutter in your chest.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses the towel over a nearby bench press. “Yeah, neither did I… insomnia makes for weird hours. Guess we’re both in the same boat.”

You glance at the treadmill he’d been using, then back at him. “Just… trying to burn off some nerves.”

He raises an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Nerves? Rookie jitters?” His grin is playful, but there’s a hint of understanding in his voice.

“Rookie?” you ask, chuckling, trying to keep your voice light.

He smirks, checking his smart watch, “Yeah, rookie. Fresh on the main roster. Can’t sleep, wandering the hotel at 2 AM… that about sums it up.”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t hide the grin. “I suppose that’s fair. But you’re up late too, so maybe we’re both rookies in the insomnia club.”

He laughs, a short, genuine sound that makes the air feel a little warmer despite the hum of the gym equipment. “I like the sound of that. Guess we’re lucky the gym’s open 24/7.”

You glance around at the empty room, the quiet buzzing of machines filling the space. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone tonight. Definitely not… you.”

He shrugs casually, but there’s a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, well… surprises keep life interesting, don’t they?”

“Yeah… they do. Are you just finishing up, or…” you trail off, glancing at the weights and treadmill.

“Nah, I just started a bit ago,” he says, walking over to the bench press. He glances at you with that teasing grin. “Spot me?”

You raise an eyebrow, half amused, half caught off guard. “Spot you?”

“Yeah, just in case,” he replies, shrugging casually, though there’s a playful challenge in his tone.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Alright, sure. But don’t expect me to go easy just because it’s… late-night gym hour.”

He chuckles, loading the weights. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You step closer to the bench press, positioning yourself behind the bench. “Alright, just tell me if it’s too heavy,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse quickens slightly.

He smirks over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve lifted heavier before.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Famous last words?”

He chuckles, sliding under the bar and gripping it. “Maybe. You ready?”

“Always,” you tease, fingers brushing the bar lightly as you help guide it. He starts pressing upward, and you instinctively mirror the motion, keeping your hands close in case he needs support.

You couldn’t help but stare as his muscles flexed underneath his hoodie with each lift, his jaw tight, lips pressed together in concentration. Your chest felt a little warmer, your heartbeat quickening as he let out a low grunt with the effort.

“Careful there,” he murmurs between reps, catching the subtle way your eyes lingered. “Don’t get distracted on me now.”

You bite your lip, a small laugh escaping you, trying to shake the sudden flutter in your stomach. “Distracted? Me? Never.”

He smirks, lowering the bar and letting you steady it. “Uh-huh. Sure you weren’t.”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth quirks up into a grin. “Okay, maybe I was a little… distracted. But can you blame me?”

He laughs, low and easy, the kind of laugh that makes your chest warm. “Blame you? Nah… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, quickly looking down at the barbell instead of meeting his gaze. “Good to know I’m… not the only one noticing,” you murmur, voice barely above the hum of the machines.

Phil does one more rep and then carefully places the barbell back on the rack, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with his towel. He leans back slightly, breathing a little heavier now, and gives you a small, teasing smirk.

“You know,” he says, eyebrows quirking, “for a newbie, you’ve got good timing. Right when I’m lifting the heavy stuff… you just happen to be standing there.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying I’m distracting?”

“Maybe,” he replies with a grin. “Or maybe I’m saying you’ve got… good taste in late-night workouts. Shows dedication. And bravery. I like that.”

You shake your head and laugh, “You’re not very subtle when you flirt, Punk.

He chuckles, shrugging with mock innocence. “Subtle is overrated. Besides, if I’m being honest… I like seeing that little smirk on your face when I tease you.”

You bite your lip, trying not to grin too wide. “Oh really? Is that what you call teasing?”

“Absolutely,” he says, stepping a little closer, the towel now draped over his shoulder. “Flirt, tease, mess with you just enough to keep things interesting. And judging by that smirk, I’d say it’s working.”

He walks closer, close enough that you can almost feel his breath on your head. Your heart skips a beat, and you instinctively take a small step back, though your eyes don’t leave his.

Then his hands rest gently on your hips, and your chest tightens, your face warming as your heart races.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low but careful.

You nod, barely able to speak, your throat suddenly dry.

He leans in just slightly, enough that the world around you, the hum of the machines and the TV in the distance, the quiet of the empty gym, fades away. His eyes flick to yours, searching, teasing, confident all at once.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “I might get used to this.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes, soft and nervous. “Get used to what? The fact that you can make me blush standing still?”

He smirks, thumb brushing lightly over your hip. “That, and the fact that you’re… surprisingly easy to fluster.”

Your cheeks burn hotter, but you find yourself leaning just a little closer, caught between curiosity and the thrill of this unexpected closeness.

“I—uh…” you start, words failing you as his gaze holds yours.

He grins, leaning just a hair closer, so your foreheads nearly touch. “Relax. I’m not going to bite… unless you want me to,” he teases, letting his voice dip playfully.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can’t stop the shy laugh that slips out. “You’re really confident, huh?”

“Maybe,” he replies with a wink, “but I think you like it.” 

Before you can process what is going on, he leans in slowly, giving you the chance to pull back if you want, but you don’t. Your eyes flutter closed just as his lips meet yours in a soft, deliberate kiss.

Your chest tightens, and your hands instinctively brush against his shoulders, holding on for balance as your heart races. The kiss is gentle at first, teasing, as if he’s testing the waters, but there’s a warmth and certainty behind it that makes your knees feel a little weak.

Then he deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms firmly around your waist, pulling you closer. The world around you, the hum of the machines, the quiet of the late-night gym, fades completely. Your breath hitches, and you instinctively lean into him, your hands sliding to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

When he finally pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark with a mixture of mischief and something softer, he murmurs, “Had to make sure you felt that… fully.”

You can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes you, cheeks still flushed. “Yeah… I felt that.”

He smiles, lips brushing yours again in a fleeting kiss, testing the moment. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, pulling you closer until you're pressed flush against him. The heat between you is undeniable now, the space between your bodies nearly nonexistent.

You tilt your head back slightly, meeting his gaze with eyes that show more curiosity than hesitation. He sees it, the way your breath catches, the way your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his hoodie like you don't want to let go.

"That's what I wanted to see," he murmurs, voice rough but quiet. "That little spark right there."

His hand slides up your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer, his other hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss deepens, hungry and intense. After a moment, he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours again, both of you breathing a little heavier than before. His eyes meet yours, dark and intense, with a spark of amusement flickering in them.

"That," he says, voice husky, "was a really good distraction." He grins, still holding you close, his hands slowly caressing your back as if he's savoring the moment.

“Well,” You start, now confident, “I can show you a better way to warm up.”

His grin widens, a slow, hungry curve as he listens to your words. His fingers tighten against your back, pulling you even closer. The space between you vanishes entirely, and now you can feel every hard plane of his body against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin. His eyes flick down to your lips, and when they meet yours again, they're dark with promise.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, and his mouth finds yours before you can respond.

This kiss is different, still soft in places, but more demanding. His hand slides up your neck, to tangling in your hair again, the other pressing firmly against your hip which surely would leave a bruise. Your hands travel up his chest, feeling his muscles flex underneath the fabric of his hoodie.

As the kiss deepens, suddenly you're aware of how little space separates you from Phil, how his body feels pressed flush against yours. His hands tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and you don't resist. You let him guide you backward until your back hits the wall beside the free weights rack, the hard, cold surface a stark contrast to the heat between you.

His lips leave yours just long enough for him to trail down to your neck, teeth grazing lightly along your pulse point. You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he continues his exploration, his breathing ragged in your ear.

"Should we... get somewhere more private?" he murmurs against your skin, the words hot and rough.

You glance around the corners of the gym, checking for cameras, but don’t spot any. At this hour, you figure no one’s around, just a few hotel staff at the front desk, too tired to think about checking the gym.

“Why not here? We’re alone,” you whisper, biting your lip as your eyes meet his.

Phil hums deep in his throat, lips curling into a wicked smile as he presses you more firmly against the wall. His hands slide down to grip your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make his claim without hurting you. "Good answer," he growls, before his mouth crashes into yours again. The kiss is hungry this time, all restraint gone. His tongue slides against yours, demanding and possessive, while his body presses into yours.

You gasp into his mouth as one of his hands slides around to grip your ass, squeezing hard as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel exactly how much he wants you now. his erection pressing against your stomach, causing your breath to hitch in your throat.

He pulls back just slightly, breathing heavily, his green eyes dark with lust as he looks at you. His hands stay where they are, one gripping your hip and the other firmly on your ass, holding you against the wall.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he growls, voice thick with need. His lips find yours again, kissing you deeply and passionately, his tongue exploring your mouth with urgent hunger. You whimper against him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch and the emotions that have been building between you both. He breaks the kiss, trailing his lips along your jaw and down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You slide your hand up under his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his bare chest beneath your fingers, tracing over the ridges of his chiseled muscles.

Phil lets out a low groan against the crook of your neck as your hand travels across his chest. His fingers curl around the hem of your gym shorts, before slowly tugging them down your thighs.

Your shorts pool around your ankles, and Phil's hand immediately finds its way between your thighs. His fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, and you gasp as they press against your swollen flesh. "Fuck," he growls, nipping at your lower lip. "You're so wet for me already."

 His fingers tease along the edge of your panties, tracing the outline of your pussy before finally pushing the fabric aside. A thick finger slides between your folds, circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure to make you whimper. "Look at you," he murmurs, watching your face as he teases you. "So responsive." you bite your lip to stifle a moan, reaching between you to palm him through his gym shorts.

He groans deeply, pressing his hips forward into your touch. His finger slides down further, teasing your entrance before slowly pushing inside you. You clench around him, arching your back as he curls his finger, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. "That's it," he growls, nipping at your neck as he adds a second finger, stretching you deliciously. Your hand moves up and down his length, feeling it pulse and swell beneath the fabric of his shorts.

"You're so tight," he groans, fingers moving faster as he watches your face. "I can't wait to be inside you."

"I need you so badly, now," you manage to spit out, letting out a soft moan before tugging on the hem of his gym shorts. 

"So needy, aren’t you?" Phil murmurs, releasing his fingers from inside you before putting them in his mouth and sucking off your juices.

His tongue swipes across his lips afterward, dark eyes locking onto yours as he pushes his shorts down his legs with swift precision. The second they drop to the floor, his cock springs free, long, thick, and already glistening at the tip. You swallow hard, gripping him in your hand, feeling the heat and the weight of him. Phil exhales sharply as your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking forward instinctively.

"Fuck," he mutters, hands sliding under your ass to lift you effortlessly. Your back presses against the cool wall as he positions himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against you.

His gaze locks onto yours, dark with lust, his breathing ragged as he waits for your approval. You nod, immediately, and he pushes inside in one smooth, slow thrust. A sharp gasp tears from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you perfectly. Phil groans deeply, forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder as he stills for a moment, giving you time to adjust. "You feel incredible," he growls, voice rough with need as he lifts his head to look at you again. His hands grip your ass tighter, fingers digging in as he starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in with more force.

“Oh god, P-Punk,” you manage to whimper, your voice trembling, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the sudden pleasure.

Phil lets out a satisfied groan at the sound of his name from your lips, picking up his pace as he thrusts into you. His cock feels huge inside you, stretching you to the point of delicious discomfort, his thick length dragging over your most sensitive spots in just the right way with every movement. "Look at you," he murmurs, watching where you're joined, his grip on your ass tightening as he adjusts his angle. "Taking me so fucking well." His words send a tremor through your body, his deep voice rough with desire.

The gym feels like it's spinning around you, the cold wall against your back doing nothing to soothe the fire consuming you. Phil's thrusts grow deeper, harder, each one pushing you up the wall slightly before gravity pulls you back down onto his cock. His breathing is ragged against your ear, his hips snapping forward with controlled precision, his powerful body holding you effortlessly as he claims you. "Fuck, you're so tight around me," he growls, teeth grazing your neck. "I knew you'd feel perfect."

You arch your back, pressing your chest against his as your nails dig into his shoulders.

The gym echoes with the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin, your moans and Phil's labored breathing. His hands move to grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he starts to pound into you with more force, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me come," he groans, his hips snapping forward, his thick cock stretching you as it drags over your sensitive spots. 

"c-cum in me, I-I’m on the pill," you manage to whimper out, eyes dark with lust as he watches your face. Phil groans deeply at your words, his thrusts growing even more urgent as he picks up the pace. His grip on your hips tightens as he slams into you harder and deeper.

"You feel so good," he growls, voice strained with need. "Gonna fill you up just like you want." Your body tenses as pleasure coils tighter inside you, his thick cock hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again.

"Oh god," you whimper, eyes rolling back as his thick length is filling you to the brim with every powerful thrust. Your walls clench around him, muscles tensing as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. Phil groans at the tightness, his grip on your hips turning almost painful as he fucks you harder, faster.

"That's it," he growls, lips brushing against your ear. "Let go for me." His words tip you over the edge, your body tensing before you shatter around him, your walls clamping down on his cock as pleasure surges through you.

"Fuck!" Phil roars, his movements faltering as your walls pulse around him. He drives into you a few more times before burying himself to the hilt, coming hard with a guttural groan. He stays inside you, breathing heavily as he comes down from his high, forehead resting against yours. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him closer as you both pant, chests heaving. After a moment, he pulls out slowly, the absence of him leaving you feeling suddenly empty. He sets you back on your feet, steadying you as you wobble slightly, legs weak from the intensity of your orgasm.

Phil wraps his arms around you, holding you close as both of you catch your breath. The quiet of the gym makes every small sound, the racing of your hearts, the soft exhale of relief, feel amplified.

You lean into him, forehead against his, feeling the warmth and steady presence of him next to you. His hands rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing soothing circles as he murmurs softly, “You okay?”

You nod, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah… just, wow.”

He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Yeah… me too.”

After a few more moments wrapped in each other’s arms, you finally step back, smiling softly as you catch your breath. Phil gives you a playful, satisfied grin, one hand still lingering on your waist.

The tension of the night, the nerves, the restlessness, it all melts away. For the first time in what feels like forever, you know you’ll finally sleep well.

You glance at him, a soft laugh escaping you. “Yeah… I think tonight was worth being up this late.”

The crowd’s roar has long faded into the background, replaced by the low murmur of production staff packing up equipment and talent filtering out of the building. You’re still in the bowels of the arena, clipboard tucked under your arm, headset now resting around your neck. It’s been a long show, but not a bad one.

You’re buzzing a little, though. Not because of the job. Because of him.

You’ve been around Phil Brooks, CM Punk, for months now. Close, but not close. You’re his assistant, his right-hand in the chaos of WWE’s ever-shifting backstage maze. You’ve worked through logistics, calmed producers, fixed timing issues, helped navigate last-minute creative changes, and through it all, he’s been... him.

Sharp. Dry. A little closed off. But with you, there’s always been a softness under the surface. The way he speaks to you. The way his eyes find you in a room full of people. The way he says your name like it matters.

And lately, you feel like he’s letting that softness show more and more. Just for you.

You round a corner, heading back toward talent services when you see him. He’s fresh from the match against Seth, water glistening on his forehead from his after match shower, his hair messy and damp.

He’s standing near the catering table, drinking bottled water, talking to someone from production. But the moment his eyes catch yours across the hall, he stops mid-sentence.

He nods once. Subtle. Just for you.

You walk over like you’re not replaying that moment in your head.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, gravelly. “Was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“You knew where to find me,” you say, tilting your head. “I’ve been running all night trying to keep this show from falling apart.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s why I like having you around. You actually keep this place from imploding.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve said that to like five people today.”

“Nah,” he says, and this time, he really looks at you. “Only meant it once.”

You feel it, the way that makes your chest tighten. Your fingers curl slightly against your clipboard, grounding yourself.

“I caught your segment,” you say, trying to shift the energy before it swallows you whole. “Crowd was white-hot.”

“Yeah?” He leans back against the wall slightly. “Felt good. You?”

“You were solid. Genuinely looked like you were having fun. Which, let’s be real, doesn’t happen that often anymore.”

He raises a brow. “You saying I’m usually a grump?”

“I would never say that,” you deadpan. “I’d just…. heavily imply it.”

Phil grins. That soft kind of grin he gives when no one else is around.

“You heading out soon?” he asks, casually.

You nod. “Just wrapping a few notes. Then I’m out.”

“Same hotel as me? The Hilton down the road?”

“Yup.”

He pushes off the wall slowly, like he’s weighing something. Then says, “Ride with me?”

The air between you tightens instantly.

This isn’t the first time he’s offered, but something about the way he says it tonight feels heavier. Less casual. More… intentional.

You search his face for a moment. “Yeah,” you say, steadying your voice. “Okay.”

Phil nods once, like he’s relieved, or maybe just trying to keep himself in check. His eyes flick over you, quick but unreadable, and then he turns, adjusting the strap of his duffel as he starts walking toward the back lot.

You follow him, your shoes echoing on the concrete floor of the now mostly empty hallway. Everything backstage is quieter now. The chaos has settled, the adrenaline is wearing off, and people are starting to disappear into the night. But next to him, the air still feels thick. Electric.

He holds the door open for you at the loading dock exit, his hand brushing the small of your back as you step outside into the muggy Dallas night. The heat wraps around you instantly, sticking to your skin. The smell of asphalt and distant rain lingers in the air.

His rental is parked a few rows away, tucked in a shadowy corner beneath one of the floodlights buzzing overhead. It’s quiet here, far from the ring, the fans, the production chaos. Just the two of you and the hum of the night.

Phil unlocks the car with a soft click and walks to the passenger side first, opening the door for you without a word. You hesitate for a second, caught off guard by the gesture, then slide in, murmuring a quiet, “Thanks.”

The interior is still warm from the day’s heat, but it’s clean, comfortable. Smells like cologne and leather and the faintest trace of spearmint gum. He walks around and gets in on the driver’s side, starting the engine. The dashboard lights up with a quiet ding, and the radio kicks on at a low volume, some old AFI song you both know, but neither of you comment on it.

He adjusts the AC, glancing at you briefly. “Too cold?”

You shake your head. “Feels nice.”

He nods, shifting into reverse with one hand, the other still resting on the wheel. His forearm flexes as he turns, eyes scanning behind him as he backs out of the spot. You catch yourself staring. You don’t look away fast enough.

His eyes flick to yours. He doesn’t call you out on it, but you see the smallest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth as he pulls onto the road.

Neither of you says anything for the first few minutes. The city lights pass in streaks through the windshield. The silence should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels like both of you are holding something back. Like the words are there, just waiting for permission.

You rest your elbow on the windowsill, looking out. Then you glance sideways at him. His jaw is tight. His fingers tap the steering wheel like he’s fighting the urge to say something.

You decide to break it first. “You always this quiet after a show?”

“Sometimes,” he answers, eyes still on the road. “But it’s not the show that’s got me quiet tonight.”

You know what he means. You feel your stomach tighten, heat rising slowly under your skin.

You tuck your hands in your lap, voice low. “Then what is it?”

Phil exhales through his nose, and his next words are honest, almost too honest. “You.”

You blink. Your throat goes dry, but you manage a quiet, “Oh.”

He smiles softly, but doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, pulse still picking up speed. The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice soft but steady.

“Why is that?” you ask. Then, with a tiny smirk: “Do I scare you?”

Phil laughs, quiet and low, the kind of laugh that rumbles in his chest, not his throat. His hand tightens slightly on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just lets the question hang there between you.

“You don’t scare me,” he says finally, eyes still on the road. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

You tilt your head toward him. “Then in what way?”

He takes a breath. You can see the hesitation there, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does.

“It’s not fear. It’s... awareness.”

You frown slightly, not expecting that. “Awareness?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you again, eyes flickering down to your lips and back up. “I’m always aware of you. When you’re in the room, when you walk past me. When you talk to other people. Doesn’t matter how focused I try to be on everything else, my attention goes right to you.”

The car is silent again, but it’s not empty. Every word he just said lands like a hand pressed to your chest, gentle, but firm. Honest.

You sit with that for a moment, staring straight ahead, then whisper, “You’re not the only one.”

Phil shifts gears at the next light. “I figured.”

You don’t even try to hide your smile.

“So, what do we do about it?” you ask.

His eyes cut toward you again, darker now. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If you want to do something about it… or keep pretending we don’t feel it.”

You look at him, really look at him. There’s something vulnerable in his face now, buried beneath the sarcasm, the edge, the tattoos and years of walls. You’re not used to seeing that part of him. But it’s there.

You swallow the nerves bubbling up and answer honestly.

“I don’t want to pretend.”

That changes something in his expression.

The next few minutes pass in quiet, but you feel the air between you shifting, no longer just tension, but permission. Anticipation.

He turns into the hotel lot, parks in a quiet corner. The engine cuts off, but neither of you moves. Not yet.

You glance over at him again.

“So... now what?” you ask, a little breathless.

Phil looks at you for a long moment, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, in the dim glow of the dash lights, hair a little messy from the long night, cheeks warm from everything unsaid.

Then he leans back against his seat, eyes still locked on yours.

“Now,” he says quietly, “I ask you if you wanna come upstairs.”

You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the city around you. The soft glow of the dashboard light casts gentle shadows across his face, shadows you suddenly want to memorize.

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I want to.”

Phil’s lips curl into that slow, knowing smile again, the one that makes your stomach flip. He reaches over and unlocks his door. The night air rushes in when he opens it, thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of rain and asphalt.

You slide out of the car first, heels clicking softly against the concrete. Phil’s hand is near yours, almost brushing, but he holds back. It’s electric, that tiny space between you, the promise of something more.

You walk side by side toward the hotel entrance, the lights casting long shadows down the sidewalk. The lobby is quiet, just a few late arrivals at the desk, and the cool air from inside is a welcome relief from the heat outside.

Phil lets you go first through the glass doors, then follows, his presence close behind you. The elevator ride up is silent except for the soft hum of the machinery and your own breathing. You stand just a little closer to him than usual, feeling the warmth radiate from his body.

When the doors open on his floor, you both step out into the dimly lit hallway. The carpet muffles your footsteps. Phil glances around, then back at you.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asks quietly, voice rough and low.

You meet his eyes and smile. “I’m sure.”

His hand moves to brush a loose curl from your face, fingers lingering. You pause, your heart pounding, then ask softly, “Does my age bother you?”

Phil’s eyes widen just a bit, and he meets your gaze fully. “No. Not in the way you’re thinking.”

You tilt your head, searching him. “What do you mean?”

He steps closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m aware of everything, your energy, your fire, the way you carry yourself. I respect that. It’s not about numbers.”

You feel warmth spread through you at his words, the tension between you growing more electric.

He pulls out his keycard, unlocking the door. The room’s soft light spills out, inviting.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he says gently. “We take it at your pace.”

You step inside, heart racing, and smile. “I want this.”

He closes the door behind you, turning back to you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours, steadying.

“Then let’s not wait any longer.”

Phil’s fingers tighten gently around yours, grounding you. The softness in his eyes makes your breath catch. You take a step closer, heart pounding so loud it feels like it could fill the room.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lift your face toward his, closing the last inches between you.

His lips brush against yours, tentative and warm, testing the waters. The world narrows to just the two of you, the heat of his breath, the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

You part your lips slightly, inviting him in. His kiss deepens, growing more urgent, more hungry, but never losing that careful tenderness. His hands slide from your fingers to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if memorizing every line.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. You feel his weight settle against you, solid and reassuring.

When he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead rests against yours.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

You smile softly, eyes half-lidded. “So are you.”

Slowly, his hands trail down your back, and you move together toward the bed, sinking into the mattress like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

His lips find yours again, roaming and claiming, and you respond with all the hunger and softness you’ve been holding back.

Phil's hands explore your body with measured intent, never rushing, always checking for your signals. His touch is confident and knowing, but also patient and gentle. You feel the contrast, his strength tempered by care, yet his desire is balanced with restraint.

You arch into his touch as he palms your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. A soft moan escapes you, and he immediately shifts to capture it with his mouth, kissing you deeply before grabbing the bottom hem of your shirt and lifting it over your head.

His lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, sending pleasant shivers through you.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, fingers tracing the curve of your breast before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra, letting the material fall off of your frame. Phil smirks, before taking one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking gently. You gasp, arching into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. His hands slide around to your back, supporting you as he lavishes attention on your breasts. You can feel the dampness between your thighs growing, the coil of tension tightening in your core. Phil moves lower, kissing along your ribs, dipping his tongue into your navel before reaching for the waistband of your jeans. His fingers make quick work of the button and zipper, and he pushes the denim down your hips with deliberate slowness.

He slides your jeans down your legs, before throwing them practically across the room. Phil's gaze darkens as he takes in the sight of you, his hands settling on your hips as he pulls you closer. His lips brush against your stomach, tongue dipping out to taste your skin. You shiver, goosebumps jumping across your body. His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing the contours of your body before hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pauses, meeting your gaze with an unspoken question. You nod, a soft moan escaping as his thumbs hook into the fabric and slowly lower your underwear.

Phil's breath catches as he reveals you completely, his eyes dark with desire. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft skin before spreading wider, touching the edges of your inner thighs.

His fingers soon trail up your legs with light touches, teasing and coaxing, until they finally reach the apex of your thighs. His thumbs part you gently, and you can feel his hot breath against your most sensitive skin. You bite your lip, bracing yourself.

Then his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your slit.

“Fuck,” you groan, your back arching as intense sensation surges through you. Phil hums against you in satisfaction, his tongue pressing and circling your clit with expert precision. One hand slides up to grip your hip, holding you steady as he devours you. The other hand spreads you wider, his fingers tracing the folds of your pussy before dipping inside. He moves slowly at first, letting you adjust to the stretch as his tongue continues working your clit. You can feel your muscles clenching around his fingers as he pumps them in and out, his pace gradually increasing. 

"You taste amazing," he growls between licks, the vibration sending intense sensations through your body.

Your hands clutch at the sheets, fingers twisting in the fabric as pleasure builds steadily. Phil picks up his pace, his tongue flicking over your clit faster now, his fingers curling inside you to hit that perfect spot. You can feel the coil of tension in your core tightening, your breathing growing ragged. 

"Don't stop," you gasp, hips rolling against his mouth instinctively. Phil groans in response, the vibration sending intense sensations through your body. His free hand moves to your stomach, holding you down as he redoubles his efforts. The hand inside you adds a third finger, stretching you as he thrusts deep.

Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, your back arching off the bed as you clench around his fingers. Phil doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to work your clit through the waves of pleasure as you cry out his name. When the intensity finally subsides, he slows his movements, gradually easing you down from your high. His fingers slide free with a soft, wet sound, and he kisses his way up your body. You can taste yourself on his lips as he claims your mouth, and the intimacy of it sends another shiver through you. He pulls back just enough to speak. 

"You okay?” He asks, voice rough with need.

Your body is still humming from the intensity of your orgasm, but your mind is sharp and ready for what comes next. You nod, a breathless smile on your face.

 "Yes. I'm more than okay. I want more of you." Phil's eyes darken at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He stands, quickly unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his thighs before kicking them off. He follows by taking off his shirt, slipping it over his head and adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor.

You take in the full sight of him, muscled torso, defined abs, broad shoulders. Sure, you’ve seen him in less clothes plenty of times in the ring, but this was different. Your gaze travels lower, where the thick outline of his erection strains against his underwear. Phil notices your attention and steps closer, reaching down to palm himself through the fabric. "See what you do to me," he murmurs, voice thick with desire.

You reach out, fingers tracing the hard length through the cotton before wrapping around him fully. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into your touch. You squeeze gently, thumb rubbing over the head where the tip of him pushes against the material. Phil's hands come to rest on your shoulders, gripping lightly as you continue exploring him. "God, that feels good."

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull them down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already glistening at the tip. You lick your lips instinctively before leaning forward to take him into your mouth. The taste of him fills your senses as your tongue swirls around the head.

Phil groans, hands tightening in your hair as you take him deeper. "Fuck, yes," he breathes, hips giving a small thrust forward. You relax your throat, allowing him to push in further as your hand wraps around the base of his cock.

Phil's fingers tighten in your hair as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, pushing into your mouth with restraint. You can feel his control wavering, his muscles tense as he fights to maintain his pace. His breathing grows ragged, each thrust accompanied by a low groan. You suck hard as he pulls back, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his cock

"Oh god," he murmurs, voice thick with need. "You're incredible. Just like that, baby."

Encouraged by his words, you increase your pace, bobbing your head as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you draw back. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding but not forcing, giving you control over the depth and pace as he lets out a string of appreciative groans. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that," he warns, releasing his cock from your mouth with a 'pop'.

You lick your lips, looking up at him with a challenging smirk. "Then come for me," you say, voice low and husky. 

Phil's eyes darken at your words, his jaw clenching as he grips his cock and begins stroking himself. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, fingers gently massaging your scalp as he works himself toward his release. Watching him pleasure himself, seeing the way his muscles tense, his breath catch, sends another wave of arousal through you. You move closer, opening your mouth in invitation. Phil doesn't need more encouragement. With a groan, he steps forward, guiding his cock back into your mouth.

You take him in again, sucking hard as he thrusts into your mouth. His rhythm is uneven now, controlled only by the thin edge of his self-control. His free hand grips your shoulder, fingers digging in your skin as he gets closer. 

"Fuck, I'm close," he groans, voice strained. You hum in response, the vibration sending him over the edge. With a final thrust, he spills into your mouth, hot and intense. Phil throws his head back in pleasure, biting his bottom lip as he cums. You swallow instinctively, continuing to suck as he pulses on your tongue. When he's finished, he pulls back, spent but still hard. You lick your lips, tasting the last of him as you look up at him with satisfaction. "That was amazing."

Phil exhales shakily, his hand still on your shoulder as he catches his breath. "Fuck," he murmurs, voice thick and warm. "You are absolutely incredible." He helps you to your feet, pulling you close for a slow, deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, the salt of his release on your tongue. The intimacy of it sends another rush of heat through your body. When he pulls back, his eyes are still dark with desire, his cock still half-hard against your stomach. "You okay?" he asks, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. 

He smiles, the kind that pulls a little crooked, the kind you’ve seen a hundred times backstage but never like this. Never with this much affection behind it. He leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there like he doesn’t want to let go.

His voice is low, almost hesitant. “I don’t want to rush anything. We don’t have to do more than this tonight.”

You look up at him, heart fluttering at the quiet care in his tone.

“I know,” you say, fingers brushing lightly down his arm. “But I wanted this. I still do.”

Phil nods slowly, then reaches for your hand, guiding you gently toward the bed. Not with urgency, but like he wants you near. Wants you beside him. Wants to stay in this moment with you.

The sheets are still slightly rumpled from earlier, but neither of you seems to care. You sit beside him, and he leans back against the pillows, pulling you into his side without a second thought. His arm wraps around you, and you rest your head against his chest, your leg draped over his.

The room is quiet now, just the hum of the AC and the occasional distant sound of traffic from the streets below. But in here, everything feels still.

Phil’s fingers trace patterns on your bare shoulder as you lie there, skin against skin.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, like he just needs to hear it one more time.

You lift your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I am.”

A pause.

“And you?”

He nods. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

You smile, heart swelling. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way he’s looking at you now, like maybe this means something more to him than just heat and hunger. Like he’s letting down every wall you’ve ever seen him hide behind.

You reach up and brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead, letting your hand linger.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper.

“Which part?” he asks, voice raspy, playful.

“That I didn’t want to pretend. Not anymore.”

He exhales slowly, eyes softening. His hand comes up to cup your cheek again.

“Then we don’t.”

You curl closer, tucking yourself against his side as he kisses the top of your head. His other hand finds yours beneath the covers, fingers lacing gently.

There’s a long pause, peaceful, but weighted. You feel his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his breathing slowing. But his hand tightens slightly around yours.

Then, in a quiet voice, he says, “I don’t just sleep with people.”

You lift your head a little to look at him, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his tone. His eyes are already on you, steady, open.

“I don’t do casual,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not for a long time. I’m not wired that way.”

You say nothing, giving him the space to keep going.

“I want more than this,” he says, voice raspier now, like it’s costing him to be this honest. “With you.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve wanted it,” he adds. “For a while. I just didn’t know if you did too, or if I was just imagining the way you look at me sometimes.”

You swallow the emotion building in your throat, blinking up at him.

“You weren’t imagining it,” you whisper. “I’ve felt it, too.”

His jaw clenches slightly, like he’s holding something back, then relaxes. His thumb strokes gently along your cheekbone again.

“I like waking up knowing someone’s in it with me,” he says quietly. “I want that again. And I want you to be that someone.”

You shift to face him more fully, your hand resting on his chest. “Then let’s see where this goes,” you whisper. “Because I want that too. I want you. Not just tonight.”

Phil stares at you like he’s memorizing every word. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, warm, unhurried.

Not hungry or rushed like earlier.

But tender.

A promise.

When you finally settle back into his arms, he holds you even tighter than before, tucking your head beneath his chin.

And as the night settles around you both, that steady rhythm of his breathing, slow and steady, matches your own.

Neither of you says another word.

It was the summer of 2004, and the two-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of reheated pizza and old gym bags. CM Punk had been running the roads, working long weekends for Ring of Honor, and coming home to crash in the small, cluttered apartment he shared with Scott, better known in the wrestling world as Colt Cabana. The two of them had been friends since the Chicago indies, and though the place wasn’t much, with peeling wallpaper, an old finicky radiator, and neighbors who played their polka music too loud, it was theirs.

Phil had developed a strict routine; come back from training, drop his old duffel bag by the door, grab a Pepsi from the fridge, and try to decompress before the next show. Lately, though, something had been throwing off that routine. Or rather, someone.

Her name was Madeline. She lived in the apartment right next door. He’d only seen her a handful of times, in the hallway juggling grocery bags, at the mailbox flipping through envelopes, once even sitting on the stoop with a notebook in her lap, but every time, Phil found himself… lingering.

It wasn’t like him. Usually, he was guarded, sarcastic, more likely to cut someone down with a joke than admit he was interested. But there was something about her. Maybe it was her laugh, which he’d overheard traveling through the thin apartment walls when she talked on the phone. Maybe it was the way she always had a book tucked under her arm. Or maybe it was just that she seemed real in a way so many people in his orbit didn’t.

The first real conversation came on a humid July evening. He was heading up the stairs with a bag of takeout in one hand when the door next to his creaked open. Madeline stepped out, fumbling with her keys and a full laundry basket balanced on her hip.

“Hey, uh, hold on,” Phil said before he could stop himself. He set the food on the floor in front of his door, before grabbing the basket before it tipped.

Madeline’s startled expression melted into a smile. “Oh, thanks. I was about two seconds from dropping that everywhere.”

“No problem.” He shifted the basket onto his arm easily. “Where you headed?”

“Laundry room in the basement,” she said. “You don’t have to—”

“I got it,” he cut in. “Basement’s creepy anyway.”

Her laugh was light, like she wasn’t used to neighbors joking and conversating with her. “And you’re what, the security guard of the building?”

He smirked. “Something like that.”

By the time they reached the laundry room, Phil found himself reluctant to hand the basket back. She leaned against the doorway while he set it down by the machines.

“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” she said, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I’m Madeline.”

“Phil,” he replied automatically, before catching himself. “Uh, most people call me Punk.”

“Punk?” She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Like… the music, or…?”

“Kind of both,” he admitted, suddenly aware of how sweaty and disheveled he looked from practice earlier.

“Ohhh,” she said slowly, as if filing that away. “That explains why I hear thuds through the wall sometimes. Thought maybe you were just really bad at moving furniture.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s probably me. Sorry if it gets loud.”

“It’s fine,” she said, smiling again. “Beats the guy upstairs who plays polka music at midnight.”

Something about the way she said it, casual and easy, made Phil’s chest tighten. For once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback ready. He just stood there, nodding like an idiot until she laughed softly and turned back to her laundry.

When he got back upstairs with his takeout, Scott was sprawled on the couch watching TV. “What took you so long?” he asked.

Phil set the bag down, avoiding eye contact. “Ran into the neighbor.”

Scott grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Ohhh. Her. So… how’d it go?”

Phil opened the bag, pulling out his food. “I carried her laundry.”

“That’s it?” Scott threw a pillow at him. “Man, you’ve got to step it up. This is not some high school crush, we’re grown men. Ask her out before someone else does.”

Phil ignored him, but inside, the thought of asking her out lodged itself in his brain and refused to leave. He shook his head, leaning back against the counter. “Nah, she works at the court or something. I see her wearing all that business casual shit when she comes home. I’m definitely not her type.”

Scott blinked. “Court? Like… court court?”

“Yeah. She’s always got those folders, dress pants, blouses. Looks like she actually has her life together.” He popped a fry in his mouth. “Meanwhile, I’m coming home late as fuck smelling like a gym bag. I’m not exactly lawyer boyfriend material, Scott.”

Scott smirked. “First of all, you don’t know she’s a lawyer. She could be, like, a clerk. Or—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phil cut in. “She’s professional. I’m…” He gestured loosely toward his dirty band shirts piled on the chair, the empty soda cans, the beat-up wrestling boots by the door. “...not.”

Scott leaned forward, grinning. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re CM Punk, man. You’re on the rise. Half the guys in the locker room would kill to have your momentum right now. And newsflash, women like confidence.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “What, and I’m supposed to go knock on her door and say, ‘Hey, I just got thrown through a table last weekend, wanna grab coffee?’”

“Exactly!” Scott said, laughing. “Except, y’know, maybe without the table part. Don’t scare her away.”

Phil muttered something under his breath, but he couldn’t shake the flicker of curiosity in his chest. He’d already decided Madeline was out of his league… but that didn’t stop him from thinking about her every time he heard her keys jingling in the hallway.

A week later, a Wednesday morning, Phil stood in the hallway, shuffling through the small stack of envelopes and flyers that had shown up in his mailbox. Bills, junk mail, a wrinkled takeout menu, nothing worth his time. Still, he lingered there, holding the envelopes like he was debating whether to toss them in the trash.

Then, without warning, her door clicked open. Madeline stepped out, locking up behind her, Phil’s head snapping up before he could stop himself. She wore a navy-blue dress patterned with tiny daisies, the kind that clung just enough to her shape when she moved. His chest tightened.

His eyes traveled over her almost against his will, taking in the little things he’d noticed in passing before but never with this much focus. Her hair was dark and soft-looking, cut to her shoulders in a way that framed her face perfectly. It swung when she walked, catching the dull light of the hallway, and Phil imagined what it might feel like brushing against his fingers.

Then there were her eyes, light brown, yet sharp and bright even when she only glanced at him for a second. They were the kind of eyes that seemed like they could read straight through someone if they lingered too long, and he wondered if she had any idea what they did to him.

Her skin was pale, smooth, untouched by the dimness of the building, and when she passed close by, he caught the faintest trace of her perfume, something floral and clean, subtle but enough to make his pulse thrum faster.

Phil forced himself to keep his gaze steady, to look like he was just a neighbor going through his mail. But inside, his thoughts turned rougher, heavier, wanting to take in more than a polite glance would ever allow.

“Hey, neighbor,” Madeline said, her voice light and casual, breaking Phil out of his trance.

His head jerked up from the envelopes in his hand, and for a second, he felt caught, like she could see straight through him, see where his eyes had been a moment before.

“Hey,” he muttered back, his voice lower than he intended. He shifted the mail in his hands, suddenly aware of how clammy his palms felt against the paper.

“I meant to tell you, I got some of your mail mixed in with mine yesterday. Never got a chance to give it to you, it’s on my counter in my apartment.”

Phil blinked, his grip tightening on the stack in his hands. For half a second, he pictured stepping into her place, seeing the space that smelled like her, maybe brushing past her shoulder as she handed him the envelope. The thought curled hot in his chest, and he swallowed it back before it showed on his face.

“Oh,” he said, keeping his tone even. “Guess the mailman’s not too careful around here.”

Madeline gave a small smile, like she agreed. “I’ll drop it off when I get home from work, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Phil said quickly, nodding. “That’s fine. Thanks.”

She shifted her bag again, the daisies on her dress catching his eye as she moved. “No problem, neighbor,” she teased, her voice light as she headed for the stairwell.

Phil watched her go, every step pulling her further away. His mind lingered not on the misplaced envelope, but on the fact that it was sitting in her apartment, with his name on it, touched by her hands. Stupid, maybe. But enough to make him hope she’d knock on his door later. He took a deep breath and sighed, running his free hand over his face as he watched Madeline unlock her car and slide into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, her navy-blue dress catching the sunlight as she adjusted the mirrors. For a moment she sat there, hair tucked behind her ear, focused and calm in a way that made Phil’s chest ache.

He stood by the hallway window until she pulled out of the lot, her car disappearing down the street. Only then did he glance down at the useless stack of bills and flyers in his hands. None of it mattered. All he could think about was her, her voice, her perfume, and the fact that his name was sitting on an envelope in her apartment right now.

Phil dragged his hand over his mouth, a low, frustrated sigh escaping before he turned back toward his door. “Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew he’d be waiting for her to come back later, hoping she’d knock and maybe let him step over that threshold. He took the quick walk back to his apartment and opened the door, the hinges creaking the way they always did. He tossed the stack of mail onto the kitchen counter without even looking at it and dropped down onto the couch next to Scott, slouching low until his head hit the back cushion.

Scott muted the TV and glanced over. “You look like somebody stole your dog.”

Phil kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly my point.” Scott smirked, shifting to face him. “So, what’s with the brooding? You’re sitting there like you’re in some bad indie film.”

Phil dragged a hand down his face again. “I’m not brooding. I’m tired.”

Scott chuckled. “Nah, man. This—” He gestured at Phil sprawled on the couch. “—this is tortured soul. This is neighbor girl messing with your head.”

Phil shot him a look. “She’s not messing with my head.”

“Right. And I don’t eat an entire box of cereal at two in the morning.” Scott leaned back, smug. “I’ve seen this before. You’ve got it bad.”

Phil didn’t bother arguing. He reached for the remote, flipping past static-filled channels until he landed on something mindless. His chest still felt tight, like the hallway hadn’t left him yet, like the brush of her fingers on that envelope was still imprinted on his skin.

Scott stretched, yawning loud and theatrical. “You know what I think? You’re waiting.”

Phil narrowed his eyes. “Waiting for what?”

A grin spread across Scott’s face. “For her to knock again.”

Phil’s silence was all the answer he needed.

"I'm going to take a shower," he mumbled, getting up off the couch and padding down the hall. The floorboards creaked under his steps, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet apartment. Morning light was spilling through the blinds, too bright for how little sleep he'd managed. He rubbed at his eyes, muttering something under his breath about coffee as he disappeared into the bathroom.

He twisted the knob, the pipes groaning as hot water roared to life. Steam blurred the mirror almost instantly. Stripping down, he stepped beneath the spray, letting it drum against his shoulders. For a moment he closed his eyes, tilting his head back, trying to wash away not just the sleep still clinging to him, but the thoughts of his neighbor that seemed to follow him everywhere.

The heat against his skin did little to cool the fire already burning under it. Water pounded his shoulders, streamed down his torso in heavy rivulets, carving trails over muscle and bone. His palms pressed flat against the tiles, fingers flexing as a slow breath escaped him.

It wasn’t the shower he wanted. Not what he needed. The heat only coiled lower, thicker, insistent. Phil rolled his shoulders as if he could shake the feeling loose, but it only settled deeper. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening against the slick tiles as he forced himself to focus on the water, on its steady fall, the sting of it against his skin.

But his mind betrayed him. It was her. Always her.

The way her dress clung to her curves when she stood in the hallway earlier, the faintest sliver of collarbone visible beneath the fabric. The way her fingers had curled around her bag strap, nails lightly scraping the leather.

He didn’t need to be thinking about that right now.

But his thoughts didn’t obey.

Phil slid a hand down his chest to his hardening cock, fingers wrapping around the length with a low groan. His hips jerked forward, back arching as the water streamed down his spine. The feeling surged through him, sharp, sudden, but not enough. Not nearly. His free hand pressed flat against the tile, bracing himself as his breath came harder.

“Fuck,” he whispered, moving faster, grip tightening. The fantasy was so vivid it blurred the line of real, her dark hair tangled in his fingers, her soft moans breaking in his ear. His thumb swiped over the head, slick and sensitive, making his whole body tense as he imagined her hands sliding over his chest.

“Madeline.” Her name slipped out like it had been waiting for his tongue all along.

He was close, too close, his hand moving harder, rougher, as he pictured her legs wrapping around his waist. His teeth clenched as release crashed over him, a choked groan tearing from his throat as he spilled hot into his palm. The water rinsed it away almost instantly, but not the memory. Not the phantom heat of her body, the fantasy of her mouth, her hands, her skin clinging to him like a shadow.

Phil leaned heavily against the wall, breath ragged, skin tingling with aftershocks. It wasn’t enough. He knew that. But it would have to do.

He rinsed his hand under the spray, watching the last of it swirl down the drain, then pressed his forehead against the cool tile. The water pounded his back, searing hot, and he let it burn until his pulse finally began to slow.

Phil dragged in another breath, chest still rising unevenly, and reached for the soap. The bar slipped once in his hand, slick with heat and water, before he steadied it and began running it over his shoulders. The lather worked down across the defined lines of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, leaving faint trails of foam that the water quickly carried away. His muscles twitched beneath his own touch, still humming from the release, still restless despite it.

He scrubbed harder than he needed to, as if the roughness of his palm and the sting of hot water could strip away what clung to him, her voice in his head, her face caught in the back of his eyelids. He dragged the soap down his arms, over his ribs, fingers brushing over his hipbone before moving lower.

When he leaned forward to rinse, water streamed over him in heavy sheets, plastering his hair to his forehead. He tilted his head back, letting the spray beat across his face, soaking him through, grounding him for just a second. The steam curled thick around him, fogging up the glass, swallowing the edges of the room until it felt like nothing existed outside the small box of heat and water.

Phil moved slower as he washed the rest of himself, soap gliding over thighs, calves, the curve of his back. His hands lingered at his stomach, pressing into the faint ache left behind, before finally rinsing clean. The water carried everything away, but the weight in his chest didn’t budge.

He shut off the faucet with a twist, the sudden silence pressing in heavy. Droplets clung to his skin, sliding down in uneven trails as he braced himself against the wall one last time, jaw tight.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

By 4:30, the whole apartment was vibrating. Scott was out doing God knows what, while Fugazi blared from the speakers, bass rattling the picture frames on the wall, Phil’s voice muttering half the lyrics under his breath as he moved through the living room. Sweat slicked down his chest, his shirt abandoned somewhere near the couch, a pair of worn weights in his hands as he finished another set. He’d meant to keep it quick, just a few reps, a little cardio, enough to shake off the day. But somewhere between the push-ups and the pull-ups, between the riffs screaming through his speakers, he forgot the time entirely. The clock on the wall ticked past without notice, drowned out by guitar feedback and his own ragged breathing.

Phil dropped the weights with a dull thud, shaking out his arms, heart hammering. His hair was damp again, sticking to his forehead, his pulse still high from the workout and the lingering afterburn of the shower earlier. He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling, already half reaching for a towel when he heard a knock on his door.

Madeline.

Phil froze, one hand still gripping the towel slung over the back of the chair. For a second, he thought he’d imagined it, just some offbeat in the song, some echo of the guitar. But then it came again, firmer this time, rattling the wood of his front door.

“Shit.”

He scrambled across the living room, heart hammering harder than it had during the workout. He snatched up the remote and killed the music, the silence crashing down almost painfully after the chaos of Fugazi’s riffs. His breath still came heavy, his chest rising and falling, the sweat cooling fast against his skin.

Another knock.

He dragged a hand through his damp hair, glancing at the mirror over the side table. He looked a mess, flushed, shirtless, pulse racing like he’d just run a mile. Not exactly how he wanted to answer the door, not when he already knew who it had to be.

Madeline.

She always knocked like that, sharp and certain, the sound carrying her impatience through the wood.

Phil hesitated, jaw tight, torn between ignoring it and answering before she decided to keep knocking. His hand hovered over the doorknob, and for a moment, all he could think about was the way her eyes lingered when she looked at him, half suspicion, half curiosity.

He twisted the knob.

She was there, bag slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from her hand, framed by the late afternoon light spilling into the hallway. The navy-blue dress he’d been imagining all day clung to her in all the right ways, and for a moment, he couldn’t look away.

Her brown eyes met his, sharp, curious, and just a little amused. “Hey,” she said lightly, tilting her head as she took in the sight of him, shirtless, damp hair plastered to his forehead, chest still glistening from sweat.

Phil’s throat went dry. “Uh… hey,” he managed, voice rougher than he intended. He waved vaguely toward the hallway. “Mail. Right. You brought my—” He stopped, realizing how ridiculous he sounded, how much of a mess he probably looked.

Madeline’s lips curved in a teasing smile, but her eyes softened. “Yeah,” she said, holding up the envelope like proof. “As promised.”

Phil’s chest tightened, and he ran a hand through his damp hair, cursing under his breath. “Thanks. I… appreciate it.” He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in, though the living room was scattered with weights, a towel, and the remnants of his hastily abandoned workout.

She stepped in carefully, tilting her head at the organized chaos. “Whoa. You’ve been busy,” she said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“Yeah…” He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual, though his pulse was still hammering. “Just… a little workout. Long day.” His gaze flicked to her for the briefest second, catching the way the sunlight hit her hair, the soft curve of her smile.

She raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the scattered weights and sweat-slicked floor. “Are you a gym trainer or…?” Her voice trailed off, teasing, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Phil’s throat went dry. “Uh… no,” he said quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he probably looked. “I’m a uh… a wrestler.”

Madeline blinked, tilting her head. “A wrestler?” she repeated, the surprise in her voice genuine. “Like… professional?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, trying to act casual, though his pulse jumped at her reaction. “Independent circuit mostly. Not huge or anything, but… I do shows. That’s why, you know, the weird hours sometimes. And the… workouts.” He gestured vaguely at the weights scattered around the room.

She let out a soft whistle, eyes scanning him quickly, taking in the toned lines of his chest and arms. “No wonder you take this seriously,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You’ve got to be in shape for the ring, huh?”

“Exactly,” he muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Gotta keep up, or else it’s not gonna end well out there.”

Madeline laughed lightly, and it was warm and easy, the kind of sound that made him forget for a moment that his apartment was still a sweaty mess and his chest was still pounding. “Well, I’m impressed. I like your tattoos.”

Phil glanced down at the ink sprawling across his arms, the black lines stark against sweat-slick skin. A flicker of pride ran through him, but it tangled fast with a tightness in his chest at the way her eyes lingered there. “Yeah?” he said, voice low, almost cautious.

Madeline nodded, stepping closer just enough that the faint scent of her perfume cut through the leftover musk of his workout. “Yeah. They suit you. Bold, but… they tell a story.”

His jaw tightened, a corner of his mouth twitching into a grin he couldn’t quite stop. “Guess that’s the idea,” he said, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Each one’s got its… meaning. Not just decoration, you know?”

She tilted her head, curiosity flashing in her light brown eyes. “Mmm, so what’s the story behind them, then? Or is that… top-secret wrestler intel?”

Phil huffed a laugh, leaning back against the counter. “Maybe a little classified,” he teased. “Guess you’ll have to earn that kind of info.”

Madeline smirked, lips curving as if she liked the challenge. “I think I could handle that.” Her eyes flicked around the room again, taking in the organized chaos of weights, towels, and half-empty water bottles. Then her gaze landed on the wall behind the couch, where a large Rancid poster hung slightly crooked.

“Rancid, huh?” she said, pointing at it with a teasing smile.

Phil glanced over his shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging casually, though his pulse jumped at her interest. “Been a fan forever.”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning him like she was trying to decide if he was joking. “You’re full of surprises, neighbor.”

He let out a short laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “I don’t know about surprises,” he said, trying to sound modest, “just… a lot of ways to keep busy.”

Madeline arched an eyebrow, letting her gaze linger on him. “So let me get this straight, you’re a tattooed wrestler, you blast punk rock at ungodly hours, and you sweat buckets in your apartment… and you think you’re just ‘keeping busy’?”

Phil smirked, leaning casually against the counter, still damp from his shower. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep the neighbors entertained,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’re just lucky I don’t schedule matches in the hallway.”

She laughed, a soft, warm sound that made his chest tighten. “Hmm… maybe I’d like that,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Could be fun to see a real-life wrestling move up close.”

Phil’s grin widened, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Oh, you think you could handle it?” he teased, letting the corner of his mouth twitch. “Might be more intense than you’re expecting.”

Her smile widened, lips tilting in amusement. “I like intense,” she said, tilting her head, letting him see the teasing glint in her eyes. “But only if it’s… controlled.”

He chuckled, leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Controlled, huh? That’s my specialty… sometimes,” he said, letting the word hang, letting the teasing linger between them.

Madeline’s eyes flicked to the scattered weights and the Rancid poster behind him. “Controlled chaos,” she murmured, smirking. “Sounds familiar.”

Phil laughed, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair again. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, voice softening just a fraction, his gaze locked on hers. “And… maybe you’ll get a front-row seat sometime.”

She tilted her head, letting the silence stretch, playful and electric. “We’ll see, neighbor. We’ll see.”

Madeline held the envelope out, and Phil took it, fingers brushing hers just slightly. His pulse jumped.

“Thanks… again,” he said, awkwardly, fumbling with the paper as if the envelope itself wasn’t enough to make him nervous.

She smirked, leaning a little closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know,” she said, tilting her head, “since you’re blasting punk rock and sweating buckets all day, maybe I should get your number… in case I need… updates.”

Phil blinked, caught off guard, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Updates, huh? You mean like, ‘Hey, neighbor, don’t murder anyone today,’ updates?”

“Exactly,” she said, laughing softly. “Or, you know… in case you have any wrestling tips. Or band recommendations. Whatever.”

He shook his head, laughing, feeling his chest tighten in a good way. “Alright,” he said, glancing around his apartment. His eyes landed on a notepad and pen sitting on the counter. He quickly scribbled his number down, tearing the page off the pad and holding it out to her. “There. That’s me. In case you need updates… or wrestling tips… or band recommendations,” he said, his grin widening.

She took the paper, letting her fingers brush his, eyes twinkling. “Careful,” she said, holding it up like a trophy, “I might just take you up on all three.”

“Good,” he said, a low chuckle escaping him. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Madeline tucked the note into her bag, glancing up at him with a sly smile. “Alright, wrestler neighbor,” she said, stepping toward the door. “I should probably let you… recover from your intense afternoon.”

Phil’s grin lingered as he watched her pause at the threshold. “Yeah… recover,” he said, voice low, teasing. “But don’t be surprised if I see you knocking again sooner than you think.”

She tilted her head, letting the corner of her mouth twitch in amusement. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, her eyes sparkling, before finally swinging the door open and slipping into the hallway.

Phil stayed frozen for a moment, his chest still racing, and a small, stupid smile tugged at his lips. He could almost hear her laugh echoing in the apartment, could feel the brush of her fingers as she’d taken the note.

The monitor in Gorilla feels too small for what’s happening. Your fingers curl over the edge of the folding table as you lean forward, eyes locked on the screen. Phil is in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples, but still standing. Still fighting.

Gunther goes down, hard, after a desperate counter, and the crowd’s roar on the broadcast swells so loud it rattles through the headset on your desk. Your heart is in your throat. You’ve seen him in plenty of matches before, but tonight… tonight there’s more at stake than gold.

Phil staggers into position, delivers the final blow, and the referee’s hand hits the mat.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings.

The building erupts.

You can’t help it, you grin so hard your cheeks ache. The graphic flashes across the screen: NEW World Heavyweight Champion – CM Punk.

He’s on his knees in the ring now, clutching the title against his chest, eyes glassy, mouth pressed into something between a smile and disbelief. And you know, without a doubt, he’s thinking about what he told you earlier: If I win, I’m looking for you first.

But before the moment can breathe, the crowd shifts.

The music hits, sharp, electric, unmistakable.

Seth Rollins.

Your stomach drops.

He’s limping down the ramp on crutches, Paul Heyman trailing behind with the Money in the Bank briefcase clutched tight. The crowd is buzzing in confusion, some cheering, others booing, and your mind goes completely blank.

He can’t cash in… he’s injured, you think, clinging to that logic like a lifeline.

But before you can process it, Seth suddenly stops halfway down the ramp. He smirks. Then, in one swift motion, he drops the crutches to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Your breath catches.

He peels off his shirt, tossing it aside, and strides over to Paul to snatch the briefcase from his hands. The realization hits you like ice in your veins, he faked the injury all along.

“No!” you scream at the monitor, your voice swallowed by the chaos in Gorilla. You know Punk can’t hear you. Neither can Seth.

Rollins bolts the rest of the way to the ring, slides under the bottom rope, and thrusts the briefcase into the referee’s hands. The bell sounds.

Before Phil can even stand, Seth is on him, vicious, relentless, beating him down until the ref has no choice but to count.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings again.

Seth Rollins is the new World Heavyweight Champion.

Your stomach twists as you watch Phil lying on the mat, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his fingers still brushing the canvas where the belt used to be.

You’re moving before the celebration in the ring even starts. Gorilla is a mess, producers barking into headsets, stagehands scrambling to reset for the next segment, the faint rumble of the crowd bleeding in from the arena, but all you can see is that screen.

Phil rolls to his side, pushing himself up with a grimace. Seth is parading around the ring with the title, soaking in the boos, but you barely register him anymore. You’re already slipping past the curtain, the noise of the crowd slamming into you like a wall.

He stumbles through the ropes and drops to the floor, every step heavy. By the time he makes it up the ramp, his hair is plastered to his forehead, his jaw set tight. His eyes sweep the crowd, but not in victory this time.

When he finally steps through the curtain, the energy changes. The roar of the arena is replaced with the low hum of backstage noise, and the moment he sees you, something in his expression falters.

You’re already there, closing the distance.

“Phil—” you start, but the word dies in your throat when you get close enough to see the way he’s breathing, the way his hands are shaking despite the tight fists they’re curled into.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he can’t quite swallow. Then, finally, a quiet, rough, “He played me.”

You want to tell him it’s not his fault, that it was a setup from the start, but the words feel small against the weight of what just happened.

Instead, you reach for him. He doesn’t hesitate, his hand finds yours instantly, gripping like it’s the only solid thing left.

A voice cuts in from your left. “Phil, everything okay? Do you feel any pain?”

You glance over to see one of the ringside doctors moving toward him, medical bag slung over his shoulder, brows furrowed in concern.

Phil shakes his head almost immediately, still holding on to your hand. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though the slight hitch in his voice says otherwise.

The doctor doesn’t look convinced. “That was a rough finish. Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

Phil exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “No. Just… pissed off.”

The doctor’s lips twitch in something halfway between a smile and a sigh. “Alright. If anything changes, you let me know. I’ll be by medical for the rest of the night.”

You nod a quick thanks as the doctor steps away, but Phil’s eyes never leave yours. His grip hasn’t loosened once.

“Come on,” you say softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s get you out of here before someone else tries to stop you.”

You lead Phil toward the locker room, slipping through the corridor with purpose. The door creaks slightly as you push it open, then you quickly shut it behind you. The sudden quiet feels like a sanctuary compared to the buzzing roar of the arena still humming just outside.

Phil collapses onto the bench with a heavy sigh, elbows resting on his knees as his head dips low. The weight of everything, loss, betrayal, exhaustion, settles visibly on his shoulders.

You move over to his bag and kneel down, pulling out a clean hoodie, socks, underwear, sweatpants, and fresh shoes. The soft fabric feels like a small comfort in the aftermath of the chaos.

Phil leans down to start peeling off the wrestling tape wrapped tight around his wrists and hands. With a frustrated grunt, he rips it off and throws the rolls onto the floor.

“I can’t believe he fucked me over again,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue and anger. “And I can’t believe Paul Levesque just… let him do it.”

You sit down beside him on the bench, your hand moving gently over his back in slow, steady circles, an unspoken offer of comfort.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “He played dirty, and you’re the one who stood tall.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, but his body relaxes just a fraction under your touch. You stay there with him, letting the silence fill the room, quiet but full of everything that words can’t fix right now.

“Sometimes I wonder why I decided to come back,” Phil mumbles, pulling the clean hoodie over his tired frame. His voice is low, almost defeated. “It’s all just… bullshit.”

You pause for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you. It’s not just the loss tonight, it’s everything he’s carried, the fight, the setbacks, the constant grind.

“You came back because you still have fire,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “Because even with all the bullshit, you’re not ready to give up. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

He looks away briefly, jaw clenched, then back to you, a flicker of something like hope breaking through the weariness.

“Maybe,” he says quietly.

You reach out, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”

“Yeah,” Phil mumbles quietly, barely above a whisper.

He stands, muscles moving with the weariness of the night, and slides off his wrestling trunks, tossing them into the bag without a second glance.

You watch with practiced ease as he pulls on the fresh sweatpants and hoodie you brought, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the roughness of the ring gear he just shed.

Once dressed, he sits back down on the bench, head lowered as he reaches down to tie his shoes, fingers moving almost automatically.

The quiet between you feels comfortable, a pause where no words are needed. You study the lines of his face, the way his brow furrows just a little, the tension still lurking beneath the surface.

All of a sudden, there’s a sharp knock on the door, making both of you look up.

Phil’s voice is quick, low. “Come in.”

The door swings open, and an assistant steps inside, glancing between the two of you.

“Are you ready?” she asks softly, a hint of urgency in her tone. “The SUV is waiting outside. There are a lot of fans out front, but we’ve got a couple of bodyguards to guide you through.”

Phil nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. You can see the tension flicker in his eyes again.

You stand and straighten your shirt. “Let’s get moving,” you say, offering him a steady smile.

Phil manages a slight smirk, the faintest crack in his exhausted armor. His fingers curl tightly around yours, his other hand gripping the strap of his duffle bag.

You lead him out of the locker room, the hallway alive with activity, crew members hustling by, radios crackling, stagehands balancing equipment. The noise buzzes around you, but your focus stays locked on him.

A bodyguard steps forward and opens the heavy back door with a practiced ease, motioning you both through.

Outside, the night air hits you instantly, the hum of the city mixed with the roar of the crowd pressing against the guardrails. Fans shout and scream, their voices a tangled mess of excitement and anger.

“Fuck Rollins!” someone yells, and the cry ripples through the crowd like wildfire.

You tighten your grip on Phil’s hand and navigate through the swarm, the bodyguards carving a path like moving walls on either side.

Ahead, the black SUV waits, engine humming softly under the bright floodlights. A crew member swings the door open, and you slide in quickly, Phil right behind you.

The door clicks shut, muffling the noise instantly, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of Phil’s breathing next to you.

“Jesus,” Phil mumbles under his breath, sliding the seat belt over his shoulder.

You glance over at him as you click yours into place. “What?”

He sighs, eyes fixed on the window but voice low. “It’s just… the fans… they still root for an old guy like me.”

There’s a mix of pride and disbelief in his tone, like he’s both surprised and grateful all at once.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “They believe in you. And so do I.”

Phil’s gaze meets yours briefly, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“Of course. Y’know, I was thinking… maybe we could grab some late-night room service when we get back. A hot bath… sound nice?” you ask, a small hopeful smile playing on your lips.

Phil’s tired eyes flicker up to meet yours, a slow smile spreading across his face, a little worn, but genuine.

“That sounds good,” he says quietly. “Hell, it sounds perfect.”

You laugh softly, the sound a warm bubble in the quiet space between you.

The SUV suddenly slows, the city noise shifting into a muffled hum as you pull up to the hotel entrance. The warm glow from the lobby spills out through the glass doors, reflecting off the sleek black hood.

Even at this late hour, a small knot of fans waits outside, clustered behind portable barricades the hotel staff must have set up in a hurry. Phones are already in the air, flashes popping, their voices breaking through the night.

“There he is!” someone shouts. “Punk! We love you!” another calls, while a third, in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, yells, “You got robbed tonight!”

Phil’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Two hotel security guards step forward, dressed in sharp suits with earpieces tucked neatly in their ears. One gives a quick nod to the driver, then opens the SUV door on Phil’s side.

The cold night air rushes in, carrying the mix of car exhaust and the faint scent of someone’s cigarette. Phil slides out first, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, still keeping a grip on your fingers as you follow.

The bodyguard’s close ranks instantly, one at the front clearing a path, the other holding a firm position at the rear. You can hear the fans leaning over the barricades, their excitement almost tangible in the air.

A girl near the front shouts, “Punk, can I get a picture?!” Another calls, “Kick Rollins’ ass next time!”

Phil gives them a small, tired wave, his face softening just enough for them to know he hears them. But he doesn’t stop walking. His pace is steady, his shoulders squared, and your hand remains locked in his like an anchor.

The glass doors slide open, and suddenly you’re inside the lobby, warm air, soft jazz music playing from hidden speakers, and the faint scent of polished wood and hotel linen replacing the chaos outside.

Phil exhales through his nose, a tiny release of tension as the doors close behind you, sealing you in the quiet glow of the lobby.

Phil adjusts the strap of his duffle bag higher on his shoulder as you both head across the marble floor toward the elevators. The muted click of your shoes echoes in the lobby, almost too loud after the roar of the fans outside.

A concierge behind the front desk offers a polite smile, clearly recognizing him but saying nothing, hotel staff discretion at its finest. Phil gives a short nod in return, his hand still warm and steady in yours.

You can feel the faint drag in his steps, the weight of the match and the loss sitting heavy in his body. His hoodie hangs loose, the fabric brushing your arm as you walk side by side.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. You step inside first, Phil right behind you. He leans his back against the mirrored wall, duffle bag resting at his feet, and finally lets go of your hand just long enough to press the button for your floor.

As the doors close, the outside world disappears completely. No fans, no noise, just the low hum of the elevator as it begins to rise.

Phil tips his head back, eyes closing for a moment. ““Jesus,” he mutters. “Feels like my knees are eighty years old.

“You earned the right to stay in bed all day,” you reply, leaning against the opposite wall. “Room service will just have to deal with us ordering three times.”

That gets the smallest smirk from him, the corner of his mouth curling. His eyes open again, finding yours in the mirrored reflection. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Maybe,” you say with a shrug, but your voice softens. “Or maybe I just think you deserve a night where you don’t have to fight for anything.”

His gaze lingers on you a beat longer, something unspoken in his expression, gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. The elevator hums on, smooth and steady, carrying you both toward that long-awaited quiet.

The elevator doors suddenly slide open, spilling you into a dimly lit hallway that hums quietly with the low drone of the hotel’s air system. You step out first, the plush carpet soft beneath your shoes, and Phil’s hand slips naturally into yours as he falls into step beside you. His grip is warm, steady, even after the chaos of the night.

When you reach your door, you pause, digging into your purse. Phil leans back slightly, watching you with that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A low chuckle escapes him, and you glance up, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Don’t laugh,” you say, giggling despite yourself as you shuffle past the gum wrappers and loose change. Finally, you pull out the key card with a little triumphant flourish. “I’m usually more organized.”

Phil shakes his head, that crooked smirk still on his face. “Yeah, sure you are,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Bet if I looked in there I’d find a whole CVS receipt, three granola bars, and the Ark of the Covenant.”

You laugh, finally sliding the keycard into the slot. The green light blinks and you push the door open, holding it for him.

He steps past you into the room, immediately tossing his duffle onto the armchair by the window like it’s offended him.

You close the door, the quiet settling around you instantly, no fans, no shouting, no arena noise. Just the hum of the AC and the soft creak of the bed as Phil sits down on the edge, leaning forward to rub his knees.

“Want me to run a bath?” you ask, nodding toward the bathroom door.

Phil gives a slow, tired nod, pushing himself up from the edge of the bed. “Yeah… that sounds good,” he mutters, following you in.

You flick on the light, the warm glow revealing a surprisingly nice setup, a wide jacuzzi tub big enough to stretch out in, sleek his-and-her sinks, and a modern glass shower that practically gleams.

“Damn,” Phil says under his breath, glancing around. “Guess they sprung for the fancy room.”

You smile faintly, moving over to the counter and unzipping your toiletry bag. Your fingers find a small bottle of lavender bubble bath, which you set beside the tub. “I brought some epsom salts too,” you say, holding up the container with a little grin. “Figured those would be nice after tonight.”

Phil leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that faint smirk that always hints he’s about to say something. “Lavender bubble bath, epsom salts… what’s next? You gonna throw on some Enya and light candles?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, amused. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Just didn’t have you pegged for the full spa treatment type.”

You turn the taps, the deep tub starting to fill with steaming water. “Well, after tonight, I think you’ve earned it.”

Phil’s expression shifts, that teasing edge softening as he steps inside, the sound of the water echoing gently in the tiled room. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Couldn’t hurt to let my body believe I’m not forty-six for an hour.”

You step to the tub, twisting the handle until a rush of steaming water fills the room with a soft hiss. Uncapping the lavender bubble bath, you pour a slow stream into the water, the scent unfurling almost instantly, warm, floral, and soothing. A handful of epsom salts follows, scattering into the swirl and vanishing beneath the bubbles.

Behind you, Phil drifts closer. In the mirror, his reflection appears beside yours, shoulders slightly slouched, eyes still rimmed with exhaustion, but softer now, the sharp edge of earlier replaced with something quieter.

He comes to stand beside you, His hand brushes the counter, fingertips drumming once before he leans a hip against it.

“Looks like you’ve got this all figured out,” he says, voice low, carrying that mix of sarcasm and sincerity only he can manage.

You glance at him in the mirror, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t just collapse face-first into the bed and stay there all night.”

Phil snorts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bed’s not a bad option.” He lowers himself onto the edge of the tub, letting his palm skim over the rising bubbles, testing the heat. “Damn… this is perfect.”

You kneel to adjust the tap, letting a bit more hot water pour in. “Told you,” you say softly.

His eyes find yours again, not in the mirror this time, but directly. “Yeah. You’re usually right about this stuff.”

There’s no smirk now, just the kind of quiet honesty that makes your chest ache.

“I’m always right,” you joke, smirking.

Phil chuckles, shaking his head like he’s amused and resigned all at once. He pulls his hoodie over his head in one smooth motion and tosses it onto the floor.

You bite your lip as the bathroom light casts soft shadows across his shoulders and chest, muscles flexing with every movement.

Without hesitation, he slides off his sweatpants and boxers, standing bare in front of you.

Sure, you’ve seen him naked more times than you can count, but somehow, he still makes your cheeks flush.

“Gonna join me?” Phil asks, stepping toward the tub with a raised brow.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual. “I figured you just wanted a bath to yourself.”

He grins, that familiar glint in his eyes. “You sure about that?”

You meet his smirk with a mischievous smile and step forward. Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. One by one, you shed your clothes until you stand bare before him, the warm bathroom light casting a soft glow across your skin.

“Well, maybe I changed my mind,” you say, voice teasing as you slowly lower yourself into the warm, bubbly water beside him.

Phil’s eyes darken with something playful and a little tender. “Good call,” he murmurs, letting out a low chuckle.

By surprise, Phil pulls you close, pressing your back firmly against his chest. The warmth of his body sends a shiver down your spine, and you let out a small, breathy giggle.

His lips find the delicate curve of your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart race. His hands rest gently on your waist, steady and sure, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You tilt your head slightly, offering him more space, your breath catching as his lips trail lower, the heat between you growing stronger with every touch.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Phil murmurs against your neck, his voice low and rough with sincerity. His hands glide slowly up and down your arms, tracing warmth along your skin.

You close your eyes, a soft smile spreading across your lips as his words settle deep inside you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, leaning back just a little, wanting to feel him even closer. “But—” you begin, sitting up and turning your head to meet his surprised gaze.

Phil looks up at you, eyebrows raised, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“It’s my turn to take care of you,” you say softly, your voice steady with quiet determination.

Phil blinks, his surprise slowly melting into something softer, more genuine. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, one that’s less about teasing and more about trust.

“Damn,” he says quietly, voice thick with something close to relief. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Guess I’m in good hands, huh?”

His eyes search yours, vulnerability flashing through that usual guarded look. “Alright, then… show me what you got.”

There’s a playful challenge there, but underneath it, an honest invitation, to be cared for, to let his walls down.

You smile softly, shifting gently to turn fully around so you’re facing Phil. You settle into his lap, the warmth of the water and his body grounding you both in the moment.

Your hands reach up to his shoulders, fingers pressing firm and slow into the tight muscles, working out the tension built up from the long night.

Phil lets out a low, satisfied sigh, his eyes closing briefly as he leans back slightly against the tub, trusting you completely.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough but content. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

You lean in a little closer, Your fingers knead into his shoulders, working out the tight knots with just the right pressure.

Phil’s breath deepens, his head tilting slightly as he catches your scent, something faintly familiar, comforting. His eyes flutter open, catching yours with that playful glint only he can manage.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “if you keep this up, I might have to start charging you for a private massage.”

You grin, your hands tracing lazy circles along his traps. “Oh yeah? And what would the going rate be?”

He smirks, one brow arching. “Depends on how many kisses come with it.”

You laugh softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Guess I better step up then.”

Phil leans forward, his lips barely brushing your cheek as he whispers, “You’ve definitely got my attention.”

The space between you feels charged, every touch and glance sparking something electric and warm, the kind of quiet intimacy that speaks louder than words.

Still seated on Phil’s lap, you lean back slightly, your fingers reaching for a soft washcloth resting nearby. You lift it up, squeezing a small amount of the lavender soap onto the fabric, watching as gentle suds begin to form between your palms.

With careful, deliberate movements, you bring the cloth to Phil’s shoulder, pressing lightly as you begin to massage the suds into his skin. Your touch is tender but confident, tracing slow circles over the tense muscles, washing away the weight of the day.

Phil leans back against the tub, eyes closing briefly as a low sigh escapes him, a quiet surrender to the calm you’re creating together. His breath matches the rhythm of your strokes, steady and slow.

The warm scent of lavender mingles with the subtle musk of his skin, filling the space around you both with a comforting intimacy.

“You’re so sexy, you know that?” you murmur, your fingers gently gliding the washcloth along his arms.

Phil’s eyes flicker open, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah? Careful, sweetheart… you keep talking like that and I’m never gonna want to get out of this tub.” 

He leans a bit forward, just enough to nudge your shoulder playfully, his voice low and teasing. 

You bite back a grin, continuing to drag the washcloth slowly down the length of his forearm, letting your fingers follow right after, tracing the lines of muscle. “Maybe that’s the point,” you reply softly, your eyes locked on his.

Phil’s hands find your hips under the water, his thumbs brushing lazy circles against your skin. “Yeah?” he says, tilting his head slightly, studying your face like he’s committing every detail to memory. “Guess I could get used to you taking care of me like this.”

The scent of lavender lingers between you, steam curling around both of you as the water laps gently against your sides. His gaze dips briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, that slow smirk still there, but softer now, warmer.

You help Phil up slowly, water rippling around you both as he rises. You steady him with both hands, the heat from his skin still radiating through your damp fingers. Droplets slide down the planes of his chest, catching the light before tracing their way over his stomach.

 After the two of you finish washing up, you step out first, the cool air brushing over your damp skin. You reach for a thick, plush towel hanging on the nearby hook and spread it open wide. Phil steps forward silently, and you hand it to him, letting him draw it close around his chest before tucking the edges in.

The fabric clings to the heat still radiating from his skin, steam curling lazily in the air around him. He glances at you with that smirk, towel wrapped securely around his waist now, and you feel that familiar flutter in your stomach.

Without looking away, you grab another towel and wrap it snugly around yourself, the plush material soaking up the last beads of water sliding down your skin. He’s close enough now that the damp tips of his hair brush against your temple, leaving tiny cool traces against your warm skin.

The air between you feels thick with heat and the soft scent of lavender, broken only by the quiet drip of water from the tub. Phil shifts just slightly, enough for his hand to skim over your hip in a slow, teasing pass, like he’s not quite ready for the moment to end.

“You’re so beautiful,” Phil murmurs, his voice low and rough as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.

You bite your lip, the faintest smile tugging at you as your hand rises, fingers grazing over the firm lines of his chest, still warm from the bath. “Phil…” you breathe out in a trembling whimper, your voice almost swallowed by the quiet.

His lips find the crook of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses there, each one lingering just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

“Yes, my love?” he murmurs against your skin before lifting his head. His eyes lock on yours, that familiar smirk curving his lips like he already knows what you’re going to say.

“I want to make you feel good…” you whisper, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, your words heavy with meaning.

“Yeah?” Phil’s voice drops lower, almost teasing, as his fingers leave your hips and trail slowly upward, tracing the curve of your spine until they rest at the small of your back. The heat of his touch seeps through your skin, pulling you closer to him, as if he’s daring you to say more.

You step closer, letting the towel wrapped around you slip just a little as your bodies press together, damp warmth colliding. Your fingers trace the familiar lines of ink on his arms before you rise onto your toes and pull him down, lips meeting his in a slow, deep kiss. His hands roam your back, one cupping the nape of your neck, the other gripping the towel at your back. Phil groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he tightens his grip. He turns, walking you backward until your shoulders hit the wall beside the bathroom mirror. The cool tile contrasts sharply with the heat of his body, his muscular frame pinning you in place.

Phil’s hand snakes out, fingers curling around the hem of your towel. With a quick, teasing tug, he pulls it free from your frame. The cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps rippling down your arms, and a shiver escapes you as your eyes meet his, green gaze dark and amused. His gaze drops, taking in every curve and plane of your exposed body. A low, appreciative sound rumbles in his throat, his hands coming to rest on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles against your skin.

"You're even more beautiful like this," Phil murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill through you. He presses closer, his towel-clad body flush against yours, and his lips brush against your neck, right below your ear. "I want to make you feel so good, baby. So good you forget your own name."

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper, tilting your head up to him and biting your lip. Phil groans low, eyes darkening as he looks down at you. Without another word, he scoops you up effortlessly in his arms, holding you close, and carries you out of the bathroom, the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

The mattress dips beneath you as he lays you down, his weight pressing between your thighs as his towel falls away. Your fingers trace the firm planes of his back, pulling him closer, his hot skin flush against yours. Phil nips lightly at your collarbone, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before soothing it with his tongue. His hands slide down your sides, one coming to rest possessively at your hip while the other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. You arch into his touch with a soft moan, nails digging into his shoulders. "I love how you sound," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His erection is now evident, feeling his thick, throbbing member press against the inside of your thigh.

“Let me ride you,” you breathily whisper, fingers trailing slowly down Phil’s chest and across his abdomen, brushing over the edge of his “Straight Edge” tattoo. Your touch lingers, teasing, as your eyes lock with his, green gaze dark and hungry.

Phil's breath catches as your fingers trace the familiar ink, his eyes burning with intense longing. He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he settles you above him. The movement shifts your hips, bringing you into direct contact with his growing arousal, and you both gasp softly at the sudden connection.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, hands gripping your hips, guiding you in a slow, teasing rhythm as your grind on his cock, now slick with your juices. His eyes are dark with want, locking onto yours as he watches your every reaction. "You feel so good," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently tugging you down for a deep, passionate kiss. His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding your lips to meet his in a searing kiss. The damp heat between your bodies mingles with the musky scent of arousal and the faint aroma of lavender lingering on your skin. His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as you roll your hips experimentally, drawing a ragged groan from his throat.

"I need you," you breathe against his lips, fingers trailing down his chest to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen. Phil's hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples in slow, torturous circles. He breaks the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point. 

“You have me,” he mumbles in the crook of your neck, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. His hand moves to your waist, lifting you up slightly as the other grabs his throbbing erection and guides himself into you. You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as your bodies join together, the delicious fullness making your muscles clench around him. Phil groans, head tilting back as he savors the sensation of being deep inside you. Your bodies move together in a slow, sensual rhythm, each thrust and roll of your hips building the tension between you. The air fills with the sounds of your heavy breathing and soft moans, mingling with the soft creaking of the bed beneath you.

"Fuck baby, you're so big," you moan out, throwing your head back in ecstasy as his cock hits your sweet spot. Phil's hands slide up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as he pulls you down against him, chest pressing flush against yours. His hips move in slow, deliberate circles, each motion grinding his pelvis against your clit in just the right way. Your nails dig into his shoulders, body shuddering as pleasure coils tight in your core. "Phil—" your voice comes out breathless, breaking as he angles his hips, hitting even deeper.

"Say my name again," he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with need. You gasp as he thrusts up, your muscles tightening around him.

"Phil, oh god—"

“No,” Phil growls low, his voice rough and teasing against your ear. “Say my name.”

Your breath catches as you realize the meaning behind it, he wants you to call him by Punk. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the weight of it sinking in. Everyone. fans, friends, even the crew, always called him Punk. But you’ve always called him Phil, and it’s felt personal, intimate, separate from the persona the world knows.

“You… want me to…?” you whisper, voice trembling slightly, unsure but drawn in by the intensity of him so close.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smirking against your skin, fingers tightening at the small of your back. “Say it. Punk.”

The word tastes strange and thrilling on your tongue, the shift in what you call him sending a shiver straight down your spine. "P-Punk," you whisper, the name sounding different, somehow more intimate, as it leaves your lips. He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest as he thrusts up, burying himself deeper inside you. The name on your tongue changes something between you, heightening the moment and the connection, his hands gripping your hips with newfound intensity as he moves you against him in a steady rhythm.

“That’s it baby, fuck, you’re all mine. All fucking mine,” Phil grunts, thrusting faster now, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. You feel your walls tightening around him, pleasure building rapidly as he fills you perfectly, hitting that sweet spot with every movement. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as your back arches, head tipping back with a gasp.

"God, Punk," you moan, the unfamiliar name slipping out again, carrying a different weight now. His name on your lips drives him wild, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he thrusts harder, faster. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you as he drives up into you over and over. You can feel it building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with every thrust, every delicious drag of his cock inside you. Phil's eyes are locked onto yours, dark with intensity, lips parted as he watches you unravel beneath him. His hands slide up to grip your waist, holding you steady as he fucks into you with deep, purposeful strokes, each one designed to push you over the edge.

"Come for me, baby," he growls, the words thick with want. "Let me feel it."

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with firm, steady pressure, and that's all it takes. Your muscles clench and spasm around him as pleasure explodes through your body. "Punk! Oh fuck!" You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as your orgasm tears through you. Phil groans, feeling you pulse and spasm around him, and his control finally snaps. 

Before you can even process what was happening, he flips you onto your back, his powerful body looming above as he now drives into you with relentless, deep thrusts, chasing his own release. Your bodies move together in a frantic rhythm, skin slick with sweat, the sounds of their lovemaking filling the air. Phil's eyes never leave yours, green gaze dark with desire as he pushes your legs back, angling for even deeper penetration. 

Your legs tremble, his cock dragging across sensitive nerves every time he thrusts. He growls as your body milks him, tightening around him in rhythmic pulses that send intense waves of pleasure through you both. "Fuck, baby," Phil grunts, his hands gripping your thighs as he fucks into you, deep and unyielding. "You feel so good. So tight. So wet."

His words send another tremor through your body, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in the sheets. The sweat on his skin glistens in the dim light, muscles straining as he moves. “God, I’m gonna cum,” Phil groans out. You tighten your legs around him instinctively, heels digging into his ass as you urge him deeper. 

"Come for me, Punk," you whisper, fingers tracing up his sides, feeling the flex of his muscles as he thrusts. His breathing falters, a choked groan escaping as he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as his orgasm rips through him. Warmth floods inside you, his cock pulsing as he spills deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release. Phil collapses against you, still moving in shallow thrusts as he rides out his climax, pressing you into the mattress with his weight.

Your arms wrap around him, holding him close as his breathing slows, your fingers tracing light patterns along his back. Phil's forehead rests against your shoulder, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his orgasm. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, pounding as intensely as yours. His lips press against your neck in a soft kiss, teeth grazing lightly before he murmurs, "Fuck, that was—" He doesn't finish the thought, just exhales heavily against your skin, arms tightening around you in a possessive hug. Your fingers trail up his spine, feeling the sweat-slicked skin beneath your fingertips. 

The room is heavy with the scent of sex and lavender, your bodies cooling together as you lie entwined on the rumpled sheets. Phil's breathing slows, his face still buried in the crook of your neck as he catches his breath. He pulls back slightly, green eyes meeting yours with a lazy, satisfied gaze. A soft smile plays on his lips as he runs a hand through your hair, fingers tangling gently in the strands. "That was intense," he murmurs, voice still rough from exertion. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, gaze locked on yours. "I like it when you call me Punk." His words are laced with a husky quality, sending a shiver through you.

"yeah?" you ask, still out of breath. 

He nods, eyes dark and intense as he holds your gaze. "Yeah. Makes me feel different. It’s hot." He presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly, his face inches from yours. You let out a soft laugh, breath still uneven, your fingers brushing over his chest as you study his expression. 

“Different how?” you ask, teasing lightly, though your voice is still thick with warmth.

Phil smirks, that familiar glint of mischief in his green eyes. “Different… like I’m not just the guy everyone yells at from the crowd. Like I’m… yours,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of your back, pulling you slightly closer.

Your lips curl into a soft smile as you lean into him, pressing your forehead to his. “You are mine, Punk,” you whisper, letting the word linger between you, heavy and intimate.

He groans softly, a low sound that vibrates through you, and buries his face against yours again, nipping gently at your jaw before capturing your lips in another slow, deliberate kiss. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer, while the other traces slow, light patterns along your side.

Phil sat on the couch, flicking through channels without really seeing any of them. Madeline’s laugh still echoed in his head, light, uninvited, impossible to shake. His shirt was back on, though it clung damp from his workout, and every so often he’d catch himself glancing at his cellphone on the counter like it might light up.

The apartment door clicked and swung open, breaking him from the trance. Scott stepped inside, juggling grocery bags and muttering under his breath about prices. “Man, they’re charging two twenty-five for bread now. Two twenty-five.”

Phil grunted in response, eyes flicking back to the TV though he couldn’t remember what was even on.

Scott plopped the bags down on the counter, then turned toward him with a sharp look. “What’s going on with you? Why do you look like you just lost a match?”

Phil smirked faintly. “You’re dramatic.”

Scott ignored him, pulling out a carton of milk. “Nah, you’ve got that stupid grin. What happened?”

Phil dragged a hand over his mouth, trying to play it off, but the corner of his lips betrayed him. “Nothing.”

Scott froze mid-reach, then broke into a wide grin. “No way. It’s her, isn’t it? The neighbor. Madeline, right?”

Phil finally looked over, giving a half-shrug. “She’s got my number now.”

Scott laughed, shaking his head as he shoved groceries into the fridge. “Oh boy. So now you’re just waiting for her to use it, huh? Man, you’re hopeless.”

Phil leaned back, eyes drifting toward the phone again despite himself. “Yeah… maybe.”

Scott shut the fridge door with his hip, still grinning like he’d won something. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been sitting here, staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager, waiting for her to make the first move?”

Phil scoffed, picking up the remote and flipping past a game show. “I’m not staring at it. I’m… watching TV.”

“Uh-huh,” Scott said, dragging out the words. He grabbed a bag of chips from the counter, ripped it open, and tossed one into his mouth. “Man, I’ve known you for almost forever, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act this way. You’re usually all ‘I don’t care, I’ve got wrestling, I’ve got my music.’ Now? One smile from the neighbor, and you’re a wreck.”

Phil smirked despite himself, leaning forward on his knees. “You’re exaggerating.”

Scott pointed a chip at him. “Nope. You’ve got that look in your eye. Like you’re already imagining her sitting on this couch with you.”

Phil felt heat creep up his neck, and he rubbed the back of it, trying to look unaffected. “She’s… different.”

Scott arched his brows, amused. “Different? Different enough that you’ll actually text her first if she doesn’t hit you up tonight?”

Phil glanced toward the counter again, the phone sitting dark and silent, and exhaled through his nose. “She’s the one with my number. Ball’s in her court.”

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re doomed, man. Completely doomed.”

Right as the words left Scott’s mouth, Phil’s phone vibrated and lit up on the counter. His pulse jumped. He shot up from the couch, but Scott was faster, swooping in with a smirk and snatching the phone before Phil could reach it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Scott said, laughing as he leaned back, one hand planted against Phil’s chest to hold him off while the other flipped the phone toward himself. “Somebody’s in a hurry.”

“Scott, don’t—” Phil’s voice came sharp, his hand swiping for it, but Scott twisted out of reach, grinning like a devil.

The screen glowed with a new message, an unknown phone number right there at the top.

Scott’s eyebrows shot up, his grin widening. “Madeline,” he drawled, like the name itself was a punchline. “Well, well, well…”

Phil’s stomach flipped. His face felt hot. “Give me the phone,” he snapped, lunging again, but Scott just laughed, holding it high.

“You didn’t waste time, did you? What’s this, like an hour since she was here? And she’s already blowing you up?” Scott teased, scrolling his eyes over the message. “Dude…”

Phil’s jaw tightened, his heart hammering. “Scott. I’m serious. Hand it over.”

Scott finally looked at him, still grinning, but with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “Relax, I’m just saying, she’s clearly interested. You’re welcome.”

Phil snatched the phone back the second Scott’s grip loosened, his chest tight, thumbs hovering nervously over the buttons as he saw her actual message.

Phil’s eyes flicked to the screen. The message glowed back at him:

hey hope this sent thru and im not txting landline maddy btw

For a second, he just stared at it, the corners of his mouth tugging despite himself. His chest eased, a quiet laugh escaping him before he could stop it.

Scott leaned against the counter, watching him like he was the TV. “Ohhh, Maddy btw. Dude, she gave you the playful sign-off and everything. She’s into you.”

“Shut up,” Phil muttered, but the grin on his face betrayed him. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, still a little dazed that she’d actually texted.

“You gonna answer, or just sit there smiling at your screen like a middle schooler?” Scott teased, cracking open a soda from the fridge.

Phil exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating what the hell he was supposed to say back without sounding like an idiot.

Phil sat back on the couch, phone heavy in his hand. His thumb hovered over the buttons, typing and deleting twice before finally settling on something that didn’t make him sound like a total moron.

nah, you got the right guy glad your msg didnt end up in a stranger’s inbox

He hit send before he could second-guess it. The message hung there on the screen, little delivered checkmark mocking him while his pulse ticked up again.

Scott plopped down next to him, leaning over his shoulder without shame. “Smooth. Real smooth. You’re basically Shakespeare.”

“Shut the hell up,” Phil muttered, shoving him off with his shoulder, though his grin gave him away. He grabbed the remote again, flipping absently through channels, but his eyes kept darting back to the phone on the armrest, waiting.

A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

good woulda been awkrd explaining 2 sum rando guy why i was txtin bout sweaty neighbrs blasting rancid

Phil barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, hand running over his mouth to hide it.

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah. You’re gone, dude. Completely gone.”

Phil’s phone buzzed again. Another message popped up beneath the last one.

u got yahoo msg?

Scott nearly spit out his soda. “Oh my god. She’s asking for your screen name? Dude, this is serious.”

Phil rolled his eyes, though his stomach did a weird flip. “It’s not serious. It’s just… messaging.”

“Messaging,” Scott echoed, grinning like an idiot. “Next thing you know you two are gonna be in some late-night chatroom confessing your deepest feelings. Don’t screw this up.”

Phil ignored him, thumbs moving across the keypad.

 Punk3r78. don’t laugh.

He hit send, instantly regretting it, dragging a hand over his face.

Scott saw the grimace and burst out laughing. “Punk3r78? Jesus, that’s peak dork.”

Phil groaned. “Shut up. It’s fine.”

The phone buzzed again almost immediately.

lmao ok. add me. madsinthecity

Phil felt his grin creeping back despite himself.

He didn’t even bother with an explanation. The second he saw madsinthecity pop up on his screen, his pulse kicked and he was on his feet, practically sprinting down the hall.

Scott’s laughter followed him. “Oh my god, he’s actually running. Dude’s in love already!”

“Shut up!” Phil barked back, but he couldn’t stop the grin splitting his face. He practically ran into his bedroom and threw himself into the desk chair, the old computer humming to life as he wiggled the mouse, screen flickering awake. His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk until Yahoo Messenger finally opened, the purple window popping up with a cheerful ping.

There it was. Her name. Madsinthecity has added you to their friends list.

Phil’s chest tightened. He clicked accept so fast he nearly missed the button, then sat back for half a second, staring at the empty chat window like it might combust. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, suddenly unsure if he was supposed to say hi first or wait for her.

Then the window blinked.

Madsinthecity: hey wrestler neighbor. u online?

Phil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, cracking a grin as his fingers flew across the keys.

Phil typed fast, leaning in close to the screen.

Punk3r78: yeah. what’s up?

Almost instantly, her reply came back.

Madsinthecity: just making sure u weren’t full of shit about this wrestling thing. figured u prob spend more time flexing in the mirror than online.

Phil huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he typed back.

Punk3r78: mirror’s in the bathroom. Puter’s in the bedroom. balance.

He smirked at his own joke, then jumped when Scott suddenly loomed in the doorway with a grocery bag dangling from one hand.

“Jesus, don’t sneak up on people like that.”

Scott just grinned, wandering in. “I didn’t sneak, man. You were too busy giggling at your little chat window.” He leaned down over Phil’s shoulder, peering at the screen. “Ohhh, is this her?”

Phil shoved at him with one hand. “Get outta here.”

Scott ignored him, reading aloud in a mocking tone. “‘Madsinthecity’? Cute. Very Sex and the City of her.” He dropped the grocery bag on the bed and leaned against the desk like he owned the place. “So, what’s the deal, huh? She hitting you with the ‘sup neighbor’ yet?”

Phil elbowed him hard. “Get out.”

Scott only laughed, eyes scanning the screen as another message popped up.

Madsinthecity: so what r u up to besides annoying the neighbors with ur music and working out?

Scott grinned wickedly. “Oh, she’s opening the door, man. Smooth sailing from here. Just don’t say anything about, like, your comic book collection or she’s gone.”

Phil clenched his jaw, fingers flying over the keys anyway.

Punk3r78: nothing much. Comics are fun. Don’t laugh. What about u?

Madsinthecity: lol i wont laugh. comics can be hot if u know ur stuff.

Scott smirked, watching the typing dots blink back on the screen. “Ohhh, she’s into it. This is history, right here.”

Madsinthecity: im just winding down. glass of wine, bad tv. Interrupting your workout was the highlight of my afternoon tho.

Phil’s lips quirked into a smirk before he could stop himself, though he tried to mask it by leaning forward in his chair.

Scott elbowed him lightly. “See? Highlight of her afternoon. You’re practically in there. Just don’t blow it.”

Phil shot him a glare, but his fingers were already moving.

Punk3r78: depends what on what you mean by bad tv. like, soap operas bad? or reality show bad?

Scott groaned dramatically, flopping onto Phil’s bed. “Oh my god, you’re flirting with television categories. This is painful.”

But the typing dots reappeared almost immediately.

Madsinthecity: haha. reality. Project Runway. figured i’d balance it out with some intelligent convo.

Phil couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of him, low and genuine.

Scott pointed at him like he’d just cracked the code. “Bam. That’s it. You’re done. She likes you.”

Punk3r78: intelligent convo huh. u sure u knocked on the right door earlier? Madsinthecity: bold. u calling urself dumb already? Punk3r78: nah. just not known for my small talk skills. i do better in the ring. Madsinthecity: lol smooth. humble and braggy at the same time. impressive.

Phil grinned at the screen, chewing at his lip before typing again.

Punk3r78: so… what do you do for work?

Madsinthecity: oh, boring office stuff. courthouse clerk. lots of paperwork, mostly.

Punk3r78: paperwork, huh? sounds way less exciting than piledrivers.

Madsinthecity: lol i survive. u’d be surprised what i can handle.

Phil grinned at the screen, fingers pausing over the keys. He felt that little spark, the one that made even a simple chat feel electric.

Punk3r78: is that a challenge?

Madsinthecity: maybe… depends if u can keep up.

Scott, still leaning in from the doorway, smirked. “Ohhhhhh, buddy. You just got dared.”

Phil groaned, trying not to grin too wide. “Shut up, Scott.”

But inside, he was already thinking of a witty comeback.

Punk3r78: oh, i can keep up. trust me.

Madsinthecity: we’ll see, wrestler boy… we’ll see.

Then, another message appeared.

Madsinthecity: talk 2 u later? Gotta make dinner.

Punk3r78: sure. dinner sounds good. what’s on the menu?

Madsinthecity: just some dumplings. nothing fancy.

Punk3r78: sounds perfect. enjoy it. catch u later.

He leaned back in his chair, a grin tugging at his lips, the screen glowing softly in the dim apartment. Scott peeked over the top of the monitor.

“Dude…This is progress,” Scott said, smirking.

Phil ignored him, letting the quiet buzz of the computer and the thrill of the chat settle into the apartment. For the first time all night, it felt… easy. Fun. Electric.

He stared at the screen a little longer, watching her status blink back at him. The quiet hum of the apartment suddenly seemed louder, every creak of the floorboards and distant car horn reminding him that she was right next door, cooking dinner, existing in the same world.

Scott, sprawled lazily on the bed, breaking the silence. “You’re not gonna stare at that screen all night, are you?”

Phil smirked without looking away. “Why not? She’s… fun to talk to.”

Scott laughed. “Fun? Dude, that’s an understatement. You’re hooked. Admit it.”

Phil finally tore his eyes from the monitor and gave Scott a mock glare. “I’m not hooked. I just… like talking to her.”

“Uh-huh,” Scott said, raising an eyebrow. “Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, you’re grinning like an idiot.”

Phil shook his head, letting out a soft laugh. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms above his head, feeling the thrill of possibility buzzing through him. It was strange, unexpected, and exhilarating all at once, he way a simple chat could make an entire night feel alive.

The apartment fell quiet again, only the hum of the computer and the distant city noises filling the space. Phil glanced at the clock, realizing hours had already slipped by since she dropped off the mail. He couldn’t wait for the next message, the next laugh, the next small spark that made his chest tighten in the best way.

Scott rolled his eyes and muttered something about Phil’s obsession, but Phil didn’t hear it. He was already imagining their next conversation, replaying her messages in his head, and feeling the electric pull of something just beginning. Maybe he was right, Punk was completely doomed.

Meanwhile, a half an hour later and next door, Madeline was cooking the vegetable dumplings she’d picked up from Trader Joe’s yesterday. The sizzling sound of them crisping in the pan filled her little kitchen, steam rising as she flipped them with a fork. She leaned a hip against the counter, glancing at her laptop on the coffee table every few minutes, even though she’d just told him she was making dinner.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. She hadn’t expected her wrestler-neighbor Phil, to be that quick with his replies. Or that funny. The mix of self-deprecating and cocky was… oddly appealing.

She let out a small laugh to herself, shaking her head as she poured soy sauce into a little dish. “Not known for small talk, huh?” she murmured under her breath. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The dumplings hissed louder, demanding her attention, but even as she plated them, she caught herself glancing back at her computer again. The Yahoo Messenger window was still open, Phil’s last message blinking faintly in the background: sounds perfect. enjoy it. catch u later.

Simple. Casual. But it lingered.

She set the plate down, fork clinking against ceramic, and leaned her hip against the counter, eyes snagging on the glow of the screen. It had only been thirty minutes, but for some reason it felt longer, like the conversation had pressed itself into the edges of her apartment.

Madeline shook her head, finally sitting down and stabbing at one of the dumplings. “It’s just a neighbor,” she muttered under her breath, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

Still, with every bite, her gaze flicked back toward the computer, as if half-expecting the little ping of another message that hadn’t come yet.

Madeline chewed slowly, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth as her thoughts slipped away from the glowing chat window and drifted back to yesterday. Trader Joe’s, the freezer aisle, her hand hovering over the exact bag of dumplings now steaming on her plate.

Chris.

She hadn’t thought about him in years, and yet the second he’d said her name, hesitant, almost disbelieving, something in her had clicked. He looked different, sure. A little rougher. The curly hair she remembered from senior year was longer now, brushing his ears, and there was a shadow of stubble across his jaw. But the eyes were the same.

He’d grinned like no time had passed, like they hadn’t broken each other’s hearts before graduation. And somehow, she’d grinned back.

“Maddy? Is that you?”

She’d turned, dumpling bag halfway lifted, and there he was, Chris, standing in the freezer aisle with a half-full basket dangling from his hand.

For a split second, she’d almost laughed. Like the universe was playing some joke, shoving her past into the middle of her errand.

“Chris,” she’d said, his name tasting both familiar and strange on her tongue.

He looked at her the way people look at old photos they never thought they’d see again, surprised, softened, like something long-buried had just been unearthed. His grin widened, the same lopsided curve she remembered too well, though there was something heavier behind it now. Time had settled into him.

“Wow,” he’d said, shifting the basket awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure whether to step closer or keep his distance. “I didn’t think I’d ever run into you again. You look… the same. Better, actually.”

Madeline had forced a small laugh, brushing hair out of her face to busy her hands. “Trader Joe’s. Who knew it doubled as a high school reunion spot?”

Chris chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, that old nervous tell she remembered too well. “Yeah, I guess so. Small world, huh?” His basket shifted against his leg, a carton of oat milk and a loaf of bread poking out at the top. “You… uh, still in the city?”

Madeline shifted the dumpling bag from one hand to the other, trying not to let her expression give too much away. “Yeah. Been here a while. Work’s down the street.”

His grin softened, eyes flicking over her like he was piecing the years back together. “Figures. You always said you wanted to get out, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you made it stick.”

Something in her chest tightened at that, the casual way he still seemed to know her, even after all this time.

Chris shifted the basket to his other hand, clearing his throat. “So… you seeing anyone?” His voice was careful, testing, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.

Madeline blinked, caught off guard. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

He laughed, sheepish. “Sorry. Guess I still don’t have much of a filter.”

She smirked faintly, shaking her head. “No, I’m not. Not really.”

Something flickered across his face, hope, maybe, but he covered it quickly with another grin. “Good to know.” He hesitated, then dug around in his jacket pocket until he pulled out a pen. He leaned the grocery basket against his hip, scribbling a number onto the back of his receipt.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “In case you ever wanna… catch up. Coffee, maybe? Or just… talk.”

Madeline took the slip before she could think better of it, the ink still fresh against her fingers. For a second, their eyes met, and the years between them didn’t feel so far.

She slipped the paper into her bag, forcing her voice to stay light. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Chris gave her one last smile, then nodded toward the checkout. “I should, uh, get going. Don’t want the ice cream to melt.”

“Right.” She laughed softly, and then just like that, he was gone, disappearing into another aisle, leaving her standing there with the number burning a hole in her bag.

She shook the thought away, Trader Joe’s feeling like a lifetime ago, even though it was just yesterday. Chris’s face flashed in her mind, that half-smile, the way he rubbed the back of his neck like he always used to. She hated that it stuck with her.

The TV hummed in the background, some rerun she wasn’t paying attention to, Punk’s last text floating in the back of her mind. Enjoy it. Catch u later.

Her chest tightened. Later felt too far away.

She sighed, dragging her hands down her face. One part of her wanted to text back something dumb, something that would make him laugh. Another part wondered why Chris, of all people, had to reappear now, rougher, older, familiar in a way that scratched at a part of her she thought she’d outgrown.

The air in northern Wisconsin had that late September crispness, the kind that carried both the bite of fall and the last warmth of summer. The trees lining the backroads were just beginning to turn, with hints of gold and red mixed in with the green, and the air smelled faintly of wood smoke.

You were back in your hometown, visiting your family, taking advantage of the stretch of free time your boyfriend actually had for once. Ever since you started dating a couple of years ago, he’d made a point to carve out time for things that mattered, away from arenas, interviews, and the chaos of life in Chicago. You suggested this trip months ago, a little escape from the city, and now the timing finally lined up. The two of you were driving those winding backroads together, windows down to let in the late summer air, finally making good on the promise of a quiet weekend.

You leaned your head against the cool window of Phil’s car as he drove, the hum of the road beneath you steady and calming. He quickly glanced over at you with that small, knowing grin, one hand loose on the wheel, the other reaching over to lace his fingers through yours.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, breaking the silence, “I never pictured myself spending a weekend up north picking apples.”

You laughed softly, giving his hand a squeeze. “What, can’t handle an orchard, city boy?”

“I didn’t say that,” he smirked, leaning back in his seat. “I’m just saying… I’m more used to the city than the north.”

“Well,” you teased, “then this will be good for you. Clear air, no arenas, no traffic. Just you, me, and a fuck ton of apples.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I can deal with that.”

You grinned, squeezing his hand as the car pulled into the gravel lot of the orchard. The crunch under the tires and the sight of rows upon rows of apple trees made your chest feel warm with familiarity. It smelled like childhood, cider, hay, the faint sweetness of donuts drifting from the barn shop up ahead.

“This is it,” you said as Phil parked the car. “I swear it’s the best orchard in Wisconsin. My parents used to bring me here every September.”

He glanced out the window, eyebrow raised at the sprawling fields, the kids running past with baskets bigger than their heads, and the rustic red barn that anchored the whole place. “Not bad,” he admitted, turning the engine off. “Definitely beats Chicago traffic.”

You laughed, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Told you it would.”

Stepping out, the cool air nipped at your cheeks, crisp and clean in a way the city never was. Phil came around the car to join you, slinging an arm casually over your shoulders as you both headed toward the orchard entrance.

“So, what’s the game plan?” he asked. “Grab a basket, climb a tree, and hope I don’t fall and break a bone?”

You bumped his hip with yours, grinning. “Something like that. We pick apples, eat donuts, drink cider, and maybe take home a pumpkin or two for my mom. Very hardcore.”

He smirked, giving your side a squeeze. “Sounds dangerous. Good thing you brought a professional.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you as you passed him one of the orchard baskets resting on the table out front. Together, you stepped through the wide wooden gates, baskets in hand, and into the neat rows of apple trees. The earth was soft beneath your shoes, the air crisp enough to taste, carrying a sweetness that you swear lingered on your tongue. Branches hung heavy with apples in every shade, ruby red, golden yellow, and bright green.

Phil looked around, tilting his head back to study the branches. “Alright,” he said, adjusting the basket on his arm. “So, what’s the strategy here? Where do we start, ones closest to the ground so I don’t have to climb?”

You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re tall enough, you’ll be fine. Just don’t drop them all in the dirt.”

He smirked, plucking the nearest apple from a low branch and tossing it lightly in his hand like a baseball. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” you said, rolling your eyes, but grinning. “Now put it in the basket before you bruise it.”

Phil obeyed with mock seriousness, carefully setting the apple inside before he shot you a lopsided grin. “See? I’m a natural.”

You wandered further into the row, the leaves rustled gently overhead. Families and couples were scattered throughout the orchard, but somehow it felt like it was just the two of you tucked between the trees. You reached up to grab one just out of reach, your fingers brushing the smooth skin but not quite closing around it.

“Need help?” Phil teased from behind you, clearly amused.

“No, I’ve got it,” you insisted, stretching on your toes. But before you could snag it, he stepped closer, reaching easily over your head to pluck the apple down in one motion.

He held it up between you with a smug little grin. “Guess being tall has its advantages. Long arms.”

You laughed, taking the apple from him and slipping it into the basket. “Show-off.”

“Just trying to impress my girlfriend,” he said, softer now, his eyes were warm as he watched you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The orchard was now quiet around you, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had slowed down just to let you breathe it in.

You both keep moving down the row, baskets slowly filling with a mix of red and golden apples. The sunlight slipped through the leaves, casting warm patches across the ground. Every now and then, Phil reached up effortlessly and dropped an apple into the basket, while you crouched lower to gather the smaller ones closer to the ground.

“You know,” you said, brushing dirt from your jeans after kneeling, “this would go a lot faster if you weren’t taking your sweet time.”

Phil arched an eyebrow, plucking two apples at once with ease. “Faster isn’t always better,” he mumbled with a smirk, setting them gently into his basket. “Besides, I like watching you work for it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks flushed all the same. “You can be insufferable sometimes.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning casually against a tree trunk, watching you with that lopsided grin that made your stomach flip. “But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” you teased, though your smile betrayed you.

A little further down, you spotted a tree with branches heavy and low, apples so bright you swear they practically glowed. You hurried ahead, tugging him along by the hand. “Look at these,” you said excitedly, already reaching for the biggest one.

Phil stepped closer, basket swinging from his arm, before he leaned in beside you. “That one looks good,” he agreed, but when you stretched for it, he lifted his hand over yours, plucking it down before you could.

“Seriously?” you laughed, swatting his arm.

He took a dramatic bite right out of it, crunching loudly. “What? Gotta make sure it’s safe.”

You shook your head, laughing as you stole the apple from him and tucked it into your basket. “I can’t believe you.”

“I know,” he chuckled, brushing a quick kiss against your temple before grabbing a few more for his own basket.

For the next half hour, you fell into an easy rhythm, walking, reaching, laughing when one slipped from your fingers and rolled into the grass, or when Phil showed off by stretching high into the branches to grab the ones you couldn’t reach. Your baskets grew heavier, but neither of you seemed to mind, lingering among the trees as though you had all the time in the world.

Once you both agreed that you had enough apples, you grabbed the handle of your basket and lifted it up, the weight a reminder of just how many you managed to collect. Both of you walked to the nearby barn to weigh and pay, Phil carrying his with one hand, like it was nothing, while you struggled to keep your own from tipping.

"Show-off," you muttered again, puffing a strand of hair out of your face.

He only grinned, swinging his basket with an exaggerated ease just to tease you. “I offered to carry both.”

“And I said no,” you shot back, stubbornly tightening your grip. “I can handle it.”

By the time you reached the barn, your arms were aching, but you kept your chin up. Phil caught the way your shoulders sagged, and before you could protest, he slipped the basket from your hands and dropped it onto the wooden scale with a solid thud.

The air inside the barn smelled of hay, fresh apples, and cinnamon. Sunlight streamed through the wide doors, catching dust motes in golden streaks. The woman behind the counter glanced between the two of you with a knowing smile. “You two picked some great ones,” she said warmly, jotting the weight down on her notepad.

By the time you reached the car, you swore your arms felt like they were going to fall off. Phil popped the trunk and slid both baskets inside with ease, dusting his hands off on his jeans before shutting it with a thud.

He leaned against the bumper, catching his breath for a moment before flashing you a grin. “Alright. Apples secured. Now…” He straightened up and nodded back toward the barn. “Cider and donuts. Deal’s a deal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re really stuck on that, huh?”

“What can I say? Priorities,” he shot back, stepping close and nudging your arm with his. You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes catching on the narrow dirt path that snaked off from the edge of the lot, disappearing into a patch of woods. The sight tugged at something familiar, a memory. 

“Actually…” you mumbled, pointing. “See that trail? I used to walk it all the time when I was a kid. Before cider, we should go down there. Just for a little bit.”

Phil followed your gaze, squinting like he was sizing up. “What’s back there? Bears?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No, just trees and quiet. It kind of feels like stepping into another world.”

He studied you for a moment, that soft smile tugging at his lips. “Alright. Lead the way, then.”

You reached for his hand, tugging him along as you headed toward the trail. The crunch of gravel shifted to the soft rustle of dirt and fallen leaves beneath your shoes, the orchard sounds fading the further you went. It felt like slipping into the past, into the same woods you used to explore when you were small, only now with Phil’s hand in yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was more like the kind that settled easily, filled with the rhythm of your steps and the faint brush of Phil’s thumb against your hand. You stole a glance at him, he looked more relaxed than you had seen in a long time, shoulders loose, eyes softened by the quiet.

“You were right,” he murmured after a while. “It does feel like another world.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Told you.”

He stopped then, pulling you gently towards him. The world narrowed down to the quiet woods, the filtered sunlight, the warmth of his body against yours. His eyes lingered on you, and for a moment, it felt like time itself slowed, leaving just the two of you in the stillness.

“You know…” he mumbled, voice low, “I could get used to this. Just… being here with you.”

You stepped a little closer, your fingers curled around his. “Me too.”

There was a pause, a moment suspended between breaths, and then Phil leaned in. Your heart raced as his lips found yours, gentle at first, warm and sure. The kiss deepened slightly, just enough to feel the pull between you without breaking the quiet magic of the woods.

You pulled back slightly from the kiss before turning your head just enough to glance ahead. Sunlight spilled through the trees, and you noticed a small clearing up ahead, framed by a ring of slender birch trunks. The grass there was soft and speckled with tiny wildflowers, the perfect little patch of quiet hidden away from the world.

Phil followed your gaze, his eyebrows lifting. “Looks… peaceful,” he murmured, his hand tightening around yours.

You nodded, a small smile tugged at your lips. “It’s exactly like I remember it. Nobody comes here, just the trees, the sunlight… and us, if we want.”

He grinned before stepping a little closer so your shoulders brushed. “Us, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a stray leaf from his sleeve. “Us.”

The clearing seemed to invite you both in, a soft, private world tucked into the woods. It was almost whimsical, really. You let him lead you forward, hand in hand, feeling the crunch of leaves underfoot give way to the gentle softness of the grassy patch. The intimacy of the woods wrapped around you like a blanket, the kiss from moments ago was still warm on your lips. 

The soft grass in the clearing looked very inviting, and without a word, you sank down onto it, patting the spot beside you. Phil followed immediately, lowering himself carefully onto his side so he was facing you. For a long moment, you two just lay there, letting the quiet of the woods settle around you.

You tilted your head, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his temple. “This is nice,” you whisper, voice low, almost afraid to break the calm.

Phil reached out, tucking his hand under your cheek, his thumb gliding lightly along your jaw, tracing the line with a careful gentleness. “Yeah… it is,” he said softly, his eyes locked on yours, slow and steady.

You felt the rhythm of his breathing as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours again, soft, lingering, and deliberate. This kiss was slower, sweeter, like you were both savoring the space between you. Your hand rose to rest over his heart, fingers spreading just enough to feel the steady, reassuring beat beneath your palm.

Phil shifted slightly, moving closer beside you. His other hand brushed along your arm, fingertips grazing your skin in a way that makes a small shiver run through you. The two of you were laid out tangled in the grass, sunlight and shadow painting warm patterns over your skin, the smell of leaves and earth thick around you.

Without thinking and not much hesitation, you rolled onto him, straddling his hips, your knees pressing lightly against the soft ground. Phil groaned softly, eyes widening just a fraction before he closed them, leaning up to meet you.

You dove into another kiss, this time harder now, more urgent. Your lips pressed firmly against his, teeth grazing lightly, tongues brushing in a teasing dance. Your hands tangled in his hair, thumbs pressing into the nape of his neck, fingers slipping along his shoulders, tracing the planes of muscle beneath his hoodie.

Phil responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his hips pressing upward slightly beneath yours. Every movement, every shift of weight, sent a pulse of heat between you. The soft grass beneath you muffled your movements, but the dappled fall sunlight and the forest around you faded entirely. There was only the press of your bodies, the quickening of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the rhythmic press of your lips against his.

Phil tilted his head, deepening the kiss, lips moving hungrily against yours. His hands trailed down your back, sliding to the curve of your hips, tugging you closer with an almost desperate need. You arched into him, matching his movements, grinding slowly against the hardness of his body, letting every brush and press drive the tension higher.

The chill in the air was long forgotten, replaced by the heat radiating off your bodies and ragged breaths mixing. You felt him stiffen beneath you, pulse racing, every exhale rough and heavy.

Finally, you pulled back just slightly, foreheads pressed together, lips still brushing. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Phil muttered. You smirked against him, leaning in to press another hard, teasing kiss to his lips.

“Maybe,” you whispered, letting your hands roam along his chest, “maybe I’ve been waiting for you.” Phil froze for a second, his hands still on your waist, his eyes darting around the clearing. 

“Wait… here?” he said, a mix of surprise and disbelief in his voice. You grinned, leaning down just enough to press a teasing kiss to his jaw. 

“Why not? It’s private. Nobody’s here. Just us.” 

Phil swallowed, a flush rising in his cheeks. His hands tightened slightly, as if holding you close kept him grounded. “I mean… yeah, I guess… but the grass...and it’s pretty chilly out here…maybe we should wait until we get back?”

You shrugged playfully, tilting your head to press another firm, heated kiss to his lips. “You like it,” you murmured against him. “Don’t act like you don’t.” 

Phil exhaled, a soft groan slipping past him, his grip on your hips tightening slightly. “Yeah… I like it,” he admitted, voice thick with certainty. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like I was 16 again.”

You laughed softly, nipping at his lower lip before soothing it with your tongue. "Then stop talking and show me," you purred, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch. Phil didn’t hesitate this time. His hands slid up your back, fingers dipping under your shirt, warm and rough against your skin. His mouth found yours again, hungrier now, lips pressing harder as his tongue swept inside. The taste of him was almost intoxicating, coffee and mint, something you’d been craving since moments ago when you first kissed him. You quickly arched into him, pressing your chest against his, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath his clothes. "We'll have to be quiet," you said, breaking the kiss and unbuttoning your jeans. 

Phil's breath caught audibly at your words, his fingers stilling on your back for a second before continuing their slow, exploratory path upward. "Quiet... right," he grumbled, his voice rough with restrained excitement. His eyes darted to the treeline beyond the clearing, scanning for any movement or sound that might have suggested you two were not alone.

You smirked, rolling off of him until your back touched the grass, then slid your jeans down your legs until they bunched at your ankles. Phil's eyes followed the movement, darkening as they settled on your exposed skin. His breathing had gone ragged already, his fingers twitching against your hip before he pushed himself up onto his knees. You saw the war play out across his face, want and hesitation, urgency and caution. The second his hands landed on your thighs, pressing them apart, you knew he had decided. His gaze locked with yours, and his grip tightened, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin just above your knees. 

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes intense as they moved over your body. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head up to meet his kiss. As his lips crashed against yours, your hands wandered down his chest, tracing the lines of his body until they reached his waist. Fingers curling around the hem of his jeans, you tugged lightly before unfastening the button.

Phil shivered under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he deepened the kiss, pressing you back into the soft earth as his tongue tangled with yours. His hands roamed down your sides, fingers pressed into the dip of your waist before sliding lower, fingertips teasing at the waistband of your panties. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat when your nails scraped lightly over the hard planes of his abdomen. "Quiet," you purred against his lips, feeling the pulse at his neck hammering beneath your fingers. "Or the whole forest will know how much you want this."

Phil exhaled a ragged laugh, shaking his head before pressing another heated kiss to your lips. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, sliding lower, brushing over the already damp skin between your thighs. You gasped against his mouth, back arching slightly as his fingers found your clit, circling with just the right amount of pressure.

His thumb continued in slow, teasing circles while two fingers slowly pressed inside you, stretching and filling you in the best way possible. The rhythm was slow at first, allowing you to adjust, but when he heard the soft moan you bit back, he picked up the pace.

"I need you," you moaned, now unzipping his unbuttoned jeans and tugging at the hem. Phil let out a shuddering breath as you pulled him closer, his fingers still working inside you while he shifted to accommodate your movements. He was hard already, his cock pressing against the front of his underwear, straining to get free. You pushed the fabric down just enough to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly at first, then with more purpose as he groaned against your neck.

"Fuck," he hissed, hips jerking slightly into your grip. His fingers moved faster inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your vision whiten at the edges. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your moans as his thumb flicked over your clit.

You bit your lip to hold back a moan, seizing his wrist and pulling his hand away. "Fuck me right here," you whispered, your breath ragged as you pushed yourself up and tugged his sweatshirt higher. Leaning in slowly, you pressed soft, lingering kisses against his stomach, just beneath the ink of his ‘Straight Edge’ tattoo.

Phil sucked in a sharp breath as your mouth traced the words on his skin. His hips rocked instinctively, cock brushing against your inner arm, already leaking from how badly he wanted you. "You're killing me," he muttered, fingers tightening on your waist as you licked a slow stripe along the tattoo.  You smirked up at him, taking your free hand and stroking him as your other hand wrapped around his waist. 

“Take me slow and here.” 

Phil's pupils dilated when you said the words, his breathing growing even more ragged as he gently pressed you down and positioned himself between your thighs. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped your hips, thumb pressing into the soft skin above your hipbone. "You're so fucking perfect," he growled, his voice rough with want as he guided himself to your entrance. His grip on your hips tightened as he pushed forward, sliding in inch by agonizing inch. Your back arched off the ground, a silent gasp escaping your lips as he filled you completely. His breath caught as he sheathed himself fully inside you, forehead dropping to yours as he gave himself a second to steady.

Phil exhaled shakily, lips brushing against yours. "Fuck you feel so good,” he moaned out. He pulled back just slightly before thrusting again, deeper this time, drawing a sharp breath from both of you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle as he moved, setting a slow, deliberate pace. His mouth quickly found your neck, kissing and biting softly at the sensitive skin there as his hips rolled against yours.

"Fuck," you breathed, trying your hardest to stay quiet. Your hand slipped down from Phil's shoulder, sliding beneath his hoodie to feel the taut movement of his chest as he drove into you. Phil groaned softly at your touch, his skin burning under your fingertips as his thrusts grew more urgent. The sweat on his neck glistened in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, muscles straining with the effort of holding back. He changed the angle slightly, causing you to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

"You like that?" he murmured against your ear, hips rolling in a slow, deep circle that made your toes curl. “You like it when I fuck you out here like this, knowing someone could hear?” 

You nod, breathless, your nails dragging down his back when he hit just the right spot. “F-fuck yeah, just like that, just—" You gasp as he pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The combination of the stretch and the pressure had your vision whiting out for a second, your entire body tensing as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Phil groaned low in his throat when he felt you clench around him, his movements faltering for just a second before he redoubled his efforts. His hips snapped forward harder now, skin slapping against skin as he fucked you with relentless intensity in the grass.

"Cum for me, baby, I’m so close," he whispered into the crook of your neck, thrusting deeper. Your head fell back against the grass as release soon crashed over you in waves. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling the moans as pleasure tore through your body. 

Your climax dragged Phil with you, his teeth sinking into his lip as he fought to choke back his own sounds, spilling deep inside you. He nearly collapsed against you, bracing his arms in the grass to keep from crushing you. Lowering his gaze, he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face and exhaled a shaky sigh.

"I don’t think I expected this today," Phil chuckled breathlessly as he eased out of you, shifting back onto his knees.

The clearing seemed to breathe with you both, leaves rustling overhead, birds calling in the distance, sunlight spilling through the branches in dappled gold. Your body still buzzed with aftershocks, the sharp scent of sweat, musk, and sex heavy in the crisp autumn air, intoxicating.

“Me neither,” you laughed softly, tugging your panties and jeans back into place as your pulse slowly steadied.

"That was… fuck, I don’t even have the words right now," Phil admitted with a crooked grin, dragging his boxers and jeans back on.

He raked a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths. He glanced at you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Christ… you really do know how to surprise me.”

You smirked, buttoning your jeans and tugging your sweater back down over your stomach. “You didn’t exactly complain.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he leaned back on his hands in the grass. “Guess the forest got its own show today,” he teased, voice low and still a little breathless.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you. The world felt sharper now, the intimacy still clung to both of you, heavy.

It’s strange how much can change in fourteen days.

Two weeks ago, you were in Phil’s hotel room, tangled in sheets and silence, unsure what came next. Now? Now you know.

Because sometime between Monday night tapings, quiet car rides, late-night phone calls, and shared breakfasts in half-empty hotel dining rooms, things became clearer.

You’re not just flirting anymore. You’re not just circling each other with half-smiles and heated glances.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

It doesn’t happen with a big, dramatic conversation. It happens in pieces.

It happens when he reaches for your hand in the elevator and doesn’t let go. When he kisses you on the cheek in front of Sami Zayn and doesn’t bother to explain. When he introduces you as “my girl” to someone in the production truck, and you don’t correct him. When he looks at you during a late night dinner at Denny’s and says, “I haven’t wanted to be around someone like this in a long time.”

It’s in those things, the soft, steady unfolding of something real. My girl. You loved hearing it. Especially from him.

Sure, you’ve thought about how you’d break it to your parents and friends, how you’d explain that you’re basically dating someone almost twice your age.

You imagine the looks. The questions. The assumptions.

Is he controlling? Is it just a phase? Is this going to end badly?

They don’t know him, though. Not like you do.

And tonight? It’s a Sunday in Boston. The two of you, sharing a hotel room ahead of Monday Night Raw.

The moment you step out of the bathroom, you find him waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed with that casual Phil smirk.

But this time, it’s different. Very much real. Very much yours.

His eyes widen the second he sees you.

You’re wearing an emerald green silk dress that hugs you just right, with a slit that rises high on your thigh when you move. Paired with strappy black heels, it’s not the kind of outfit you wear for just anyone.

It’s the kind you wear when you want to be remembered.

Phil’s eyes drag slowly from head to toe. His arms uncross as he stands, gaze fixed.

“Damn,” he breathes, low and genuine. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

Your lips twitch into a small, teasing smile as you lean against the doorframe, watching the way his eyes haven’t left you once.

“Just wanted to make an impression,” you murmur, smoothing your hands down the sides of your dress.

Phil chuckles under his breath, standing slowly like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes stay locked on yours as he closes the space between you.

“You did more than that.”

His hands settle gently at your hips, his touch warm through the silk. He looks you over again, less like he’s checking you out, and more like he’s trying to memorize you.

“You’re unreal,” he says softly. “I’ve seen you in a hundred different ways. Laughing, stressed out, completely pissed off... and now this.”

He brushes his knuckles lightly along your bare arm. “And somehow you just keep getting better.”

You swallow, the heat in your chest pooling low and slow.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, eyes flicking over the sharp line of his jaw, the tattoos peeking from under the slightly rolled sleeves of his black dress shirt, the way his cologne still lingers in the air between you, familiar and comforting now.

His smile turns a little crooked, head tilting. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you nod, voice soft.

But he doesn’t move right away. He just keeps looking at you.

And then, like he can’t help himself, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not about the dress or how you look. It’s slow and meaningful, his hands firm on your waist as his lips find yours. You melt into it, into him, one hand coming up to rest on his chest as you press your body gently against his.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours for a moment.

“Just had to get that out of the way,” he murmurs.

You smile, breath warm against his lips. “I’m glad you did.”

He steps back, reluctantly, and grabs his keys off the dresser.

“C’mon, green dress,” he says with a smirk, reaching for your hand. “Let’s go make this night count.”

And as your fingers slip into his, the silk of your dress rustling softly with every step, you realize something,

You’re not nervous anymore.

As the two of you walk out of the hotel room, the soft click of the door behind you echoes in the quiet hallway. You’re hyper-aware of everything, the silk of your dress brushing your legs, the subtle scuff of your heels on the carpet, the warm weight of his hand in yours.

And him.

The way his eyes keep flicking over to you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

You step into the elevator and the doors close with a soft whoosh. It’s just the two of you, and suddenly the space feels too small and too full of tension. Not the uncomfortable kind, no. This is warm, humming, full of that low, unspoken heat that’s been building for weeks.

Phil looks at you through the mirrored walls, one hand in his pocket, the other still linked with yours. “You know,” he says casually, “you walk into a room in that dress and every guy’s gonna forget his own name.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous already?”

He leans in slightly, eyes sharp with a glint of something darker. “I’m not the jealous type.”

You smirk.

“But,” he adds, “I am the type to let people know you’re spoken for.”

You swear your heart skips at that.

The elevator dings.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as you step out into the lobby. The front desk is quiet, a couple of late check-ins murmuring nearby. No one pays you any attention, but even if they did, you don’t care. Not anymore. Not with the way Phil’s thumb is brushing over your knuckles like he’s still trying to ground himself in you.

You step out into the warm summer night. The Boston air is thick with the scent of pavement, ocean salt, and the low hum of the city winding down for the evening. The street lamps cast a soft glow over everything.

Phil unlocks the car with a click, and like always, he opens the passenger door for you.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease as you slide into the seat, smoothing your dress down.

He grins. “Only for you.”

He rounds the car and gets in behind the wheel, glancing over at you before he starts the engine.

You don’t miss the way his eyes linger on your legs for a second longer than necessary.

“What?” you ask, biting your lip.

“Nothing,” he says, trying not to smile. “Just… can’t believe I get to take you out like this.”

He reaches over and lays a hand on your thigh, casual, but firm. His fingers curl just slightly into your skin as he pulls out onto the street.

You rest your hand on top of his.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The city passes by in a blur of lights and quiet music humming through the speakers. His thumb strokes small circles against your thigh, and even through the fabric, it sends heat curling low in your belly.

You glance over at him, his jawline sharp in the dim light, one hand on the wheel, the other still on you. Focused. Steady. Yours.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking over.

You smile. “Maybe I like what I’m looking at.”

He smirks, then finally turns toward you, eyes dark. “Good.”

You don’t need to say anything else. Everything that matters is in the way his hand never leaves your leg, the way your body leans toward his even across the center console, and the way this doesn’t feel new, not really.

The drive doesn’t take long. Boston’s lights stretch out, casting shadows across his face as he weaves through the city with surprising ease. His hand stays on your thigh the whole time, warm and grounding, thumb stroking gentle, absentminded circles that send little sparks down your spine.

Neither of you says much.

There’s no need to.

The silence between you feels full, but calm. Every once in a while, you glance at him, and he’s already doing the same. It’s like you’re speaking in looks now, in small, steady glances that say we’re here and this is real.

Phil pulls into a quiet side street and finds a spot just a few storefronts down from the restaurant. The street is cobblestone, lit with old iron lampposts that cast a soft amber glow. There’s something almost romantic about it, like the whole night’s been designed just for the two of you.

He parks the car and kills the engine.

The music cuts off. The quiet feels different now.

Still intimate. Still warm.

He doesn’t move for a moment. Just rests one arm across the steering wheel and turns his head toward you, his eyes tracing the side of your face as if memorizing every angle.

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft, grounded.

You nod. “More than.”

But neither of you reaches for the door yet.

Instead, he leans in slightly, his gaze slipping down to your legs again, bare where your emerald silk dress parts high at your thigh, and then slowly back up, over your hips, your collarbone, your lips. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you like you’re something rare. Precious.

“I’ve wanted to do this,” he says finally, “for longer than I’ll admit.”

Your throat tightens, heart skipping. “So have I.”

He exhales through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief, and that same crooked smile tugs at his mouth. Then he’s out of the car, rounding the front like muscle memory, pulling the passenger door open before you even reach for the handle.

“Let me be a little old-fashioned tonight,” he says.

You don’t argue. You let him offer his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you as you step out of the car. The summer air kisses your skin, mild and balmy, carrying the faint scent of ocean salt, warm pavement, and jasmine from the nearby florist’s display.

Phil doesn’t drop your hand as you start walking. In fact, he pulls you in closer.

You don’t miss the way people glance as you pass, a couple lingering outside a bar, a valet chatting near the curb. Some recognize him. You see it in the way their eyes widen and subtly shift. But he doesn’t look at them. He’s looking at you.

He nods toward the restaurant’s entrance, a small smile on his lips. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you say softly.

He opens the door for you. The soundscape changes instantly, the quiet hum of low conversation, gentle clinks of glasses, the soft sound of live jazz drifting from somewhere near the back. Warm light spills across the wood floors, bouncing off glass bottles lining a tall, backlit bar.

It’s not flashy. It’s timeless.

The hostess greets you with a quiet smile and leads you toward a booth along the windows. The leather seat is smooth and dark, tucked in just enough to feel secluded without being hidden.

Phil lets you slide in first before sitting across from you. As soon as you’re both seated, he leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table, gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid to blink.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

You feel the heat in your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from how seen you feel. Like this is the first time in a long time someone’s really looked at you. And not just looked, noticed.

“You clean up dangerously well,” he finally says, eyes still roaming from your neckline to the curve of your shoulders. “That dress should be illegal.”

You smirk, resting your arms on the table, leaning forward slightly. “You’re just saying that because it’s the first time you’ve seen me in something that doesn’t have an all-access badge clipped to it.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “You were already driving me crazy in that tank top and jeans backstage. But this?” His jaw flexes slightly. “This is gonna live in my head.”

You hide your grin behind your water glass, sipping slowly, just to buy yourself a second to breathe.

The waiter appears, friendly but professional, placing menus in front of you both and offering the wine list. Phil glances at you as if to say your call, and you nod, eyes scanning the options.

You order a glass of red, letting the waiter disappear again.

Phil watches you as you choose, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t know you were a red wine kind of girl.”

“You don’t know everything about me,” you reply, tilting your head slightly.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But I want to.”

Your chest tightens, not from nerves, but from how easy this feels. How natural. Like it was always supposed to happen this way.

You reach for your menu, trying not to get too lost in it, though you can feel his foot brushing yours under the table. Intentional. Warm. Teasing.

You glance up and catch him looking again.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling like he can’t help it. “Just having a moment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of moment?”

“The kind where I’m sitting across from someone who makes me feel like I’m not wasting my time on the road every week.”

You don’t have a response to that. Just a slow, genuine smile that curls in your chest and settles there.

Outside the window, Boston glows. Inside the booth, it’s just the two of you, finally sharing the same page, the same breath, the same intention.

The waiter soon arrives with drinks, sparkling water for him, a chilled glass of wine for you. Phil doesn’t bat an eye. You know he’s straight edge. No alcohol, no exceptions. It’s one of the things you admire most about him, how unshakably he lives by what he believes.

You raise your glass. He lifts his own, filled with fizzy water and a slice of lemon.

“To tonight,” he says, eyes catching the light. “And whatever this is.”

You tap your glass against his. “To this.”

The wine is deep and velvety, warming you from the inside out. Or maybe that’s just him. The way he’s leaning forward now, propped on one elbow, his eyes flicking from your lips to your collarbone and back again.

“You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how quiet it gets when you’re with the right person?”

You nod slowly. “Like your brain finally shuts up for a second.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, tilting his head. “You quiet mine.”

Your heart gives a small, unsteady kick in your chest. It’s not just the words, it’s the way he says them. Honest. No performance. No walls. Just Phil, sitting across from you in the low light of a city that suddenly feels quieter than it’s ever been.

Dinner comes not long after, your pasta, his steak, still sizzling slightly on the plate. The food is good, really good, but you both eat slowly, distracted by conversation. He tells you about the weirdest cities he’s wrestled in, the hotel with no working toilets in Toronto, the fan who tried to hand him a puppy mid-signing in Texas.

You’re laughing before you even finish your wine. Elbows resting on the table, one heel slipping off under the booth as you curl your leg up beneath you. Comfortable. Open. Maybe more yourself than you’ve felt in weeks.

He watches you like it’s his favorite thing.

At one point, he reaches over and twirls his fork into your pasta without asking. “Gotta make sure yours tastes better than mine,” he says, grinning.

You smack his hand lightly, laughing. “Unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he teases, chewing and nodding like he’s just confirmed something important. “Yep. Yours is better.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling the whole time.

Halfway through the meal, he sets his fork down and rests his hand across the center of the table again, palm up. Waiting.

You don’t even hesitate. You slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl around yours gently, grounding you. The noise of the restaurant fades a little, and it’s just the two of you again.

He rubs small, slow circles along your wrist with his thumb, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know where this is going,” he admits. “But I know I want to see it through.”

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Another beat of quiet passes, one that’s not awkward, just… full. His eyes roam your face like he’s mapping it for memory. His thumb brushes your skin again, slower this time. Intimate.

And for a moment, you realize, this isn’t about age. Or timing. Or figuring it all out right now.

It’s about the way he’s looking at you. The way your hand fits into his. The way being here, together, feels like something that matters.

Dinner ends too soon.

He insists on paying, and you don’t fight him. Not tonight.

You step out of the booth and feel his hand slide against your lower back again, warm and steady. As the two of you head toward the door, he leans in close, murmuring into your ear.

“You wanna walk for a bit before we head back?”

You nod, lips brushing against a smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He opens the door for you again, and the summer night greets you yet again, soft and warm.

The two of you fall into step easily, like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Phil’s hand brushes against yours as you walk, fingertips grazing the silk of your dress. The street is quieter now, most of the dinner rush settled into their booths or wandering off into the night. You hear distant music from a bar down the block and the faint rush of water somewhere nearby, the harbor.

Phil leads you that way without saying anything, just a slight tug of his hand and a glance that asks, come with me? And you do.

The sidewalks glisten slightly beneath the streetlights, still holding the warmth of the day. You can feel the open air on your skin, cool against the back of your neck where your hair’s fallen loose. Your heels click quietly with every step, and Phil slows his pace to match yours, easy, unhurried.

“Been a while since I did this,” he murmurs after a few blocks.

You look up at him. “Walked?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No. Walked with someone like this. After dinner. On purpose.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not heavy, just thoughtful.

You glance forward again. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s true. You’ve had dinners. You’ve had conversations. But not this. Not the way he reaches for your hand again without even thinking. Not the way your fingers tangle easily, like they’ve always belonged there.

You reach the edge of the harbor, where a stone ledge curves around the water. The breeze picks up slightly, just enough to lift your hair and send the hem of your dress dancing against your knees. You stop to look out, the lights of the city shimmering in the reflection of the waves, quiet boats rocking gently in their slips.

Phil comes to stand behind you, close enough that you can feel his body heat. He doesn’t touch you yet, but his presence wraps around you like a coat.

“Used to come down here late at night,” he says softly. “After shows. When I needed to clear my head.”

You turn slightly, enough to catch his profile in the glow of the harbor lights. His jaw is set, calm. His voice low and honest.

“I get why you did,” you say, looking back out at the water. “It’s peaceful. Feels like no one’s watching.”

He nods slowly. “Exactly.”

And then, finally, he steps closer. One arm comes around your waist, slow and deliberate. Not pulling, holding. Like he’s grounding himself just as much as you are. You lean into it, letting your back rest gently against his chest, and his other hand comes up to rest lightly on your arm.

Your head tilts back slightly, just enough to feel the soft graze of his stubble against your temple.

“You were married, right?” you ask softly, not pulling away from him. Not accusing. Just... wondering.

Phil goes still behind you. Not tense, just quiet. Thoughtful.

His breath is warm near your ear as he answers. “Yeah. I was.”

You nod a little, letting the silence sit between you for a second. He doesn’t rush to fill it. You give him space, and he chooses to step into it.

“It was a long time ago now,” he continues, his voice low and even. “We were different people. Or maybe just... not the right ones for each other.”

You shift slightly in his arms so you can look up at him. His eyes meet yours, steady. Honest.

“Was it hard?” you ask.

He gives a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Divorce always is. Doesn’t matter how mutual it is, or how much sense it makes. It still breaks something.”

Your hand finds his, fingers gently curling around his. “But you’re okay now?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ve made peace with it. Doesn’t mean I forget it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t learn from it.”

Another pause. The air feels a little heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Just real.

“I’m not trying to bring baggage into this,” he says, voice softer now. “But I also don’t want to pretend I don’t have a past.”

“I don’t expect you to,” you reply gently. “I’ve got my own history too.”

He studies you for a beat, and then his expression shifts, softer, clearer.

Phil chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “What, were you married too?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, no.” You lean into him a little more. “I’ve barely been in anything that could even qualify as a real relationship.”

He tilts his head, curious now. “Seriously?”

You nod. “A couple situationships. A guy I thought I was in love with when I was like, nineteen. Mostly just... people who liked the idea of me more than the reality.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Their loss.”

You glance up at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You think?”

He looks down at you, all sincerity now. “I know.”

That earns another quiet laugh from you, but there’s a blush creeping in too. You look ahead again, watching your footsteps move in sync with his along the harbor’s edge.

“Honestly, I think I was just focused on work,” you admit. “I didn’t have a lot of time, or energy, for anything serious. And I didn’t want to settle for someone who didn’t really see me, you know?”

Phil’s thumb brushes the back of your hand. “Yeah. I get that.”

A beat of silence stretches between you again, but this one’s softer. Calmer.

“I think that’s what scares me a little about this,” you murmur.

He glances over. “What does?”

“That you do see me.”

He stops walking, and so do you. His hand slides into yours fully, warm and steady.

“I do,” he says, quiet but firm. “And it doesn’t scare me.”

You look up at him again, caught in the way the city lights flicker off his eyes. There’s no distance there. No wall. 

“It’s not just some backstage fling for me,” you say. “Even though maybe it started that way.”

He nods slowly. “Me neither.”

You breathe out, unsure whether it’s relief or adrenaline or both. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“You wanna head back?” he asks gently, thumb still rubbing over your knuckles.

You give a small nod, then add, “Yeah. But... will you hold my hand the whole way?”

He grins. “You trying to make me fall harder?”

“Maybe.”

Phil drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. You sit beside him, one leg tucked under the other, your body angled slightly in his direction. The city lights blur past the windows, painting soft reflections across his face. Every so often, you glance over at him, at the slope of his nose, the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the focused calm in his eyes.

By the time he’s unlocking the door to your shared room, it’s almost midnight. The hallway is still and dim, carpet muffling your steps. Phil pushes the door open and gestures for you to go in first, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

You step inside, greeted by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the muted city glow filtering through the curtains. The room is neat, but lived-in, his tennis shoes by the chair, your makeup bag slightly open on the bathroom counter. The bed you made together that morning, a little lopsided now.

Phil closes the door behind you with a soft click.

You kick off your heels near the dresser and sigh, relief flooding your limbs. “I’m never wearing those again unless I’m getting paid.”

He chuckles behind you. “Worth it, though.”

You glance over your shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “For you or for me?”

“Both,” he says, shrugging off his flannel and hanging it over a chair. “But mostly me.”

You snort and walk to the edge of the bed, smoothing your hands over your dress. “Do you mind unzipping me?”

Phil stops mid-step. You can practically feel the shift in the air.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I got you.”

You turn your back to him, sweeping your hair over one shoulder. His fingers find the zipper easily, tugging it down slowly. The silk loosens with a soft whisper, your shoulder blades exposed to the room’s cool air, and to his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel it, the tension, the awareness, the weight of the day shifting into something more tender. More charged.

When the zipper’s all the way down, his fingers linger for just a moment longer than they need to. Then he steps back, giving you space.

You glance over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

His eyes are steady on you. “Anytime.”

You pull the dress off your shoulders, letting it pool at your waist before stepping out of it. You turn to face him, standing in only your black lacy bra and underwear, feeling suddenly aware of how exposed you are.

Phil exhales softly, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the curve of your hips. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, and there's something raw in the way he says it.

You step closer, your hand resting on his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat is steady, strong. He smells like a mix of aftershave and cologne, his skin warm under your touch. You tilt your chin up to look at him.

"Kiss me."

The words have barely left your lips before Phil is moving, one hand cupping your face while the other slides around your waist. His lips meet yours with a desperate intensity, all the pent-up need of the evening exploding in that moment. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you deepen the kiss, pressing your body against his. Through the thin fabric of his dress shirt, you can feel the heat of his skin, the muscles rippling beneath. His hand on your waist tightens, pulling you closer as he walks you backwards toward the bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the mattress, and you sit down, pulling Phil with you. He follows willingly, his body settling between your legs as he cages you in, one hand braced beside your head. His other hand traces down your side, fingers skimming the edge of your bra before hooking beneath the strap and pulling it off your shoulder.

“I want to see you," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot. "All of you."

You arch into him, your nipples pebbling as his fingers trace along the lace cups. With a flick of his wrist, he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall open between you.

You slide your arms free, letting the garment fall away as Phil's gaze drops to your exposed chest. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he drinks in the sight of you. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as he lowers his head, capturing it between his lips and sucking gently.

"Mmmm," you moan softly, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shoots through you. His hand squeezes your other breast, kneading it as his tongue swirls around your nipple, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

He releases your nipple with a soft 'pop' and trails kisses along your collarbone, up to your neck.

“Do you want to?” Phil murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw between soft, lingering kisses.

The question hangs in the air, warm and honest.

Truthfully, the two of you haven’t gone all the way, not yet. Just touching, exploring, a few heated nights of giving and receiving. But without protection, things naturally paused before crossing that line.

You pause, heart thudding a little louder in your chest. It’s not nerves, at least not the bad kind. It’s anticipation. The quiet thrill of finally getting here, with him.

You lean back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you have protection?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Phil stills for a second. Then a slow, sheepish smile spreads across his face as he gently strokes your hip.

“Actually,” he says, his tone light but honest, “I do… now.”

That catches you off guard, and you laugh, surprised and a little flustered. “You do?”

He shrugs, a little smug, a little sweet. “Figured I might want to be prepared, if things kept going the way they were. I didn’t want to assume, but... I hoped.”

Your lips part, breath catching slightly as your fingertips graze the collar of his shirt. “Well,” you say softly, “you hoped right.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, with a tenderness that burns just beneath the surface.

You tug at his shirt and whisper, “Take this off.”

Phil obliges without hesitation, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside. Your hands glide over the smooth planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his body with wonder. You feel his breath hitch as your fingers trail down his abdomen, dipping beneath the waistband of his pants. His cock is already hardening, pressing insistently against the fabric.

You pop the button of his pants open, sliding the zipper down slowly, your knuckles brushing deliberately against his growing length. He exhales sharply, his hands tightening at your hips.

"God, you're killing me," he mutters, voice rough with restraint.

You smirk, guiding his pants down just enough to see the wet spot from precum in his boxers.

“Hold on, cowgirl,” Phil mumbles with a crooked grin, before turning away and walking toward his suitcase. He crouches down, unzipping the bag with ease, and reaches into the inside sleeve. A moment later, he pulls out a condom and glances back at you with that smug you’ve seen hundreds of times. He holds up the packet between two fingers, the foil crinkling faintly in the quiet room. "Ta-da."

Your gaze flicks between his face and the condom, amusement and excitement swirling together. "I didn't know you were so well-prepared."

Phil approaches the bed, his movements purposeful as he sets the packet aside and positions himself between your legs. His eyes roam your body appreciatively, taking in every curve and dip. "Wanted to be ready for anything," he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your collarbone.

His fingers trail along the waistband of your panties, teasing the sensitive skin just above. "Is this okay?"

You nod, words sticking in your throat as he traces the lace edge. His touch is gentle, his fingertips just barely brushing your skin. It's both frustrating and thrilling, the way he takes his time, the way he watches your reactions like they're something precious to him.

"Yes," you finally breathe out, arching slightly to meet his hand. He smiles against your skin, his mouth still trailing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your breast. His fingers slip beneath the fabric now, skimming the smooth plane of your stomach, circling lower, teasing.

"Please," you whisper, your fingers curling into the sheets as he drags out the delicious agony.

You reach between the two of you, slipping your hand under the hem of his boxers and giving them a tug. Phil smirks, the kind of slow, knowing grin that curls heat through your belly, and then slides them off without breaking eye contact.

“So needy,” he mutters, voice thick with affection and amusement.

His cock springs free, already fully hard, thick and heavy against your thigh as he settles between your legs again. The heat of him is intoxicating, the way his body slots against yours so perfectly. You wrap your hand around him, feeling the pulse of his vein beneath your fingers as you give him a slow stroke.

Phil inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly into your grip. "Fuck," he groans, dropping his forehead against yours.

"I want to make you feel good," you whisper, squeezing him gently as you move your hand.

"And you will," he breathes. "But first—" His fingers hook into the sides of your panties and tug them down in one smooth motion.

The cool air hits your skin as Phil discards your underwear somewhere beyond the edge of the bed, leaving you completely bare to him. You lift your hips obediently, allowing him to peel the last barrier away. He grabs the condom that lay next to you and rips the wrapper open with his teeth, before slowly and precisely rolling it over his throbbing cock.

Your breath catches as you watch him, the rhythmic slide of his hand as he sheathes himself. There's something unbearably intimate about this moment—how carefully he handles himself, how focused he is on ensuring every movement is perfect.

Phil leans back, his eyes dark with need as he looks at you sprawled beneath him. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, and the sincerity in his words sends a flush of heat through you.

He positions himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you with just enough pressure to tease. You feel your body open for him, aching for him to move.

Phil brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"Tell me if it's too much okay?" Phil says, reassuringly. Your head tilts back slightly as he presses inside you, his cock stretching you deliciously as he moves with slow, deliberate thrusts. You can feel every inch of him filling you, your inner walls clenching around him instinctively.

"God, you feel amazing," Phil breathes, his forehead resting against yours as he sinks deeper. He pauses when he's fully seated inside you, giving you a moment to adjust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails lightly scratching as you revel in the feeling of being completely connected with him.

"Mmmm, yes," you murmur, rolling your hips slightly to take him even deeper.

Phil groans, his body tensing as you move against him.

"Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, voice husky with need. His hips start to move in a slow, steady rhythm, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust. You can feel the heat building in your lower belly, coiling tight as your body responds to his movements.

"Yes, just like that," you moan, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. Phil's pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he chases his own pleasure. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, accompanied by your soft gasps and his low groans.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as the pressure builds inside you. "I'm so close," you whimper, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts. Phil responds by reaching between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm, deliberate strokes. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, and your breath hitches as your muscles start to tighten around him.

"Already? Come for me," he growls, his hips snapping forward as he hits that perfect spot inside you. The combination of his cock and his fingers sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave.

Your back arches off the bed as pleasure rips through you, your inner walls clamping down around Phil's cock in rhythmic pulses. He groans, the sound deep and rough as your tight heat pulls him deeper. His thrusts become erratic, chasing his own release as he rides out your climax.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, his fingers digging into your hips as he powers into you. His movements become shallower and faster, his breath coming in short bursts. You can feel his body tensing, his muscles straining as he pushes toward the edge.

Phil buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin as he gasps.

His hips stutter, and then he's coming, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills into the condom. He holds himself deep, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he rides out his orgasm, feeling the way his muscles twitch and convulse.

When he finally stills, he collapses onto you, his weight warm and comforting. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then your neck, then the corner of your mouth. "Fuck," he murmurs, voice still rough with spent passion. You hum in agreement, your fingers trailing down his back in slow, soothing strokes.

Phil rolls off you with a contented sigh, careful not to crush you under his weight. He removes the condom and ties it off before tossing it into the nearby trash bin by the nightstand. You watch him move with that same fluid ease as before, muscles shifting beneath tattooed skin as he lies back beside you. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer until your back is pressed against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"That was... perfect," you murmur, voice still rough and husky from earlier.

Phil nuzzles into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Damn right it was," he agrees. His hand skims up your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist. "You're amazing."

You smile at his words, small and content, letting the softness of his touch settle into your skin. The room is quiet now, save for the faint hum of city life outside the window and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you.

“You always say the right thing,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers draw lazy shapes against your stomach.

Phil chuckles low against your neck. “Only when I mean it.”

You shift slightly, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His eyes are half-lidded, but focused entirely on you, a relaxed kind of affection written all over his face. No sarcasm, no walls, just Phil, honest and unguarded in the dim light of the hotel room.

“I still can’t believe this is real sometimes,” you admit, voice quiet, almost more to yourself than him.

His brow furrows slightly, and he shifts up on one elbow to look at you better. “Hey,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s real. I’m here. You’re here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightens, not in fear, but in that kind of aching gratitude that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

“I know,” you say. “I just… didn’t think I’d ever have something like this. Someone like you.”

Phil smiles then, soft and boyish and completely unlike the version of him most people see. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. You close your eyes and let it sink in, the warmth of his body against yours, the rough comfort of his voice in your ear, the gentle weight of his hand still tracing idle circles over your skin.

It’s not just the sex, not just the chemistry, it’s the way he stays. The way he makes you feel safe after. Like nothing else matters beyond this small space you’ve carved out together.

You snuggle deeper into his arms, your fingers finding his beneath the blanket.

“You tired?” he asks, his voice a little raspy now.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “Just… comfortable.”

The hotel room was quiet, the only sound coming from the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of cars in the parking lot below. You sat cross-legged on the king-sized bed, remote in hand, flicking through static-filled hotel channels, not really watching. Your mind was elsewhere.

On him.

Phil.

Your phil.

He had just practically gone to war in that ring, another pay-per-view match where he poured every ounce of himself into each kick, each strike, each counter. You watched it all from the monitor in the gorilla position, nerves twisted into knots, eyes glued to the screen. Every bump he took made your breath hitch, every close call had your heart in your throat. And when that final bell rang and his theme music hit, his arm raised in triumph, sweat pouring down his face, that slight, defiant smirk breaking through, your heart swelled with pride. You had to bite your tongue to keep from running out there to meet him.

But that wasn’t your place, not tonight. He knew you’d be here instead, where you always were.

You leaned against the plush headboard, wrapped in one of his hoodies, sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The fabric still faintly smelled like him, cedar soap, sweat, a hint of cologne, comforting you in his absence. The big picture window beside the bed offered a view of the city skyline, glowing with life even this late. Streetlights lined the roads and neon signs flickered across buildings. It was beautiful, in a lonely kind of way.

You knew what was waiting for you when he walked through the door, title in hand. He’d slam it down on the hotel room desk like a statement, before practically rushing toward you with that boyish grin and arms wide open, sweeping you into a hug that always knocked the wind out of you in the best way.

It was predictable in the sweetest way. You could already hear the clatter of the championship gold against the cheap laminate surface, feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, sweat and shampoo clinging to his skin, the faint scent of arena air still clinging to his hoodie.

And you loved it. Every time.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the silence. Your stomach flipped, your thighs turning into jelly. You reached for it with nervous fingers, praying it was him.

Punk: On my way up. Still champ.

A laugh broke from your lips, quiet and full of relief. You clutched the phone to your chest for a moment, grinning like an idiot.

You could already picture him in the elevator: hair damp from the post-match shower, towel slung over his shoulder, championship belt shining under the hallway lights. He always came back to you like this, exhausted yet buzzing with energy, his adrenaline mixing with something softer whenever he laid eyes on you.

You didn’t even bother fixing your hair or touching up your makeup. He wouldn’t care, he never did. He liked you like this. Soft, real, relaxed. The version of you that only he got to see, the one curled up under dim hotel room lighting with that familiar spark in your eyes, the one he swore could knock him flat more than any opponent ever could.

But still... you changed. Just for him.

Underneath his oversized hoodie, you wore the set you knew drove him crazy, a black lacy thong with a matching bralette that hugged just right, delicate but bold. You’d worn it before, once or twice, and the way his green eyes had darkened the moment he saw it hadn’t left your memory.

It was your quiet way of saying I missed you. I’m yours.

And then, just as expected, there was a knock. Sharp. Two quick taps. His knock.

You practically flew off the bed, socks sliding against the carpet, and opened the door.

There he was.

Still a little damp from his shower, black hoodie unzipped just enough to show the edge of a taped-up rib. Towel around his neck. Championship belt slung casually over his shoulder like it was just part of his gear bag, even though you knew what it meant to him. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes lit up the second they met yours.

He stepped inside without saying a word, shutting the door behind him with one hand before wrapping the other around your waist. You melted into him immediately, arms sliding under his jacket as he buried his face in your neck.

“Damn,” he muttered, voice rough and low. “You have no idea how good it feels to be here.”

“Yeah?” Phil pulled back just enough to look at you, that smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes roamed slowly, deliberately, tracing every inch of you, from the curve of your hips to the soft flush on your cheeks, before locking onto your eyes.

“You look good,” he said, low and smooth, with that slight rasp in his voice that always gave you goosebumps.

Your breath caught as his eyes stayed locked on yours, heavy with intention. That familiar heat simmered between you, years of chemistry still flaring to life like it was brand new.

You grinned, tilting your head slightly. “I dressed for the champ.”

Phil’s gaze darkened, the cocky smirk deepening as his hands slid around your waist, tugging you close. “Yeah?” he murmured, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie. “What else you got on under here?”

Instead of answering, you rose up on your toes and kissed him, slow, deliberate, pressing your body into his. He kissed you back like he’d been starving for it all night, his grip tightening on your waist as he walked you back toward the bed. The belt on the dresser clattered as it slid slightly from the force of his movement, but neither of you paid it any mind.

You let the hoodie fall from your shoulders, revealing the black lace underneath. His eyes dropped to the bralette, and for a moment, he just stared, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his hoodie now. “You win your match, you get a prize.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your neck. “You’re the only prize I give a damn about.”

With one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground, laying you down on the bed like you were something sacred, something he’d dreamed about during every road trip and airport delay. His mouth followed soon after, trailing kisses across your collarbone, down to the lace that barely covered your chest, his fingers already hooked around the sides of your thong. You let out a soft moan as Phil quickly slid off your panties, practically throwing them across the room. You bit your lip, reaching under both of you to tug on the hem of his hoodie.

“Is that what you want?” Phil asks, earning a eager nod from you.

“So badly.”

“Tell me,” Phil whispers, leaning in closer to your half naked frame. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“You know what I want,” you mumble, fingers trembling slightly as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. You drag it down slowly, teasingly, revealing the warmth of his chest beneath the fabric, his skin still flushed from the match, from you.

Phil didn’t stop you. He watched with dark, hungry eyes as you pushed the hoodie off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He looked absolutely wrecked in the best way, messy hair, faint bruises beginning to bloom along his torso, the heat of adrenaline still radiating off his body.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice low and rough as he leaned over you, arms braced on either side of your head. “You want me to take my time with you? Or do you want me now?”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding against your ribs as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer until his lips were just grazing yours.

“I want you now,” you breathed. “All of you.”

That was all it took.

Phil crashed his mouth onto yours, kissing you with an urgency that sent your body arching into his. His hands roamed with purpose, one gripping your thigh and hitching it up around his waist, the other sliding up your ribs, thumbing the lace of your bralette before finally tugging it down to expose your chest.

He groaned when he saw you, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t anymore. His mouth was everywhere in an instant, lips and tongue dragging across your skin like he needed to memorize every inch. You gasped, hips rocking up to meet him, silently begging for more.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your skin, fingers already working the button of his jeans. “You lay here in this... knowing what it does to me?”

You nodded, lips parted, breathing heavy. “I wanted to drive you crazy.”

“Fuck,” Phil groaned in response, sliding his jeans down to his ankles to reveal his hard on pressing against his boxers. His lips move back up towards the crook of your neck, biting and sucking at your skin, surely to leave a mark. You felt the cold metal of his tongue ring slide towards you collar bone, causing you to let out a small yelp. You reach up the nape of his neck and tangle your fingers in his hair, slightly tugging on it to earn a deep groan from him.

“Fuck me,” you breathily whisper, your heart practically beating out of your chest. You felt Phil smirk against your neck, before slightly sitting up on the bed and tugging off his boxers. His cock practically hit his stomach as the fabric slid down his thighs, causing your stomach to drop.

“Spread your legs for me, darling,” Phil grunts, taking his cock in his hand and slowly stroking it. You quickly open your legs around him in response, before looking up at him waiting for approval.

“That’s my good girl…. Fuck,” Phil groaned out, the view of your soaking wet pussy on display for him. “You look so beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks flush at his comment, before pulling him back down towards you. 

“Eager, huh?” Phil chuckles, before grasping onto your thigh with one hand as he guides himself into you with his other. You quickly throw your head back against the plush pillow in pain and pleasure as he slides into you. “Fuck me,” He murmurs, wrapping his hands around the sides of your waist. “I missed this.”

“M-Me too,” You manage to spit out, grabbing onto Phil’s shoulders and digging your nails into his skin. Phil groans deeply as your nails dig into his shoulders, the slight pain spurring him on. His hips snap forward more forcefully, driving himself deeper into your tight heat. 

"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips, his movements becoming more frenzied. "That's it, baby girl. Mark me as yours." 

Your eyes darken with lust as he pounds into you, a low growl rumbling from his chest as his eyes lock onto yours. “J-Just like that,” You moan out, Phil’s thrusts becoming more urgent and desperate. He quickly nuzzles his face into your neck, his teeth grazing the sore mark he left just a minute earlier.

“Feel how hard you make me, baby,” He pants, his hips snapping forward to bury himself deeper inside you. “Fuck, I’m so close, but I don’t want this to end.”

His large hands move to grip your thighs again, spreading you wider as he continues to pound into you, the bed creaking beneath your tangled bodies.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” You mumble, Phil smirking in response.

“Turn around for me baby,” he says, quickly sliding out of you and running his tongue over his lip ring. You turn over, Phil lifting you easily onto your hands and knees. His hands grip your hips as he positions himself behind you, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance. “You look so perfect like this.”

His hands grasp your ass as he sets himself a steady rhythm, causing you to yelp in pleasure. Every thrust pushes you forward against the soft sheets as he continues to bury himself deep inside you from behind. His fingers soon intertwine with yours on the mattress, holding you steady as he pounds into you relentlessly.

"You like this, don't you? Like feeling me inside you, filling you up?" He leans down, his chest pressed against your back as he kisses along your shoulder blade, his lips and teeth grazing your skin.

"I want you to feel every inch of me, baby," he murmurs, his words husky with lust. "I want you to remember how good I make you feel, how perfect we are together."

“Fuck, Phil! Yes!” You practically scream out, digging your nails into the sheets under you.

He leans down, his hot breath on your ear as he pants and moans. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so perfect,” he murmurs, his words laced with intense desire. “I want to hear you say my name baby. Tell me how good it feels when I fuck you like this.”

"I-it feels so g-good baby…" You moan, Phil moving his hands back to your hips and gripping in response. 

Phil's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he hears you struggle to speak. "That's it, baby, let me hear it," he growls, his cock pounding into you relentlessly. He leans down, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he whispers hotly in your ear. "Tell me how good I make you feel, how much you love it when I fuck you like this."

His free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair as he pulls your head back, exposing the curve of your neck. He kisses and bites along your throat, his hips never stopping their relentless pace. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good wrapped around me." His lips brush against your ear, his words a husky whisper. "You're so close, aren't you, baby? I can feel you clenching around me, begging for more." His hand in your hair tightens, using it to angle your head back as he drives into you with deep, powerful thrusts. "Let go for me, baby. I want to feel you come undone on my cock."

His hips snap forward, his balls slapping against your ass as he buries himself to the hilt. "That's it, fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his other hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight, quick circles.

Your body arches off the bed as Phil's teeth sink into your shoulder, a muffled cry escaping your lips. The intense pain mixes with the overwhelming pleasure of his cock pounding into you, his fingers working your clit, pushing you over the edge. "P-Phil!" you cry out, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around him as you come hard. Phil groans deeply, the sound vibrating through your body as he feels you come undone beneath him. His hips stutter, thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. 

"Fuck, baby," he pants, his hand tightening in your hair as he buries himself deep inside you. "That's it, milk my cock, fuck!"

Your body quivers with aftershocks as Phil's cock twitches inside you, releasing a flood of hot semen that fills your pussy. He lets out a primal roar of release, his hips jerking forward as he empties himself completely. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he pants, his muscular body shuddering with the intensity of his orgasm.

"God," he groans, nuzzling into your neck as he slowly comes down from his high. His large hands roam your back, caressing gently as he tries to catch his breath. "You feel so good," he murmurs, peppering soft kisses along your shoulder. "So, fucking perfect."

Phil slides out of you before rolling onto his side, pulling you against him. You’re out of breath, mind swirling, legs numb. 

"That was amazing," he says, nuzzling into your neck and kissing your skin softly. “Are you okay baby?”

You nod, too out of breath to speak.

“Promise? I didn’t hurt you?” Phil asks, looking over your naked frame. 

“P-promise,” you mumble. “It was amazing.”

Phil smiles in response, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. “How about I run a hot bath for us. Sound good?”

You nod against Phil’s chest, still feeling the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. “Mm yes, that sounds nice,” You whisper, your words sounding drowsy and satisfied. Phil kisses the top of your head gently, his strong arms releasing you as he sits up on the edge of the bed. 

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he promises, standing up and stretching his arms. His muscular body glistens with a sheen of sweat, his cock still semi-erect despite his recent release. He bends down to press a soft kiss to your lips before padding naked out of the room towards the hotel bathroom. The sound of running water soon fills the hotel room, before his voice calls out from the bathroom.

"Baby? The bath is ready, you coming?" The water stops running, and footsteps move towards the bedroom. Phil appears in the doorway, still gloriously naked, his muscular frame on full display. He offers you his hand with a warm smile. "Come on, I'll help you up. You still look a little shaky," he says, concern creasing his brow as he looks at your sprawled form on the bed. "Let me take care of you, baby."

You take Phil's offered hand, letting him pull you gently to your feet. Your legs still feel a bit unsteady, but his strong arm wraps around your waist, supporting you as you step towards the bathroom. The steam from the hot bath fills the air, carrying the sweet scent of lavender. Phil guides you to the large tub, his hands sliding down to cup your ass as he helps you step in. "Easy, baby," he murmurs, following you into the water and settling you between his thighs. His muscular chest presses against your back as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. The warm water envelops your bodies, soothing your tired muscles and helping to ease the slight soreness.

You ease yourself down, sighing as the heat wraps around your sore limbs, and Phil climbs in behind you. The water ripples and rises as he settles, spreading his legs so you can nestle between them, your back pressing against his chest. His arms come around you again, pulling you close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between your bodies.

His chin rests against your shoulder as his thumbs begin to draw slow, lazy circles on your hips beneath the water. “You okay?” he asks softly, lips brushing your damp skin.

You nod, relaxing against him fully, head tipping back slightly. “Better than okay.”

Phil hums, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. “Good. ‘Cause I plan on keeping you like this all night.”

“I love you, you know that?” he murmurs, lips grazing your temple now.

You smile, eyes closed. “I love you more.”

He lets out a low chuckle, arms tightening slightly around you. “Nope. I love you more.”