#cmpunkxreader

September 22nd, 2008, Cincinnati, Ohio

You wake up to the sound of the alarm you set on your phone, buzzing on the hotel nightstand. You slowly open your eyes, the late summer morning sun peeking in through the blinds. The hotel room is quiet, aside from the old AC unit running and the alarm blaring into your ears. You let out a tired sigh, rolling over and practically slapping your phone off the nightstand to turn off your alarm. You slowly sit up, looking at the clock on the microwave. 7:30 AM. Letting out a yawn, you stretch your arms over your head before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I was not made for this,” you whisper to yourself, even though there was no one around you to even listen. Another city, another arena. Life on the road with WWE is exhausting, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

You’re a production assistant for WWE, specifically Monday Night Raw, always running around, giving cues from gorilla or the production truck. It’s a high-pressure job, but since graduating college last year with a degree in Media Production, you had learned how to navigate. Long hours, constantly in different cities, it definitely took a toll on you sometimes. Your good at your job. Dependable.

And unfortunately, completely and hopelessly in love with CM Punk.

Well, not literally. Just a big, fat, huge crush on him. Whenever you stood backstage or in gorilla, you always made sure to catch a glance at him before he headed out onto the ramp. You’ve talked a few times. Short conversations. Quick questions. “Have you seen my gear bag?” “Is Gorilla backed up?” That kind of thing. But every time, your heart does a little gymnastics routine in your chest, and your brain forgets how to form full sentences. You scoff at yourself thinking about him again, before hopping out of the warm bed and making your way into the bathroom. You quickly turn on the shower, before slowly and tiredly undressing out of an old, oversized Misfit’s tee you wore as a sleep shirt. “Punk and Cody tonight,” you say to yourself, before stepping into the shower and feeling the warm water hit your back. Just that alone was enough to put you back to sleep. As you ran your hands through your hair, you thought about tonight. You had checked the sheet last night—segment seven. You’ll be posted near Gorilla for most of the show. Close enough to hear the crowd roar. Close enough to maybe—just maybe—catch a moment. You shake your head and chuckle. “I’m being delusional,” you say to yourself. After a quick (more like 20 minute) shower, you step out of the tub and wrap yourself in a warm towel. You pick up your phone from the counter and check the time—7:45 AM. You have about 30 minutes to get ready. With a sigh, you set your phone down and rush out of the bathroom, kneeling in front of your suitcase.

A vintage band tee you swear is almost as old as you, and a pair of black skinny jeans. Perfect.

You quickly blow-dry your hair and pull it into a high ponytail. You’re not much of a makeup wearer, but you apply a bit of light foundation and mascara, along with a soft brown eyeshadow—not too much, but just enough to be noticeable.

After slipping into a pair of black boots, you grab your backstage lanyard and your bag, packed with just the essentials: your laptop, a pen and notepad, your wallet, and some old chewing gum you probably should’ve thrown out months ago. You take one last glance around the hotel room to make sure you didn’t forget anything, then head out, the door clicking shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit by early morning light spilling in through the narrow windows at the far end. You press the elevator button and shift your weight, the nerves you’ve been pushing down starting to creep in.

It’s just another show, you remind yourself. You’ve done this a hundred times. But your stomach still flips a little when you remember whose match you’ll be cueing tonight.

CM Punk.

The elevator dings, and you step in, smoothing down your shirt and adjusting your lanyard as the doors close. The ride is short, but it gives you just enough time to psych yourself up. Be cool. Be professional. Don’t let the fact that you’ve had a crush on the guy for over a year turn you into a mess when he walks by. Again.

Outside, the late summer air is warm but breezy, the city of Cincinnati already starting to come to life. You walk the few blocks to the U.S. Bank Arena, the weight of your bag slung over your shoulder and the comforting hum of traffic filling your ears.

When you reach the arena’s backstage entrance, you flash your credentials to security and step inside. The familiar scent of coffee, sweat, and stage equipment hits you instantly. You make your way down the long, concrete hallway toward the production area, offering quick nods and “mornings” to crew members, road agents, and techs as they pass. The show call sheet is already printed and taped to the wall near Gorilla—your name is next to segment seven.

Punk vs. Cody.

You swallow a lump in your throat and keep moving.

Just before you reach your usual setup, you hear a familiar voice from behind you.

"Morning, Jen."

You freeze for half a second before turning around. There he is—hoodie on, sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee in hand and that unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark hair was pulled in a low short pony, two strands framing his face.

CM Punk.

You blink. "Morning," you manage, trying to sound casual.

He glances at the clipboard in your hand. “Running the cue for segment seven?”

You nod. “Yep. You and Cody tonight.”

Punk takes a sip of his coffee and leans casually against the wall. “Guess I better be on my best behavior, huh?”

You smile, raising an eyebrow. “That’d be a first.”

He laughs—low and genuine—and you feel your chest tighten slightly.

“Well,” he says, straightening up, “if I mess up, at least I know who to blame.”

Before you can respond, he gives you a playful wink and walks off down the hallway, leaving you standing there, heart racing and suddenly very, very awake.

As he walks down the hallway, presumably towards catering, you’re standing there, completely in awe. Was that flirting? you thought to yourself. Your face feels warm, and you quickly glance around to make sure no one noticed how flustered you are. Thankfully, the hallway is mostly empty—just a couple of crew members wheeling lighting rigs past, too busy to notice the girl standing there, blinking like she just got hit with a steel chair to the feelings.

You shake your head, trying to snap out of it. Get it together, Jenny. You’ve got a show to run.

Still, as you turn and head back toward the production area, clipboard in hand, you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face. CM Punk—straight-edge, sarcastic, ridiculously cool CM Punk—just winked at you. Joked with you. Maybe even flirted with you.

You try not to read too much into it. He’s friendly with everyone. He jokes around a lot. Doesn’t mean anything... right?

Right.

Before you can spiral into thinking about it further, you hear your name being called from behind.

“Jenny!”

You turn around to see your coworker Sarah strutting toward you, a cup of coffee in hand and her ever-perfect ponytail swishing behind her. Sarah was… everything you sometimes wished you could be. Tall, effortlessly pretty, all legs and lashes. Blonde bombshell, piercing blue eyes. Maybe 115 pounds soaking wet, standing at 5'6". You’re pretty sure she had a new guy every other week—and not just from catering.

“Hey, Jen,” she calls again, finally reaching you with a bright, blinding smile. “You look nice today. Cute shirt.”

You glance down at your old Rush tee. It’s not exactly high fashion, but the compliment still makes you feel a little less invisible. “Thanks,” you reply, trying to sound casual.

“Did you get the notes in yet for segment seven?”

You blink, snapping out of your CM Punk-induced haze. “Oh—yeah. I just updated the formatting notes and sent them to Gorilla and the truck.”

“Cool,” she says, tapping a few things into her phone. "so how are you and John?"

John.

Your now ex boyfriend who works in catering.

"we uh...we broke up," you say, awkwardly rubbing your shoulder.

Sarah glances up from her phone, squinting slightly. "Oh, i'm sorry to hear that. You, okay? You look... flushed.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m good. Just—y’know. Morning rush.”

She shrugs, unconvinced but too busy to dig. “Alright, just don’t forget Punk’s music cue comes off a hot segment. You’ve got like five seconds to fire it, or the truck will panic.”

“Got it,” you say, already flipping through your notes.

Sarah gives a quick nod, then heads off down the hallway toward Cody’s locker room.

You exhale, pressing your clipboard to your chest.

It’s fine. Everything’s under control.

Sort of.

Later that afternoon, the arena was slowly coming to life. Rigging was set, lighting tests were halfway done, and crew members moved with purpose, checking cables and adjusting monitors as pyro rehearsals went off in the distance with loud, echoing bursts.

You’re standing off to the side near Gorilla, flipping through your updated call sheet, a half-eaten bagel in your other hand. Segment notes, timing cues, adjusted graphics—your brain is spinning with details. The morning had been a nonstop blur, and this was the first real break you’d had all day. Snagging a moment to eat, even if it was just half a bagel, felt like a small but well-earned victory. You took another bite of the bagel, eyes still scanning your notes for the fifth time when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Please tell me I’m still in segment seven and they didn’t move me again.”

You turn to see Cody Rhodes walking toward you, gear bag slung over his shoulder and a slightly exasperated look on his face. You quickly wipe the bagel crumbs from your mouth, before giving him a small smile.

“You’re still in seven, don’t worry. You and Punk—same timing, just a little tighter now because Miz and Morrison’s segment got bumped.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, dropping his bag onto a crate. “Figures.”

You laugh, offering him the last piece of your bagel. “Welcome to Monday Night RAW.”

He grins, waving it off. “Thanks, but I’m trying not to carb-load today. Gotta stay pretty.”

You roll your eyes. “You wrestle. What is one bite of an everything bagel gonna do?”

Cody leans back against the wall, chuckling. “True. So, who’s cueing the entrance tonight? You?”

“Yep,” you say, holding up the clipboard. “I’ll be at Gorilla, making sure your entrance doesn’t crash and burn.”

“Sounds good,” he says with a wink, then looked toward the curtain. “Punk know about the time shift yet?”

“He does. I told him earlier.”

Cody nods slowly. “Cool. He’s been in his head lately. Just want to make sure he’s good.”

You raise a brow. “In his head?”

Cody shrugs. “Y’know. Quiet. Even more than usual. He’ll be fine. He always is.”

You make a mental note of that. Punk didn’t seem off earlier—but then again, he was always a little hard to read.

“Well,” Cody says, pushing off the wall, “guess I’ll go find something to do before someone moves me to segment twelve.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you call after him as he walks away, waving.

You turn back to your clipboard and take a sip of lukewarm coffee from your paper cup. You… genuinely like Cody. He’s strong, handsome, sometimes full of himself, but a genuinely nice guy beyond the ring. Did you ever imagine going out with him? Definitely not. But as a friend, you appreciate having someone solid to rely on.

Then there’s Punk.

He’s a different kind of energy—intense, sharp, magnetic in a way that both excites and terrifies you. He’s unpredictable, never quite giving you the full picture, like he’s guarding something you wish you could understand. And when he looks at you—really looks—you feel like the world shrinks just enough to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

You catch yourself wondering if he notices how, you watch him, or if you’re just another face in the crowd.

No. Not just another face.

She was wearing oversized sweats and a beanie, hitting the ropes with a terrifying intensity. She wasn't just going through the motions; she was leaning into the rebound, snapping back, her boots digging into the canvas. 

I stayed in the shadows of the tech area, just watching. The ring crew hadn’t even finished setting up the barricades yet, and she was already breaking a sweat. She stopped, checked her footing, and then threw herself into a bump. Flat back. Perfect form. She laid there for a second, staring at the lights high above, then scrambled up and did it again. 

Music was blaring from a portable speaker she had propped up on the ring steps. It wasn’t the usual modern pop or heavy metal most of the locker room blasted. It was Creedence Clearwater Revival. Fortunate Son. 

She ran drills for twenty minutes straight. Then, the song changed. The opening riffs of Alabama’s Roll On (Eighteen Wheeler) started. 

Immediately, YN stopped. She didn't just pause; she practically scrambled to the speaker, her hand slapping the skip button with an urgency that seemed out of place for such a calm morning. The next song queued up. The Eagles. Hotel California. 

She skipped that one too, faster than the first. 

She waited until the opening chords of Simple Man by Skynyrd played before she took a deep breath, wiped her face, and went back to the ropes. 

I took a sip of my coffee, the steam curling against my nose. Interesting. 

She wasn't performing for anyone. There were no producers here yet. No Triple H. No cameras. She was doing the work because the work needed doing. I watched her walk over to a turnbuckle pad that looked slightly loose. She didn't call for a tech. She just knelt down, unlaced the tie, tightened it herself, and smoothed it out. 

Then, she pulled an iPad out of her bag. She sat on the apron, legs dangling, and started watching something. I moved closer, quiet in my sneakers. She was watching her match from a house show in Toledo two nights ago. She’d pause it, frown, rewind, and watch a specific transition again. 

"You're turning your hip too early on the suplex," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the empty bowl. 

YN jumped, nearly dropping the iPad. She whipped around, wide-eyed, before her expression settled into that stoic mask she usually wore. 

"Jesus, Phil," she breathed out, hand on her chest. "You scared the hell out of me." 

Not Punk. Not Sir. Not Mr. Brooks. 

Phil. 

It stopped me in my tracks. Nobody called me Phil backstage unless we go way back, like Paul Heyman way back. Even the younger kids who tried to be respectful usually stuck to "Punk." 

"Sorry," I said, leaning against the barricade. "Didn't mean to spook you. But I was watching you from the tunnel. You're telegraphing the reversal because you're turning your hip before the other girl even locks up." 

She looked at me, then looked down at the screen. She scrubbed the video back. She watched it, her eyes narrowing. She watched it again. 

"Dammit," she whispered. "You're right. I'm rushing it." 

"Why are you here so early, YN?" I asked, hopping over the barricade. 

"Quieter," she said simply. She grabbed a plastic cup from the steps. It was filled with a milky brown liquid and ice cubes that were mostly melted. "Plus, the ring crew needed a hand with the LED boards. One of the guys has a bad back, figured I’d help lift the heavy stuff." 

"You helped set up the stage?" 

"Yeah." She took a sip of her drink. 

"Is that... Iced Chai?" I asked, looking at the condensation on the cup. "It’s ten degrees outside." 

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "I run hot. Plus, coffee makes me jittery. Chai keeps me level." 

She hopped off the apron. "Thanks for the tip, Phil. I'm gonna go shower before the chaos starts." 

She gathered her stuff, gave me a nod, and walked off toward the back. I watched her go. She walked with a purpose, head down, avoiding eye contact with the few security guards loitering around. 

Later that day, catering was in full swing. The noise level was excruciating. Laughter, clattering forks, people shouting over tables. I sat in my usual corner, trying to eat my meal in peace, but my eyes kept drifting. 

YN was sitting at a small round table in the back. She wasn't alone, which surprised me. She was sitting with Logan Paul. 

Now, Logan and I... we come from different worlds. I respected his athleticism, but the personality clash was real. He was loud, brash, and lived for the camera. YN was the antithesis of that. Yet, there they were. Logan was talking animatedly with his mouth full, waving a fork around, and YN was just listening, nodding occasionally, a small, genuine smile on her face. 

I saw Logan reach into a bag and pull out a Tupperware container. He slid it across the table to her like it was contraband. 

YN’s face lit up. I mean, actually lit up. She popped the lid. It looked like Mac & Cheese with fried chicken cut up in it. She took a bite and practically melted into her chair. 

"Hey, Phil!" 

I looked up. Seth Rollins was walking past, a plate of food in hand. "You staring at the kids?" 

"Just observing, Colby," I corrected, using his real name instinctively because YN had put it in my head. 

Seth paused, smirking. "She's good people. YN. Works harder than anyone I've seen in a long time. First one in, last one out." 

"I noticed," I said. "What's the deal with her and the YouTuber?" 

"Logan? They've been best friends since they were ten years old. Growing up in Ohio or something. He's fiercely protective of her. And she keeps him grounded. It’s weird, but it works." 

Seth walked off, leaving me with that information. Best friends since ten. That explained why someone like her tolerated someone like him. Loyalty. I respected that. 

Over the next few months, I found myself looking for her. It became a routine. I’d come in early, and she’d be there. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes we wouldn't. I started getting in the ring with her, rolling around, showing her chain wrestling techniques that the Performance Center sometimes glossed over in favor of high spots. 

She was a sponge. She absorbed everything. And she never complained. 

I noticed the naming thing more and more. 

I watched her walk past Triple H in the hallway. "Afternoon, Paul." 

He nodded back, "Afternoon, YN." 

She bumped into Rhea Ripley. "Hey, Dems, love the new gear." 

Rhea grinned, dropping the Mami persona instantly. "Thanks, YNN." 

She handed a water bottle to Charlotte. "Here you go, Ash." 

It was disarming. It stripped away the gimmick and reminded everyone that we were just people in spandex playing make-believe. I asked her about it once, while we were stretching before a show in St. Louis. 

"Why do you do that?" I asked. "Call everyone by their actual names? Most of us don’t even know what the other’s names actually are." 

She paused mid-stretch. "Because when the red light turns off, the character should turn off, right? It’s easy to get lost in the show. Calling someone by their name... I don't know. It reminds them that I see them, not the billboard version of them. And it reminds me that I'm just YN." 

"Smart," I grunted. "Keeps the ego in check." 

"Exactly," she said. 

It was in June, during a long tour loop through the Midwest, that the walls finally came down. 

We were stuck at an airport in Chicago, delayed for four hours due to storms. The roster was scattered across the terminal, sleeping on floors or arguing with gate agents. I found a quiet corner near a closed Hudson News stand. YN was there, sitting on her carry-on, headphones around her neck. She looked exhausted. 

I sat down on the floor across from her. "Rough night?" 

"Matches were sloppy," she sighed. "I missed a cue with Becky. She was nice about it, but I hate making mistakes." 

"Becky Lynch is a pro. She knows it happens," I assured her. 

I noticed she was drinking that damn Iced Chai again, even though the AC in the terminal was blasting. 

"So," I started, trying to bridge the gap. "I've been meaning to ask you. The playlist." 

She tensed up slightly. "What about it?" 

"You have a very specific taste for a twenty-seven-year-old. But you always skip Alabama and The Eagles. Every single time. Even though you clearly have them on the playlist." 

She looked down at her boots. She picked at a loose thread on her jeans. For a long time, I didn't think she was going to answer. The overhead announcement droned on about a gate change for a flight to Denver. 

"My dad," she said softly. Her voice was steady, but there was a crack in the foundation. "He was a trucker. Long haul. He loved that old stuff. Seger, Skynyrd, The Eagles." 

She took a shaky breath. "He died when I was seventeen. June. Just before my senior year started. Lymphoma. It was... fast. Ugly." 

I felt a knot form in my stomach. I knew about loss. I knew about the anger and the void it leaves. 

"Roll On was his anthem," she continued, her eyes fixed on the floor tiles. "He’d play it every time he left for a haul made sure it was loud enough I could hear it out the windows of the rig as he was rolling away. And Hotel California... that was his favorite song in the world. He tried to teach me to play the solo on guitar a hundred times. I never got it right." 

She looked up at me, her eyes glassy but dry. "I keep them on the playlist because I want to feel like he's there with me in the ring. But I have to skip them because... if I hear them, really hear them, I won't be able to wrestle. I’ll just break down. It’s a stupid game I play with myself. Keep him close, but not too close to hurt." 

I looked at this girl—this woman—who scrubbed floors, set up stages, and took bumps for a living, carrying that kind of ghost around with her. It explained the work ethic. The need to be busy. The silence. 

"It's not stupid," I said, my voice dropping to a low rumble. "It’s survival." 

I leaned forward. "He'd be proud of you, you know. The way you respect this business. The way you work." 

She offered a weak, watery smile. "I hope so. Thanks, Phil." 

That was the shift. Before, I was a mentor. After that night in Chicago, I became… something else. I stopped just watching her matches; I started protecting her spot on the card. I’d pull aside producers and suggest finishes that made her look stronger. I’d sit with her in catering so she didn't have to sit alone when Logan wasn't there. 

I started seeing the gaps in her life where a father should have been, and without even asking permission, I started stepping into them. 

I checked her rental car tires before we left arenas. I made sure she was eating enough real food and not just protein bars. When she had a bad match and came through the curtain furious with herself, I was the one waiting there to tell her to breathe. 

The first time it happened, we were in backstage in Atlanta. 

She had just finished a tag match with Charlotte against two of the newer NXT call-ups. It had been a chaotic mess. Bodies flying everywhere, missed spots. YN had taken a stiff knee to the nose and was holding an ice pack to her face, sitting on a crate near the loading dock. 

I walked over, inspecting the damage. "Let me see." 

She moved the ice pack. It was swollen, bruising already, but not broken. 

"You're fine," I told her. "Just cosmetic. You'll look tough." 

She let out a frustrated groan. "I was out of position, Phil. I should have seen it coming. I hesitated." 

"You didn't hesitate," I said firmly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You were compensating for the other girl being out of place. You took the hit to save the spot. That’s what a leader does. Don't beat yourself up for being the glue holding the match together." 

She looked up at me, the adrenaline fading, leaving her looking young and vulnerable. "You really think so?" 

"I know so. Now go get changed, we’ve got a long drive." 

She stood up, wincing slightly. She looked at me, exhausted but grateful. "Thanks, Dad." 

She froze. 

I froze. 

The air left the loading dock. She went pale, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh my god. Phil, I—I am so sorry. I didn't mean—I was just—" 

She was stammering, backtracking, looking like she wanted the concrete floor to swallow her whole. 

I looked at her. I thought about the girl running ropes alone in the cold. I thought about the Iced Chai. I thought about the trucker who loved the Eagles. 

I smiled. A real, genuine smile. 

"It's okay, kid," I said. "Go get your bag. I'll pull the car around." 

She stared at me for another second, searching my face for mockery or anger. She found neither. She nodded, a flush rising on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the match, and scurried off. 

When she came back, she didn't say anything about it. But when we got to the hotel that night, she texted me: Goodnight, Dad. 

I stared at the phone screen for a long time. Goodnight, kid, I typed back. 

From that day on, the name Phil died. I was Dad. 

It wasn't a joke. It wasn't an ironic nickname like the rest of the locker room gave each other. It was sincere. And god help anyone who looked at us sideways for it. 

The dynamic shifted publicly, too. Logan noticed it first. He came up to me one day at a Pay-Per-View. 

"Take care of her," he said, dropping the influencer persona completely. He looked dead serious. "She listens to you. She needs... she needs that." 

"I know," I said. "I got her." 

Logan nodded, satisfied, and went back to being loud. 

Then came AJ. 

My wife, April, came to visit during the Royal Rumble weekend. She had heard me talk about YN for months. I think she was curious to meet the "kid" I wouldn't shut up about. 

We were in the family viewing area. YN walked in, hair wet from a shower, wearing her hoodie. She saw me and lit up, then saw April and hesitated. 

"YN, come here," I waved her over. "This is April." 

YN walked over, extending a hand. "It is so nice to finally meet you, AJ—I mean, April. Phil talks about you constantly." 

April took her hand, then pulled her into a hug. April has an instinct for these things. She pulled back and looked YN up and down. "So you're the one keeping him sane? Thank you. Seriously." 

YN laughed, a bit shyly. "I think he keeps me sane, mostly." 

They clicked immediately. It was bizarre. They sat in the corner talking about comic books and the absurdity of wrestling politics while I stretched. By the end of the weekend, as we were saying goodbye, YN hugged April. 

"Safe travels, Mom," YN said, teasingly but with that same underlying sincerity. 

April laughed, kissing her on the cheek. "Be good, sweetie. Don't let Dad get into any unnecessary fights." 

And just like that, we were a family. A weird, traveling, dysfunctional carnival family. 

But wrestling is a cruel business. It gives you high highs, and then it reminds you that gravity is undefeated. 

SummerSlam. Detroit. Ford Field. 

It was the biggest night of the year. 60,000 people. YN was in a triple threat match for the Women's Title. It was the biggest match of her career. She was nervous. I could see her pacing in the Gorilla position, bouncing on her toes. 

Triple H was at the monitor, headset on. I was standing next to him. Logan was there too, looking unusually pale. 

"She's ready," I told them. "She's got this." 

"She's earned it," Paul muttered, eyes on the screens. 

The match started. It was electric. YN was moving like water—smooth, aggressive. She hit her spots perfectly. The crowd was behind her. They sensed her authenticity. 

Then came the spot. 

It was a high-risk maneuver from the top rope to the outside. A moonsault onto two opponents standing on the floor. It’s a move she’s done a hundred times in practice. I’ve watched her do it. 

She climbed the turnbuckle. She looked out at the crowd. She launched. 

But something went wrong. One of the opponents didn't catch her right. Or maybe she over-rotated. It happened in a blur. 

She missed the catch. Her body hit the thinly padded concrete with a sickening thud that the microphones picked up. Her neck snapped back at an angle that made my blood freeze. 

The crowd went silent. That terrible, heavy silence that sucks the air out of a stadium. 

YN didn't move. 

"Cut the feed!" Paul yelled into his headset. "Get the doc out there! Now!" 

I didn't wait. I sprinted through the curtain. 

I broke character. I broke protocol. I didn't care. 

I ran down that long ramp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I saw the referee throwing up the 'X' sign with frantic, terrified motions. 

"YN!" I screamed. 

I slid under the bottom rope and out to the floor. The doctors were already there, immobilizing her neck. She was face down, motionless. 

"Don't move her!" I roared at a cameraman who was getting too close. "Back the fuck up!" 

I dropped to my knees beside her head. Her eyes were open, staring at the concrete. They were filled with tears. 

"Dad?" she whispered. Her voice was so small. So scared. "I can't feel my hands." 

My world stopped. The noise of 60,000 people faded into a dull buzz. 

"I'm here," I said, my voice shaking. I grabbed her hand, squeezing it, praying for her to squeeze back. "I'm right here, YNN. Look at me. Just look at me." 

"I can't feel them, Dad. I'm scared." 

"I know, baby. I know. We got you." 

I looked up and saw Logan sprinting down the ramp. Triple H was right behind him, moving faster than I'd seen him move in years. 

"Paul, we need the stretcher!" I barked at the COO of the company. He nodded, his face grim, and began directing the EMTs. 

Logan knelt on her other side. "YNN? YNN, it’s Lo. You’re okay. We’re gonna get you out of here." 

"Logan?" she whimpered. 

"I'm here." He took her other hand. 

We formed a shield around her. Me, the punk rebel. Logan, the outsider. Paul, the authority. All the politics, all the heat, all the bullshit of the business dissolved. We were just men terrified for a girl we loved. 

They carefully rolled her onto the board. She cried out in pain, a sharp, jagged sound that cut through me. 

"I've got you," I kept repeating, my face inches from hers. "I'm not leaving. I am not leaving you." 

We walked beside the stretcher all the way up the ramp. I held her hand the entire way. The crowd clapped—respectful, hushed applause—but I didn't acknowledge them. I only had eyes for her. 

Backstage was a blur of flashing lights and shouting EMTs. They loaded her into the ambulance. 

"Family only!" the EMT shouted as he tried to close the doors. 

"I'm her father," I lied. It wasn't a lie. Not really. 

"I'm coming too," Logan insisted, trying to push past. 

"One person!" the EMT yelled. 

I looked at Logan. "Follow us. Bring Paul. Bring her bag." 

Logan nodded, tears streaming down his face. "Go. Don't let her be alone." 

I climbed into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut, sealing us in with the beep of monitors and the smell of antiseptic. 

The ride to the hospital was the longest twenty minutes of my life. I sat there, still in my wrestling gear, holding the hand of a girl who had become my daughter in every way that mattered. 

"Phil?" she mumbled, the shock starting to set in. 

"Dad," I corrected her gently, brushing a stray hair off her forehead. "I'm Dad." 

She managed a weak squeeze of my fingers. A squeeze. 

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for an hour. She had grip. 

"I missed the spot," she murmured, a tear sliding down her temple into her ear. "I ruined it." 

"You didn't ruin anything," I said fiercely. "You're the toughest person I know. You're going to be fine. We're going to fix this. And when you're ready, we're going to watch the tape, and we're going to figure out what went wrong so it never happens again. But right now, you just breathe." 

She closed her eyes. The ambulance hit a bump, and she winced. 

I started humming. I don't sing. I hate singing. But in that moment, it was the only thing I could think of to distract her. 

I hummed the opening notes of Hotel California. 

Her eyes fluttered open. A faint smile touched her lips. 

"You hate that song," she whispered. 

"It's growing on me," I lied. 

We sat there in the flashing red light, the siren wailing above us. I wasn't CM Punk, the Best in the World. I wasn't the voice of the voiceless. I was just a dad, holding his daughter's hand, waiting for the road to end so we could start the long haul of putting her back together. 

"I can't help it," I admitted, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to. "The stipulation, Phil... it’s a setup." 

Phil pushed off the lockers and walked over, crouching down so he was eye-level with me. He placed a taped hand on my knee, stilling the bouncing. "Listen to me. We knew they were going to stack the deck. That’s what they do. They can’t beat us straight up, so they add fine print." 

The "fine print" he was referring to was the decree from General Manager Adam Pearce, heavily influenced, no doubt, by the man Phil was currently warring with: Drew McIntyre. Tonight, I had a match against a mercenary hired to take me out—a powerhouse named Rhea Ripley. But the kicker wasn't the opponent; it was the condition. 

If CM Punk interferes, enters the ringside area, or even walks down the ramp, he is fired. Terminated. breach of contract. Gone. 

"He wants you to watch," I said, the realization settling in my gut like a stone. "McIntyre doesn't care if Rhea beats me. He wants to hurt me to make you snap. He wants you to lose your job because you tried to save your little cousin." 

Phil’s jaw tightened. I saw the flash of legitimate anger behind his eyes, the kind that usually resulted in pipe bombs and suspensions. "You are not a damsel, YN. We’re cut from the same cloth. You’re scrappy, you’re technical, and you’ve got more heart than anyone in that women’s locker room. You go out there, you stick and move, and you survive. Do not let them use you as bait." 

"And if it goes south?" I asked. 

He hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, but I saw it. "It won't. I trust you." 

He stood up and pulled me into a hug. It was brief but crushing. He smelled like menthol and peppermint oil. "I'll be watching on the monitor right at Gorilla. I’m right there. Now, go out there and show them why you belong in this business." 

The walk to the ring was a blur. Usually, the Chicago crowd injected unparalleled energy into my veins. Being Punk’s cousin in Chicago meant I was royalty by association. The roar when my music hit was deafening, a wall of sound that vibrated in my chest. But tonight, the noise felt distant, muffled by the pounding of my own heart. 

I slid into the ring, the canvas rough under my boots. Across the square circle stood Rhea. She looked like a nightmare brought to life—leather, spikes, and a smirk that promised violence. She wasn't just here to win; she was here to dismantle. 

The bell rang. 

For the first ten minutes, I did exactly what Phil had told me to do. I stuck and moved. I used my speed, sliding under her clotheslines, delivering stiff kicks to her hamstrings to chop the tree down. I wrestled a technical game, locking in submission holds whenever she hit the mat, trying to wear her down. 

But weight classes exist for a reason. 

The tide turned when I went for a crossbody off the top rope. Rhea didn’t just catch me; she caught me, adjusted her grip, and powered me into a backbreaker that knocked the wind out of me so hard I thought my lungs had collapsed. 

The world went white for a second. When my vision cleared, I was being dragged by my hair. 

"Where's your savior?" Rhea taunted, her voice guttural. She slapped me, hard. Disrespectful. "Where's the Best in the World now?" 

She whipped me into the turnbuckle. My head snapped back, colliding with the top pad. I slumped to the mat, gasping for air. I looked toward the entrance ramp. It was empty. Of course it was. He couldn't come out. 

Get up, YN. Get up. 

I forced myself to my feet, fighting through the fog. I managed a desperate jawbreaker, stunning her. I climbed the turnbuckle again, looking for the elbow drop—Phil’s tribute to Savage, my tribute to Phil. 

I launched. I connected. 

The crowd exploded. One... two... 

The referee was pulled out of the ring. 

My head snapped up. It wasn't Rhea's faction. It was Drew McIntyre. He stood there, towering over the referee he had just yanked to the floor, a sick, satisfied grin plastered across his face. The referee called for the bell—Disqualification. The match was over. 

But the assault wasn't. 

"No," I whispered. 

Drew slid into the ring. He didn't look at me; he looked directly at the hard camera, then at the entrance ramp. He was inviting him. He was daring him. 

Rhea recovered, sensing the new plan. She grabbed me from behind, locking in a full nelson, forcing me to my knees. I struggled, kicking out, screaming, but her grip was iron. 

"Phil!" I screamed, the name tearing from my throat before I could stop it. 

And then, the music hit. Cult of Personality. 

The arena shook. The static crackled, the guitar riff kicked in, and the crowd went absolutely feral. But Phil didn't run down. 

He walked out onto the stage, mic in hand, flanked by four massive security guards—Adam Pearce’s personal detail. They weren't there to protect him; they were there to witness. If he crossed the line, it was over. 

Phil stopped at the top of the ramp, his face a mask of pure torture. He dropped the microphone. He looked at me, then at the line of yellow tape on the floor that marked the "ringside area." 

"Look at him, lass!" Drew bellowed, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at my cousin at the top of the ramp. "Look at the man who claims he'd die for his family. He won't even lose a paycheck for you!" 

"Don't come down!" I screamed, tears mixing with the sweat on my face. "Phil, don't do it! Stay there!" 

I knew what this meant to him. This run—this return to wrestling—it was his soul. If he got fired now, it would destroy him. McIntyre knew it too. 

Drew nodded to Rhea. 

She released the full nelson, only to grab my wrist. She twisted it, creating the setup for her finishing move, the Riptide. But she didn't hit it immediately. She held me there, suspended, letting the blood rush to my head. 

Drew grabbed a steel chair from ringside and slid it to Rhea. 

"Do it," Drew commanded. 

Rhea set the chair up in the center of the ring. She dragged me over to it. She was going to Riptide me onto the steel. 

I looked at Phil. He was straining against the security guards now, his eyes wide, panic replacing the calculation. He was shouting something, but I couldn't hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. He took a step forward, and the security guards swarmed him, walling him off. He fought them, throwing punches, but there were too many. 

And in that moment, as Rhea hoisted me up onto her shoulders, looking down at the unforgiving steel chair, time seemed to slow down. 

I felt helpless. 

It wasn't just the physical vulnerability. I had taken bumps before. I had broken bones before. It was the emotional devastation of the proximity. My blood, my mentor, the person who taught me how to lace my boots, was fifty feet away. He was the most dangerous man in the room, the man who toppled giants, and he was rendered completely impotent by a piece of paper and four men in cheap blazers. 

I saw the heartbreak in his eyes. He wasn't looking at McIntyre. He was looking at me, mouthing, I’m sorry. 

Then, gravity took over. 

Rhea drove me down. 

My spine collided with the steel edge of the chair. 

The sound was sickening—a crunch that echoed through the sudden silence of the arena. The pain was instantaneous and blinding, a white-hot spear of agony that shot from my lower back up to my skull. My legs went numb instantly. I couldn't scream; the air had been driven out of me so violently that my diaphragm seized. 

I lay there, crumpled on the canvas, staring blankly at the arena lights. They blurred into halos. 

Somewhere, distantly, I heard a roar. Not a cheer, but a primal scream of rage. 

Through the haze of pain, I rolled my head to the side. The security wall had broken. Phil had snapped. 

He was sprinting down the ramp, ignoring the referee, ignoring the suits chasing him. He slid into the ring, his movements a blur of violence. He didn't check on me—not yet. He tackled Drew McIntyre with the force of a freight train. 

It was a chaotic brawl. Phil was possessed. He rained down punches on Drew, split his forehead open with the very chair I had been slammed onto. Rhea bailed out of the ring, retreating as officials flooded the scene. 

But I couldn't move. The numbness in my legs was terrifying. 

"YNN? YN!" 

The violence stopped abruptly. Phil was there, hovering over me. His hands, usually so steady, were shaking violently. He hovered them over me, terrified to touch me, terrified he might make it worse. 

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice cracking. "Do not move. Get the medic! Now! Get the damn medic!" 

I tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze. "You... you crossed the line." 

"Shut up," he snapped, tears streaming freely down his face now, mixing with the sweat and the blood from a cut on his cheek. "Shut up about the line. I don't care. I don't care about the contract. Can you feel your toes?" 

"I... I don't know," I whispered. 

"Medical!" He roared at the ringside crew, a sound so raw it made the front row flinch. 

The helplessness had shifted. It had passed from me to him. I saw the guilt crushing him, heavier than any weight he’d ever lifted. He grabbed my hand, squeezing it gently. 

"I'm here," he said, pressing my hand to his forehead. "I'm right here. I've got you." 

The next hour was a montage of fluorescent lights and hushed voices. The neck brace, the backboard, the stretcher ride through the gorilla position where the entire roster stood in respectful, terrified silence. 

I was loaded into an ambulance. Phil climbed in the back before the EMTs could even protest. He was still in his gear, blood on his taped hands, his eyes dark and hollow. 

"Sir, you can't—" 

"Drive," Phil growled. The EMT took one look at him and closed the doors. 

The ride to the hospital was bumpy. Every pothole sent a shockwave of pain through my back, but at least the feeling was returning. The numbness was receding, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. That was good. Pain meant nerves were firing. 

Phil sat on the bench opposite the stretcher, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He hadn't said a word since we left the arena. 

"Phil," I rasped. 

He looked up. He looked ten years older than he had that afternoon. 

"I'm okay," I lied. "I can wiggle my toes. It’s just... deep bruising. Maybe a fracture. But I'm okay." 

"I watched," he said softly, his voice dead. "I stood there and I watched them set it up. I knew what they were doing. I should have come down sooner. I should have punched Pearce in the throat the second the bell rang." 

"You would have been fired," I said. "You know how hard you worked to get back here. You couldn't just throw it away." 

"You think I care about this?" He gestured vaguely at his gear, at the invisible wrestling empire around us. "You think I care about main events and merchandise checks when you’re getting your back broken on a steel chair? You’re my blood, YN. You’re the only person in this business who actually knows me. Not the character. Me." 

He leaned forward, taking my hand again. He began to untape his other hand, ripping the sticky tape off with aggressive jerks. 

"When I saw you up on her shoulders... when I saw you look at me..." He stopped, his throat working. He looked away, staring at the medical equipment on the wall. "I have never felt so useless in my entire life. I’ve fought in cages. I’ve fought in octagons. But that? Being held back by a piece of paper while they hurt you? That broke me, YNN." 

"I felt helpless, too," I admitted quietly. "But... I wasn't looking at you because I wanted you to save me." 

He looked back at me, confused. "What?" 

"I was looking at you because I wanted you to stay put," I said. "I wanted you to keep your promise to yourself. To finish this run on your terms. I was willing to take the bump, Phil. I knew what I was signing up for." 

Phil shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips. "You're too tough for your own good. Just like your dad." 

"Must be a family trait." 

The ambulance slowed, backing into the emergency bay. The red lights flashed through the rear window, washing over us in rhythmic pulses. 

"What happens now?" I asked. "With Pearce? With the contract?" 

Phil’s expression hardened. The sadness evaporated, replaced by the cold, calculating look of the Chicago Scrapper. The look that terrified opponents. 

"Pearce can fire me if he wants," Phil said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But he better mail the termination papers. Because if I see him, or McIntyre, or anyone involved in this before I leave the building... God help them." 

He squeezed my hand one last time before the doors opened. 

"But first," he said, standing up as the EMTs grabbed the stretcher handles. "We get you fixed up. Then, we go back to work. And YN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Next time," he said, "Screw the script. Screw the stipulation. Nobody touches you again. I promise." 

Two Weeks Later 

I was on crutches, but I was standing. The diagnosis was severe bruising and a hairline fracture of the L4 vertebrae. Painful, but not career-ending. I was lucky. 

I stood in the backstage hallway of Monday Night Raw. I wasn't cleared to be at ringside, and honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to be near the ring yet. The PTSD of the steel chair was still fresh. 

But I had to see this. 

On the monitor mounted on the wall, the camera panned to the center of the ring. 

Phil stood there. He wasn't fired. It turned out, firing their biggest merchandise seller because he saved a family member from an unsanctioned assault was a PR nightmare the network didn't want. Instead, they had fined him an astronomical amount of money—money he gladly paid. 

He was wearing a hoodie, hood up, looking darker than usual. He held a microphone. The crowd was chanting his name, but he didn't smile. He didn't soak it in. 

"Two weeks ago," Phil began, his voice quiet, forcing the arena to lean in. "I was forced to make a choice. A choice between my career and my conscience. A choice between a contract and my blood." 

He paced the ring, looking at the camera. 

"They wanted to make me feel powerless," he continued, his volume rising. "They wanted to make me watch. They wanted to see the exact moment my heart broke so they could monetize it." 

He stopped, pulling his hood down. His eyes were bags of intensity. 

"Well, congratulations. You got your moment. You hurt her. You took her out." 

He walked to the ropes, looking directly into the lens, looking directly at me standing in the hallway on my crutches. 

"But you made a mistake," Phil hissed. "You didn't finish the job. She’s still standing. And me? I’m off the leash." 

The crowd erupted. 

"Drew McIntyre," Phil screamed, the veins in his neck bulging. "You wanted the monster? You wanted the guy who doesn't care about the rules? You got him! I am not here to wrestle you anymore. I am not here to put on a five-star classic. I am here to end you." 

He dropped the pipe bomb style, sitting cross-legged in the center of the ring. 

"And to my cousin," he said, his voice softening just a fraction, a private message broadcast to millions. "Heal up. Because when you come back, we aren't just a team. We're an execution squad." 

I watched the screen, a small smile forming on my face for the first time in weeks. My back throbbed, a constant reminder of the helplessness I had felt on that canvas. But watching him now, hearing the conviction in his voice, I knew that feeling was temporary. 

I shifted my weight on the crutches, turning away from the monitor to head toward catering. I hurt, yes. I had been broken, yes. 

But as I hobbled down the hallway, listening to the crowd chant his name—our names—I knew one thing for certain. 

I wasn't helpless anymore. I was just reloading. 

Five Months Later - SummerSlam 

The road to recovery is lonely. It’s a lot of resistance bands, ice baths, and staring at the ceiling wondering if you’ll ever be the same. But the anger is a good fuel. It burns cleaner than hope. Thank God for family. Thank God for AJ and her mothering habits. I wouldn’t tell her that though. 

I was cleared on a Tuesday. I kept it quiet. Only the medical team and Phil knew. 

SummerSlam was in Detroit. The main event was a Hell in a Cell match. CM Punk vs. Drew McIntyre. The final chapter. 

The match had been brutal. Both men were wearing crimson masks. Tables were broken, kendo sticks were splintered. It was the kind of violence that makes you question why anyone does this for a living. 

Toward the end, the referee was down—again. It seemed to be a recurring theme in our lives. 

The cell door had been kicked open during a spot where Drew spearheaded Phil through the chain link. They were brawling on the outside now. 

Rhea Ripley appeared from the crowd. She wasn't on the card tonight, which meant she was here for one reason. She had a steel chair in hand. 

She stalked toward Phil, who was trying to drag himself up the announcer's table. Drew was holding him in place. It was a mirror image of that night in Chicago. They were going to do it again. They were going to break him like they broke me. 

Rhea raised the chair. 

I didn't wait for music. I didn't wait for a cue. 

I sprinted from the timekeeper's area, where I had been hiding under a black hoodie. I slid over the barricade, my boots hitting the concrete with a thud that felt fantastic. 

Just as Rhea brought the chair down, I tackled her. 

The crowd didn't even know who I was for a split second, but the impact was undeniable. I drove her into the steel steps. The chair clattered away. 

I pulled my hood down. The Detroit crowd recognized me instantly. The pop was loud, but I didn't hear it. All I saw was Rhea. 

I grabbed the chair she had dropped. 

She looked up at me, her eyes widening. She saw the change. She saw that the girl who felt helpless in Chicago was gone. 

I didn't wait. I swung the chair, cracking it over her back. She rolled away, screaming, retreating up the ramp. 

I turned around. 

Drew McIntyre was staring at me, shock registered on his face. He had forgotten about me. He thought I was still at home, icing my vertebrae. 

That second of distraction was all Phil needed. 

He kicked Drew low—a desperate, dirty, beautiful move. Drew crumpled. 

Phil looked at me. He was bleeding, exhausted, barely standing. But he smiled. It was a feral, bloody smile. 

"Get him in," I yelled. 

We grabbed Drew together, rolling him back into the broken cell, back into the ring. 

Phil didn't go for the cover immediately. He looked at me through the mesh of the cell. He pointed to the top rope. 

"For you," he mouthed. 

He climbed the turnbuckle. He pointed to the sky, then pointed to me. He delivered the Elbow Drop, driving it into Drew’s heart. 

The referee groggily slapped the mat. One. Two. Three. 

The bell rang. Cult of Personality hit. 

I walked to the cell door as Phil stumbled out. He fell into me, his weight heavy, his sweat mixing with my own. 

"You're late," he wheezed, draping an arm around my shoulder. 

"Traffic was bad," I quipped, wrapping my arm around his waist to hold him up. 

He laughed, a painful, hacking sound. He leaned his head against mine. "You okay?" 

"Yeah," I said, looking at the carnage in the ring, then at the thousands of people screaming. I looked at the steel chair lying on the floor—the object of my trauma, now the instrument of my return. 

"I'm not helpless," I said, more to myself than him. 

Phil squeezed my shoulder. "No. You definitely aren’t." 

Mike grinned, the expression that annoyed millions and charmed millions more. He draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her out of the path of a cameraman running backward. "That’s why you’re the best brand manager in the game. But seriously, relax. We’re in Cleveland. They love me here. Even if I catch fire, they’ll applaud." 

He leaned in closer, his tone dropping the kayfabe bravado. "And stay away from Punk tonight. He’s in a mood." 

YN stiffened slightly. "Phil is always in a mood, Mike." 

"Yeah, well, today it’s a 'tear the locker room apart' mood. Just… stick to the production truck, alright?" 

YN rolled her eyes, pushing his arm off gently. "I’m twenty-eight, Mike. I can handle a grumpy straight-edge punk rocker. Go. Your music is about to hit." 

As if on cue, the speakers exploded with "I CAME TO PLAY," and Mike switched instantly into character, strutting through the curtain to a cacophony of boos. YN watched the monitor for a moment, ensuring the entrance went smoothly, before sighing and turning toward the catering area. 

She lied to Mike. She wasn't going to the production truck. She needed coffee, black and bitter, to survive the next three hours. 

The catering hall was mostly empty during the show, save for a few referees and tech hands. And, as fate would have it, one heavily tattooed, hooded figure sitting alone in the corner, icing his knee with a bag of frozen peas. 

CM Punk. Phil Brooks. The "Voice of the Voiceless." And the man her brother and half the locker room warned her about daily. 

YN hesitated. The sensible thing to do—the "Mizanin" thing to do—would be to grab her coffee and leave. The friction between Punk and her brother was legendary, a mix of professional jealousy and personality clashes that had spanned a decade. 

But YN had never been good at doing the sensible thing. She walked over to the coffee urns, poured a steaming cup, and then, instead of leaving, walked straight to his table. 

Punk didn’t look up. He was scrolling through his phone, his hood pulled low over a frantic scribble of tattoos on his neck. 

"If you sit there," he said, his voice gravelly and low, not looking away from the screen, "your brother is going to have an aneurysm on live television." 

"He’s currently in a headlock," YN said, pulling out the metal chair opposite him and sitting down. "So I think I’m safe for about four minutes." 

Punk finally looked up. His eyes were tired, dark circles emphasizing the wear and tear of the road, but there was a flicker of amusement there. He locked his phone and set it face down. "YN. The only Mizanin with a functioning brain cell." 

"Be nice," she warned, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "He’s protective. It comes from a place of love. And narcissism." 

"Mostly narcissism," Punk corrected, shifting his leg to adjust the ice pack. He winced slightly. 

"Bad night?" she asked, nodding at the knee. 

"Every night’s a bad night when you’re wrestling on concrete floors four nights a week," he muttered, though the bite wasn't directed at her. He studied her for a moment, his gaze intense. "You look tired. Production running you ragged?" 

"Just the usual fire drills. Someone lost the script for the third hour, and creative is rewriting the main event on napkins." She took a sip of the coffee. It was terrible, burnt and acidic. She drank it anyway. "Why are you hiding back here? Shouldn't you be plotting a pipe bomb or something?" 

"Too loud out there," Punk said, leaning back. "Too many people asking me for things. I just wanted five minutes where no one asked me to sign something or punch someone." 

"Well," YN said, resting her chin on her hand. "I don’t have a pen, and I bruise like a peach. So you’re safe with me." 

For the first time that night, Phil smiled. It wasn't the smirk he used in the ring, or the sarcastic grin he gave interviewers. It was genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "That’s a relief." 

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, a rare commodity in the circus of the WWE. YN had always felt a strange gravitational pull toward him. While her brother was all flash, bright lights, and reality TV gloss, Punk was grit, reality, and stubborn authenticity. Being around Mike was exhausting; being around Phil felt like grounding a live wire. 

"I’m driving to Detroit tonight," Phil said suddenly. "I hate flying into that airport. It’s a four-hour drive." 

YN blinked. "Okay?" 

"The rental place screwed up. They gave me a minivan. A massive, suburban minivan." He looked at her, a challenge in his eyes. "I know your brother has you on the charter bus with the 'cool kids.' But if you want a ride where the music is better and the conversation is substantially less stupid… I have an empty passenger seat." 

It was a dangerous offer. If Mike found out she skipped the charter to ride four hours through the night with his nemesis, World War III would break out backstage. 

YN looked at the door where the noise of the arena was filtering in. She thought about the charter bus—the loud playing cards, the gossip, Mike re-watching his match on an iPad at full volume. 

Then she looked at Phil, waiting for her answer with that guarded vulnerability he rarely showed. 

"Do you promise not to play thrash metal the entire way?" she asked. 

"I promise to play some thrash metal," he compromised. "But I’ll let you pick the podcast." 

YN grabbed her clipboard. "Deal. Pick me up at the loading dock in twenty." 

The weeks that followed were a blur of highway markers, diner coffee, and the quiet intimacy of the road. 

What started as a single ride to Detroit became a ritual. They developed a routine. Phil drove—he hated not being in control of the vehicle—and YN navigated or played DJ. They talked about everything except wrestling. They argued about movies (Phil had terrible taste in comedies, YN insisted; she had terrible taste in horror, he countered). They talked about comic books, about her childhood growing up in Cleveland while Mike was becoming a star, and anything else they could think of. 

It was in the silence of a drive through the mountains of Pennsylvania, at 2:00 AM, that the dynamic shifted. 

Phil had reached over to turn down the heat, his hand brushing against hers where it rested on the center console. He didn't pull away. Neither did she. He simply turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. He kept his eyes on the road, his jaw set, but his grip was tight, like he was holding onto a lifeline. 

They didn't speak about it for another hundred miles. They didn't have to. 

But secrets in the wrestling business have a shelf life of milk left in the sun. 

"You're seeing him," Mike accused her three weeks later. They were in a hotel hallway in Atlanta. Mike looked frantic, his carefully gelled hair slightly askew. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," YN lied, clutching her room key. 

"Don't give me that," Mike snapped. "Jimmy Uso saw you two getting breakfast at a Waffle House in the middle of nowhere. Punk? Seriously, YNN? Of all the people? The guy hates me. He hates everything we stand for." 

"He doesn't hate me," YN said, her voice rising. "And maybe, just maybe, Mike, not everything is about you. He treats me like a person, not 'The Miz's little sister' or a glorified assistant." 

"He's using you to get in my head!" 

"He doesn't need to use me to get in your head, you're already obsessed with him!" YN shouted back. She took a breath, lowering her voice. "He listens to me. He cares about what I think. We… we fit, Mike. He’s different when the cameras are off." 

Mike stared at her, his face reddening. He looked like he wanted to scream, but he saw the resolve in her eyes. "He's going to break your heart, YNN. He's a lone wolf. He pushes everyone away eventually. When he leaves—and he will leave, because he always does—don't come crying to me." 

Mike stormed off down the hallway. YN watched him go, feeling a pit form in her stomach. 

She wanted to believe Mike was wrong. But the doubt was a creeping vine. Phil was intense. He was moody. He had walls built so high they scraped the stratosphere. Lately, as the rumors started to circulate, he had pulled back. The car rides were quieter. He spent more time looking out the window, brooding. 

They had a week off coming up. A break in the loop before the big Pay-Per-View. Phil had said he was going back to Chicago to decompress. He hadn't invited her. 

She assumed this was it. The pullback. The inevitable end that Mike had predicted. 

On the final night of the tour, in Nashville, YN was packing her gear into her rolling suitcase. She checked her phone. No texts from Phil. 

She fought back tears, angry at herself. Stupid. You knew better. 

A knock on the production office door startled her. 

"Come in," she called out, wiping her eyes quickly. 

The door opened. It wasn't a producer. It was Phil. 

He was wearing a hoodie and a Chicago Blackhawks cap, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked nervous. Actually nervous. She had seen this man walk into a cage fight without blinking, but right now, he was fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. 

"Hey," he said. 

"Hey," she replied, keeping her voice neutral. "Heading to the airport?" 

"Yeah." He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Look, I know your brother gave you the lecture. I saw him yelling at you in Atlanta." 

"He's… he's just being Mike," she said, turning back to her bag so he wouldn't see her face. "You don't have to worry. I know you need your space. Have a good week in Chicago, Phil." 

Silence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. 

"You think I'm bailing," he stated flatly. 

YN stopped packing. "Aren't you? You've been quiet for days. You didn't mention the break. It's fine. We had fun on the road, but we're different people. I get it." 

"You don't get it," he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I've been quiet because I've been planning. And I'm terrible at planning things that don't involve violence." 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it onto the desk in front of her. 

It was a flight itinerary. Nashville to Chicago. Departing in two hours. 

"I don't want to go back to Chicago alone," he said softly. "I want you to come with me. Not as a road buddy. As… everything." 

YN looked at the paper, then up at him. "You want me to come to Chicago?" 

"I want to show you the comic shop I go to. I want to cook you dinner that isn't from a gas station." He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to tentatively touch her arm. "Please." 

Chicago in late autumn was biting cold, the wind whipping off the lake with a ferocity that stung the cheeks. But inside Phil’s sleek, modern apartment, it was warm. 

YN had expected a bachelor pad—messy, sparse, maybe a mattress on the floor. Instead, the place was immaculate. Walls lined with framed comic art, shelves of vinyl records organized by genre, and a massive, comfortable couch that was currently occupied by her and a very sleepy, very grumpy-looking dog. 

"He likes you," Phil called from the kitchen. "He usually tries to bite people who sit in his spot." 

"I have a way with grumpy creatures," YN replied, scratching the pup behind the ears. 

"I heard that!" 

YN laughed, feeling a tension she hadn't realized she was carrying melt away. 

"Dinner is served," Phil announced. 

He walked into the living room, but he wasn't carrying plates. He walked past her to the sliding glass doors that led to the private rooftop terrace. "Grab your coat." 

"Phil, it's thirty degrees out there," she protested. 

"Trust me. Coat." 

YN sighed, nudging the dog gently aside, and grabbed her heavy coat. She followed Phil out onto the terrace. 

She stopped dead in her tracks. 

The terrace, which overlooked the glittering skyline of downtown Chicago, had been transformed. 

A large, transparent heated igloo—the kind fancy hotels used for winter dining—had been set up in the center of the roof. Inside, it was glowing with strings of warm, Edison-bulb fairy lights. The floor of the structure was covered in thick, faux-fur rugs and pillows. 

In the center was a low table set for two. But it wasn't just a dinner setup. 

On the table sat a stack of vintage VHS tapes—specifically, the cheesy 80s horror movies she had told him she loved during their drive through Ohio. Beside them was a pristine, first-edition copy of the novel she had mentioned losing during a move three years ago. 

And the food. It wasn't fancy steak or lobster. It was a spread of everything she had mentioned craving over the last month of travel but couldn't get because of their strict diets or location. There was deep-dish pizza (a concession from him), a specific type of spicy donut from a bakery she loved in Cleveland that he must have had shipped in, and a pot of high-end, freshly brewed tea, not the sludge from the arena. 

Projected against the white brick wall of the adjacent building was the title screen of Friday the 13th Part VI, her absolute favorite guilty pleasure movie. 

Phil stood by the entrance of the heated dome, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. He rubbed the back of his neck, his tattoos disappearing under his cuffs. 

"I know it's not the red carpet," he muttered, suddenly shy. "And I know your brother takes you to five-star places in LA. But I remembered you said you hated crowds, and you missed your books, and you wanted to see the skyline without noise. So… I made some calls." 

He looked at her, searching for approval, the "Best in the World" looking terrified of rejection. 

"I figured we could watch the bad movies, eat the bad food, and… I don't know. Just be us. Just Phil and YN." 

YN felt tears prick her eyes, but this time they weren't from frustration. She walked toward the dome, her hand trailing over the heated plastic, taking in the specificity of it all. He hadn't just thrown money at a romantic gesture; he had cataloged every small detail she had shared in the dark of a rental car at 3 AM and brought it to life. 

She turned to him, her heart hammering against her ribs. The wind whipped her hair around her face, but she didn't feel the cold. 

"I can't believe you did all this," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. 

Phil shrugged, a half-smile playing on his lips, the confidence slowly returning. "I pay attention, YNN.” 

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her out of the wind. "So? Is it okay? Or is it too weird?" 

"It's perfect," she said, looking up at him. "It's absolutely perfect." 

She reached up, tangling her fingers in the hood of his sweatshirt, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was deep and searing, tasting of the cold Chicago air and the promise of something real. 

When they broke apart, Phil rested his forehead against hers. "Your brother is going to kill me." 

"Oh, absolutely," YN agreed, laughing breathlessly. "He's going to be insufferable." 

"Worth it," Phil said, kissing her nose. "Come on. The pizza is getting cold, and Jason Voorhees is waiting."