#grayson waller

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The Georgia morning air was still thick with the smell of last night’s bonfire, mingled with the faint sweetness of syrup and leftover pancakes. Y/N zipped up her hoodie as she stepped out onto the porch, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Colby followed behind her, dragging his suitcase down the steps with a grunt that sounded more dramatic than necessary.

“You’re not lifting the thing, you’re rolling it,” Y/N said, smirking over her shoulder.

Colby shot her a look. “Let me have my moment, woman. It’s early.”

Cody appeared at the front door in socks, balancing a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand and a mug in the other. “Aww, y’all really leavin’?” he asked with a half-hearted pout.

“I unfortunately have a job that requires me to be present every Friday,” Y/N said, stepping forward to give him a quick side hug. “The world needs me.”

He snorted. “The world needs you to yell at me more during game night, apparently.”

“I was coaching you,” she said with mock offense. “Like a good teammate.”

Colby raised his brows. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Brandi leaned in the doorway, smiling as she held Liberty—who was still in her unicorn pajamas and clinging to a stuffed dinosaur. “You guys be safe. Text when you land.”

“I will,” Y/N promised, stepping over to kiss Liberty on the head. “Later, little monster.”

Liberty yawned against her mom’s shoulder, barely awake but still murmured, “Bye Auntie Y/N… tell wrestling I said hi…”

Colby chuckled. “That’s going on a shirt.”

They waved one last time as they walked to the car. It was quiet for a minute, just the soft thrum of tires on asphalt and the occasional birdsong. Colby glanced over as he started the engine, reaching for the aux cord. “Airport playlist or ‘let’s pretend we’re in a moody indie film’ silence?”

Y/N smiled. “Dealer’s choice.”

He chose silence. The two of them watch as the scenery passes by. It’s still rather early so Colby punched in an address to a random coffee shop, swinging by so they could get a bit of a pick me up before sitting on the plane for a few hours.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen when they placed their orders. It didn’t take the barista long to make their orders. Before they knew it, they were sitting back in the car. Y/N leaned her head against the window, hoodie pulled tight, nursing a coffee Colby insisted was too sweet for a grown adult.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered as he turned onto the freeway, “if you order your coffee with that much syrup, it’s not coffee anymore. It’s dessert in a cup.”

Y/N didn’t even look at him. “Let me enjoy things.”

“You’re drinking a cupcake.”

“You’re complaining about it like you didn’t finish half of it when we were in line.”

“That was a taste test. For science.”

She cracked a sleepy smile and finally turned toward him. “You moaned, Colby.”

“I don’t remember that,” he said, deadpan. “Fake news.”

She snorted, turning her attention back to the road ahead, her fingers curling around the warm paper cup. “Your toxic trait is acting like you're not dramatic when you’re literally the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.”

His lips quirked into a smug little grin. “That’s slander. And deeply hurtful.”

They slid back into silence for a bit — comfortable, easy. Y/N checked a few emails on her phone while Colby hummed along to whatever playlist he had running. The airport was only a half hour out, but the warmth in the car made everything feel slower, sleepier.

By the time they made it through security and boarded, Colby was already acting like he owned the window seat despite very clearly not claiming it earlier.

“I swear to god,” Y/N muttered, trying to shove her backpack into the footwell, “you are a child.”

“Correction,” he said, already buckling his seatbelt, “I’m a national treasure. Let me have the window. You can sleep on my shoulder.”

Y/N paused. “Fine. But if you drool on me again, I’m telling Joe.”

He smirked. “Joe already knows I’m the better travel buddy.”

“He once threatened to duct tape your mouth shut on a bus.”

“Allegedly.”

Y/N settled in beside him, bumping his leg with hers just to annoy him, and finally opened her phone again as the plane began to taxi. Her notifications were nothing special — a few Instagram tags, a message from Brandi, and then…

A text from Phil.

Phil:

He says he wants to meet you. Sick of just hearing about you all the time.

Y/N blinked.

Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary. It was a good picture — a little blurry, very Phil — and the message was short, but… it hit her somewhere strange. Not in a bad way. Just unexpected.

She didn’t even realize she was smiling until Colby spoke. “What’s that look?” His tone was casual, but not careless. He was looking at her now, one brow raised, like he was trying not to read too much into it — but already was.

Y/N hesitated. Her thumb locked the screen. She didn’t owe him an explanation, not really… but the last few days had shifted something between them. They weren’t lying to each other anymore. So she looked at him and said, “Phil sent a photo of his dog Larry.”

Colby didn’t respond immediately. His jaw ticked once, like he was physically forcing himself to stay neutral.

She continued gently, “I’ve never met him. Larry.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Colby leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Right.”

She could see it in the way his arms crossed — not tight, but guarded. It wasn’t jealousy. It was something deeper. Protective. Careful. Y/N reached out without thinking, hand finding his under the small blanket folded on her lap. Her fingers laced through his. Squeezed once. He didn’t pull away. She said quietly, “I didn’t flirt back, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Colby glanced sideways at her. “Was it flirty?”

“Not… not exactly. It was just a comment.” She paused. “But it made me smile. That’s the truth.”

He was quiet again. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low. “I’m not mad. I just—”

“You don’t trust him.”

“I don’t like him,” he corrected sharply, then sighed. “But I trust you. Just… don’t let him back in enough to hurt you again.”

Y/N stared at him for a second. Then, softly: “I won’t.”

Colby turned his hand over so hers was resting in his palm. He traced a thumb gently along her wrist, like it calmed him down. “I know what it’s like to get sucked back in,” he said, so quiet it barely made it over the engine noise. “Just… remember how far you’ve come.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Hard to forget,” she murmured.

He kissed her hair once, then pulled his hoodie over his face dramatically. “Wake me when we land.”

Y/N smiled — tired, fond — and whispered, “You’re the worst.”

“I’m adorable.”

“Go to sleep.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The hum of backstage activity hit them the second they stepped through the arena doors—crates being rolled, radios squawking, and the quiet thud of boots over concrete. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She adjusted the strap of her bag and strode forward like she owned the place, Colby trailing close behind her.

But when he reached for her hand, she slowed. “Seriously?” she asked, arching a brow at him.

Colby shrugged like it was nothing, but there was a spark behind his eyes. “Just makin’ sure everyone knows you’re still the star around here.”

His fingers threaded with hers like he’d been doing it for years. Y/N glanced down at their hands, then back up. “Fine. Just don’t be weird.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

They rounded a corner, and it didn’t take long for the whispers to start. Two production assistants by Gorilla stopped mid-conversation to stare outright. One of them whispered behind her water bottle, “Is that… is she holding hands with Seth Rollins?”

Behind them, a familiar voice muttered, “Well damn, took long enough.”

Y/N turned to find Bianca walking past, an amused smirk pulling at his lips. “Thought y’all were gonna keep pretending for another year.”

Colby winked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

A few steps later, Grayson Waller leaned against a production crate with Theory and let out a low whistle. “I knew there was something there. No one argues on TV that much unless they’re screwing.”

Y/N didn’t even dignify that with a response. She just flipped him off over her shoulder as Colby chuckled beside her.

“She’s classy, that one,” Theory quipped.

“She’s spicy,” Waller grinned. “I respect it.”

Further down the hall, Pam passed them, eyebrows climbing as she looked between their joined hands and Y/N’s expression. “Well well,” she teased. “About damn time. Everyone backstage owes me fifty bucks.”

Colby chuckled, but his jaw ticked slightly at that one. The chatter, the glances—he could feel the eyes on them like stage lights. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way they looked at her. She was in her zone—smirking, brushing off the comments, walking like nothing could touch her. But Colby knew her. He knew every tiny breath she took when she was just a little overwhelmed. And he couldn’t help it. He slid his hand from hers and let it trail along her lower back—low enough to toe the line, firm enough to make her pause mid-step. “Colby,” she warned, barely under her breath.

“What?” he murmured close to her ear, lips brushing her cheek. “You’re mine. Let ’em look.”

She tried to glare, but it wobbled when he dipped in closer, breath hot against her neck. “Gonna start doing this more often if it keeps getting under everyone’s skin.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

He grinned. “And you love it.”

Before she could argue, they stopped in front of the Bloodline locker room. She paused, adjusting the strap of her duffel on her shoulder. “You sure you want to hang around here all night?” she asked, a little softer now. “You don’t have to play watchdog, you know.”

Colby tilted his head, giving her that dry half-smile. “You’re always backstage at Raw, cheering me on, breaking up potential homicides—least I can do is watch you cause a little chaos here.”

Her smile warmed, despite herself. “You’re not gonna get in trouble, are you?”

“I thrive on trouble,” he deadpanned. “Besides. Who’s gonna stop me? Paul?”

She laughed, leaned in, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll find you after.”

“I’ll be lurking.”

With a small wave, Y/N pushed the door open—and didn’t even get one foot inside before the teasing started. “Well damn,” Jon grinned from the bench, halfway into his gear. “You showin’ up with Monday Night arm candy now?”

Joseph didn’t look up from his phone. “Guess we know why she’s been dodging our texts all week.”

Y/N shut the door behind her, rolling her eyes. “You two are so predictable.”

Jon widened his eyes. “I’m just sayin’. You looked real cozy in that hallway.”

“He flew in with me. That’s it.”

“Y/N,” Joseph said flatly, finally glancing up. “He was holding your hand. We’re not blind.”

Jon added with a dramatic gasp, “You kiss him too?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

Jon smirked. “You so kissed him.”

Y/N sat down and began pulling her boots out of her bag. “I hate you both. Deeply.”

Joseph leaned forward. “Does Joe know he’s here?”

“Nope. And he’s not getting involved. He’s just here to support.”

“That’s brave,” Jon muttered. “Considering last time he got within two feet of Roman, he got folded like laundry.”

Y/N snorted. “He’s aware.”

There was a pause, then Joseph said, “So what’s the deal tonight? Us against Orton, Knight, and Styles?”

Jon groaned. “Yup. Joe’s out. Paul says we’re playing it off as strategy, but really we’re just short a body.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s a three-on-two.”

“Thanks, math wizard.”

“You need a third?”

Jon lifted his chin. “You volunteering?”

She hesitated—then smirked. “Maybe. I technically wasn’t supposed to fight tonight, but I’ve always got my gear ready.”

Joseph nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that happened this week. Besides, Aldis loves you. Not like he’ll say no.”

Jon grinned. “Just sayin’—if you wanna show off for your man out there, we won’t stop you.”

Y/N threw a wrist tape roll at his head.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The backstage halls of the arena buzzed with the kind of organized chaos Y/N had grown used to over the years—light rigs being adjusted, clipboards being waved in frantic directions, and a low undercurrent of crowd noise bleeding through the concrete walls.

She looked good. She felt good. Her entrance gear was draped over her arm, makeup sharp, hair already done and out of her face. She walked like she owned the place—not out of arrogance, but because walking with purpose made people get out of your way. That, and it was fun to make the production crew flinch when they realized she was headed straight at them.

She rounded a corner just as someone stepped in her path. Y/N stopped short, raising an eyebrow.

Kevin Owens just stared at her with a vaguely unimpressed expression, one brow twitching as he took a loud bite of his apple. "You're out here stomping around like you're late for a title defense," he said, voice dry as the arena air. "Relax, boss. Catering’s not going anywhere."

Y/N tilted her head, not missing a beat. “Didn’t realize I was blocking the road to your emotional support carbs.”

Kevin chewed slowly, then pointed his apple at her. “That's cute. Cody teach you that one?”

“Nope. That one’s all me.” She grinned, brushing past him just enough to bump his shoulder. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.”

“I see you all the time.” He turned to follow her pace. “You and Cody both. I swear, one more group chat notification from the two of you and I’m throwing my phone into the Gulf.”

Y/N smirked. “You’re in the group chat by choice.”

“Barely. I tried leaving once. Cody added me back with a GIF of his own entrance.”

She snorted, then glanced over. “Well? How do I look?”

Kevin gave her a once-over, unimpressed on purpose. “Like you’re about to demand a spotlight and an unnecessarily long intro package.”

“Perfect.”

“...And like you might punch someone in Gorilla if your theme doesn’t hit on time.”

“Also fair.”

They kept walking, weaving through crew and gear cases. It was easy with him—Kevin didn’t do small talk just to fill space. He said what he meant, didn’t sugarcoat it, and respected the silence when it came. Y/N appreciated that.

“You doing commentary tonight, right?” he asked after a beat.

“For Bayley and Bianca,” she said. “I’ll try not to get kicked off the headset again.”

“Just don’t throw shade at Graves for breathing too loud this time.”

“No promises.”

They reached catering, and Kevin snagged another apple from the table like he owned the place. He took a bite, leaned a hip against the table, and eyed her sideways.

“You nervous about anything?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been pacing around like you’re waiting for something to go sideways.”

She sighed through her nose. “Nah. Just… there’s a lot going on. New stuff. Weird energy lately.”

Kevin gave a small nod. “Yeah. I’ve felt it too. Everyone’s trying to pretend it’s all normal, but it’s not.”

Y/N studied him for a second, then offered a half-smile. “Thanks for saying that. Everyone else just keeps asking me if I’ve slept.”

“Yeah, well, your eyebags were louder than your entrance theme last week, so.”

She laughed, bumped his arm again. “You’re such a dick.”

“Mm. And yet you keep talking to me.”

“Because you remind me not to take this place too seriously.”

He shrugged. “It’s wrestling. None of us should.”

Another moment of silence passed, easy and comfortable.

Then he nudged her gently with his elbow. “Hey. You got this.”

Y/N looked over. “Yeah?”

Kevin nodded, a rare flicker of sincerity in his eyes. “You always do.”

She gave him a genuine smile then, warm and appreciative. “I’ll try not to hit anyone.”

“Please do. It keeps the place interesting.”

They both laughed. And with that, she gave him a playful salute and turned to head toward Gorilla, boots clicking confidently against the floor.

Kevin watched her go for a second, then muttered to himself, “...She’s gonna hit someone.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The first notes of Bayley’s entrance theme blasted through the arena with all the subtlety of a pipe bomb. The crowd responded immediately — part recognition, part rebellion — as the self-proclaimed Role Model burst through the curtain. She didn’t dance. She didn’t smirk. Not tonight.

Bayley stomped down the ramp like it had insulted her family. Her jaw clenched tight, arms pumping with purpose, and the rest of Damage CTRL trailing behind her like storm clouds. Iyo Sky, Dakota Kai, and Kairi Sane walked in formation — calm, confident, cold. Their presence alone drew a few boos from the crowd, but Bayley didn’t flinch. She rolled into the ring, paced like a caged animal, then stopped center-ring and stared down the entrance ramp.

The camera zoomed in. Her lips didn’t move, but the fire in her eyes made her intentions clear: I’m coming for that title.

The crowd’s rhythm changed as Bianca Belair’s theme music hit. The “EST” of WWE made her entrance with her signature strut — slow at first, measured. That long braid swayed behind her like a pendulum of purpose. The crowd erupted for her, chanting, whistling, rallying behind her with full force.

Bianca didn’t even glance at the fans tonight. Her eyes were locked on Bayley. She did one hard bounce on the balls of her feet, cracked her neck to one side, and then sprinted down the ramp. No flips, no frills — all business. She rolled into the ring, stood tall, and didn’t break eye contact.

If Bayley was fire, Bianca was ice. And somewhere, between them, stood gold. The crowd buzzed, the air thick with anticipation. The referee called for the bell —

But it never rang.

The lights flickered, and an unfamiliar beat dropped into the arena like a low boom of thunder. Kevin Patrick’s voice cracked through the sound system from commentary: “Wait… What’s this?”

Corey Graves leaned forward, confused. “That’s not Bayley’s music. Not Bianca’s either—”

Then the crowd exploded. Y/N stepped through the curtain with all the grace of a woman who wasn’t just walking into the show — she was the show.

WWE Women’s Champion. No introduction needed.

She didn’t raise the title above her head. Didn’t need to. She simply walked. Slow. Steady. One foot in front of the other down the ramp, dressed in black leather pants, a crisp blazer, headset already in hand. Bayley stared, fuming. Bianca blinked twice, then scoffed and turned her back. The crowd surged with cheers as Y/N circled the ring without a word.

She passed Damage CTRL at ringside — Iyo’s eyes followed her, stone cold. And then Y/N slid behind the commentary table and took her seat between Kevin and Corey like she had always belonged there. Kevin was still reeling. “Well… okay, folks, a huge surprise tonight — the champion herself, Y/N, joining us on commentary.”

“Did she even tell anyone she was coming?” Corey asked, adjusting his headset. “Is this legal?”

“Don’t worry,” Y/N said coolly, slipping on her headset. “I’m not out here to interfere. Just figured I’d sit real close while the two people trying to take my title beat the hell out of each other. You know. Supportive.”

Corey raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound threatening at all.”

Y/N smirked. “Good. It wasn’t supposed to.”

Then the bell rings and the match begins. Bayley wasted no time, charging Bianca with a low running shoulder that drove her into the corner. She threw wild punches — fast and vicious — trying to take the EST down early. Bianca shoved her off and immediately countered with a dropkick so fast Bayley had no time to react.

The crowd roared.

Y/N’s voice was casual but sharp. “Bayley always starts fast when she’s insecure. She’s like a chihuahua on espresso.”

Corey chuckled. “You say that like you’ve fought her before.”

“I have. And she bites.”

In the ring, Bianca followed up with a powerful vertical suplex that held Bayley suspended in the air for a solid five seconds before slamming her to the mat. Kevin spoke over the noise. “You’ve got to admire the strength of Bianca Belair.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Y/N said. “She’s strong, smart, and insanely athletic. But she’s still not champion. Let’s not forget that part.”

Bianca went for a handspring back elbow — Bayley ducked under and yanked her face-first into the second turnbuckle.

Kevin winced. “That could shift the momentum.”

Bayley grinned, taunting the crowd now. “SHE’S NOTHING!” she screamed, pointing toward Bianca, then toward Y/N.

The camera cut to Y/N — she didn’t even blink. “Someone’s doing a lot of talking for someone who can’t win without backup,” she murmured.

Corey tried to stir the pot. “You know, this whole thing reminds me — you used to do commentary with a certain someone back in the day. One particular time I remember was the infamous Raw walkout. Cena vs. Sheamus. Just you and—”

Y/N raised a brow, dry. “Corey.”

He hesitated.

Y/N let it breathe a moment. Then, finally, she said quietly, “Yeah. That night was something else. I remember how quiet it got after the bell rang… and how he made me laugh right when I was trying to act like I wasn’t panicking.”

Even Kevin looked surprised.

“He said we were a ‘broadcast dream team.’ Then he left me holding the headset alone. Typical." There’s a short pause after her subtle dig. Then her eyes soften along with her tone. "But… I won’t lie, he made that night bearable. Even made me laugh."

Corey blinks, "...I thought you two hated each other right now?"

Y/N shrugs with a short exhale as she relaxes into her chair, "Hatred’s exhausting. I’ve got a title to worry about."

Corey tilts his head in quiet shock. “Didn’t expect that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Neither did I.”

Back in the ring, Bianca ducked a clothesline and nailed Bayley with a handspring moonsault — perfect execution. She covered. One. Two. Kickout.

Iyo pounded the mat from the outside but didn’t interfere. Bianca pulled Bayley up by the hair, but Bayley countered with a brutal neckbreaker. She crawled over and hooked the leg. One. Two. Kickout.

Y/N leaned back in her seat. “They’re pushing each other hard tonight. That’s good. I’d hate to have to defend this title against someone who couldn’t survive ten minutes of cardio.”

Corey laughed. “You really have no love for either of them, huh?”

“I don’t have the luxury of love,” Y/N replied coolly. “I’m the champion. Love gets you blindsided.”

After a few more minutes of attempted covers, the match began to reach a fever pitch. Bayley tried to expose the turnbuckle pad, but the ref caught her and stopped her. While the official was distracted, Bianca used the moment to land a thunderous spinebuster.

The crowd exploded. Y/N sat up slightly, eyes narrowing. “Here we go,” Kevin said.

Bianca hoisted Bayley up — and with a roar, dropped her with the KOD. One. Two. Three.

The bell rang, and the crowd erupted. Bianca rolled off, chest heaving, arm raised. The EST stood tall — victorious. Y/N took off her headset slowly. “Well,” she said dryly, “that was cute.”

Kevin laughed nervously. “What now for Bianca? That was a statement.”

Corey smirked. “I think Y/N’s about to give her an answer.”

But before Y/N could stand—

CRACK!

A steel chair slammed across Bianca’s back. The crowd screamed in shock as Bayley — no longer concerned with wins or losses — swung again, viciously, cracking the chair into Bianca’s ribs.

Y/N was already halfway into the ring. She sprinted toward them, slid under the bottom rope, and tackled Bayley with a flying forearm that sent the chair flying. The crowd exploded as Y/N mounted Bayley, hammering her with fists. Bayley fought back, pulling at Y/N’s hair, but the champion was unrelenting. She shoved Bayley off and drove a hard roundhouse kick to the ribs that sent the former champion tumbling out of the ring.

Iyo and Damage CTRL rushed to Bayley’s side, dragging her away from the chaos as the ref shouted for order. Bianca clutched her back in pain, watching through pained breaths as Y/N stood in the center of the ring, fists clenched.

Her music hit. The crowd was deafening. Y/N didn’t raise the title. She didn’t speak. She just looked down at Bianca, then up the ramp at Bayley — and made it clear: “This is mine. And none of you are taking it.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The backstage hallway buzzed with its usual post-segment energy — the hum of production crews tearing down, the crackle of walkie-talkies, and the steady rhythm of boots on concrete. Y/N weaved through it all like a breeze, chest still light with adrenaline from the match. Her body ached in the best way. Chair shots, commentary, crowd reactions — all of it had played out exactly how she wanted. There was a faint sting in her forearm from where she’d clotheslined Bayley, but it didn’t bother her. If anything, it grounded her. Reminded her that the chaos was real. That she was real.

But as soon as she rounded the corner past catering, her steps slowed.

Colby was standing against the wall, arms folded across his chest, head tilted slightly down like he was lost in thought. His brows were knit, and his jaw was clenched — barely, but enough for her to notice. The bun at the back of his head was half-loose, a few stray curls falling over his ears, and he hadn’t even bothered to straighten his jacket.

That wasn’t nothing.

Y/N’s brows drew together as she approached. “Hey.”

He looked up quickly and gave a smile. It was subtle. Small. His usual grin — the one that started at the corners of his mouth and made his eyes crinkle like he was trying not to laugh at an inside joke — was nowhere to be found. This one was… polite. Almost cautious.

Colby stepped forward and kissed the side of her head. “You crushed it. Out there. Nailed it.”

She blinked. “Thanks…” And then she stared at him. Hard. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, a little too fast.

Y/N tilted her head, voice flat. “Colby.”

He shifted. Didn’t look her in the eyes. “I’m fine,” he said casually. “Just waiting for you.”

“You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re pretending you didn’t just chew through the inside of your cheek for five minutes.”

Colby snorted, glancing away like he could laugh this off. “Y/N, seriously. I'm good.”

Her eyes narrowed. She leaned her shoulder against the wall next to him, folding her arms across her chest. “You barely looked at me when I walked up.”

“I looked at you.”

“You smiled like a dad at a PTA meeting.” That got a flicker of amusement from him, but it was short-lived. She studied him quietly for a second more, then sighed. “Is it about what Corey said?”

Colby didn’t answer. She waited. He scratched at his beard, then finally muttered, “It’s dumb.”

Y/N’s brows rose. “It’s not dumb if it’s messing with you.”

He hesitated, then sighed like it physically pained him to admit it. “Yeah. Okay. It got under my skin a little.”

There it was. She straightened, her arms dropping. “I knew it.”

“Y/N—”

“I knew something was off the second I saw your face.”

“I didn’t say anything out loud,” he said, defensive now. “I didn’t storm off or sulk or—”

“I never said you did.” Her voice was even, but there was an edge creeping in. “But we just talked about this.”

“I’m aware.”

“You said you were gonna try not to spiral every time his name came up.”

“I am trying,” he shot back, a little more force in his tone now. “But Corey freaking Graves bringing up your tag-team commentary legacy with CM Punk while I’m standing right there backstage like a damn afterthought? It didn’t exactly feel good to hear.”

Y/N blinked, taken aback by the sudden spike in his voice. Colby immediately ran a hand down his face. “I’m not mad at you, okay?”

“You’re sure acting like you are.”

“I’m mad at the situation.”

She stared at him. “Then say that.”

He sighed and took a step closer, lowering his voice. “I’m trying, Y/N. I am. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch everyone hold onto the highlight reel version of you two like it’s still relevant.”

“Because it was relevant, Colby.” Her voice cracked slightly, not with emotion, but frustration. “We were a part of this company’s history together. That doesn’t just vanish because he left and I stayed.”

“I know,” he said, gentler now. “I know. And that’s what drives me nuts.”

“Why?”

“Because half the damn locker room still associates you with him. And it doesn’t matter how close we get, how much we talk, or how long we’ve been circling each other… He still lives in your rearview.”

That hit harder than she expected. And maybe it was true. Maybe she hadn’t fully put Phil in the past yet. Maybe a part of her was still stuck there — but not because she wanted to be. Because healing wasn’t a straight line. Because history didn’t erase itself the moment someone new walked in.

You promised me,” she cut in. “You promised you’d try not to act like this. That you would let me get the closure I needed. That you were okay with me figuring things out. But now you’re back to shutting down the second his name comes up.”

Colby looked at her then, sharp and defensive. “Well, sorry for not jumping for joy when my girlfriend’s ex gets a nostalgic shoutout on national television.”

She stared at him. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

The words hung there, loud and electric. Colby’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. “And maybe,” she added, softer now, but no less firm, “that’s for a reason.” She stepped back. Her chest was tight, but her eyes were dry. No breakdown. No dramatics. Just anger.

“You don’t get to be mad every time someone brings him up,” she said. “You don’t get to say you trust me, and then flinch the second he’s in the picture. You either believe I’m here, with you, or you don’t.”

Colby clenched his jaw. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” she snapped. “You’re just making it harder than it has to be.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to apologize, but something in her expression shut him down. Y/N finally shook her head, the anger thinning into disappointment. “I’m going to get changed,” she said quietly. “Then I’m gonna find Jon and Joseph.”

He reached for her arm, just briefly, but she was already turning. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” she said over her shoulder, not looking back. And just like that, she disappeared down the hallway, her boots echoing against the floor again — only this time, the buzz in her chest had nothing to do with adrenaline.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The backstage corridors of SmackDown always buzzed with electricity—camera crews weaving through the maze of road cases, production staff clutching headsets, lighting techs adjusting rigging in the shadows. But Y/N had long since learned how to move through it all like it was second nature. She walked with practiced ease, still glowing from the adrenaline of commentary, her boots clicking confidently against the polished floor. But as she turned a corner near the production desk, her stride slowed. Paul Heyman stood there, near a stack of monitors, his phone gripped in one hand, the other hand bracing against his temple like he was seconds from an aneurysm. His lips moved, muttering to himself—likely some combination of panic and prayer.

Y/N raised an eyebrow and walked up without hesitation. “You look like you just got hit with a cease and desist from God himself.”

Paul flinched slightly at her voice, then let out a long-suffering sigh. “If only it were that simple.”

She folded her arms, eyeing him. “What’s got you looking like a busted pressure cooker?”

Heyman didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked up to her, and for a long second, he didn’t say a word. Just studied her, as if seeing something he wasn’t sure he liked—or maybe something he liked too much. Finally, he murmured, “Your timing, as always, is both impeccable… and wildly inconvenient.”

“Charming,” she deadpanned. “Spill it.”

Paul inhaled slowly, voice lowering to that familiar calculating drawl. “Joe isn’t here. We all know why. And now I’m two hours out from a main event Bloodline match without a third.”

Y/N blinked, her brows rising. “You’re telling me you still haven’t found someone?”

“I’ve made calls, talked to different talent here,” he said, not-so-convincingly. “Nothing has… manifested. I have no faith in mercenaries. And I have no time for sentimentality.”

“Then maybe,” she said, glancing casually over her shoulder, “you need someone who’s already here. Ready. Familiar.”

His head snapped toward her. “Don’t.”

Y/N smirked. Paul stared at her for a long, tense beat. “You are not Roman Reigns. You are not a Tribal Chief. You’re not even technically allowed to fight in this match since there’s no woman on the opposing side.”

“Paul, you know what I’m capable of. Everyone in the ring tonight is a complete professional. I can handle it. Besides, I’m the champion. That only adds to the caliber of the main event.” Her tone was flat, final. “Besides, what’s one more line blurred?”

Heyman tilted his head, regarding her with something approaching… reverence? It made her stomach tighten. “You,” he murmured, voice suddenly quieter, “are dangerous.”

She laughed softly. “So you’ve told me.”

“No,” Paul continued, shaking his head, gaze narrowing. “Not in the ring. Not with fists or fire. You’re dangerous because you don’t need anyone. You thrive within factions but you are not built for them.”

She furrowed her brows slightly, but before she could respond, he added, “You’re a main event unto yourself. Even now. You walk through backstage and half the roster forgets who the actual champion is. I’ve only ever seen that happen once before.”

Y/N went still, sensing the weight behind his words. Paul didn’t say the name. He didn’t need to. Instead, she exhaled and nodded toward the hallway. “So. You gonna keep waiting for a miracle? Or are we gonna go talk to Aldis?”

Paul blinked, startled. “You’re serious.”

“Dead,” she said simply. “I’ve tagged in worse situations with worse people.”

He blinked once, then a grin curled onto his face. It was slow, unsettling—and satisfied. “I’ll escort you.”

It doesn’t take long to arrive at the General Manager’s office. Nick Aldis’s office was cleaner than any other backstage space. The lighting was warm. The leather chairs polished. But the man himself looked bone-tired, pacing slowly near his desk, an iPad tucked under one arm, Bluetooth headset still stuck in one ear.

He turned as the door opened. “Paul,” he said, already on edge. “Please tell me you have a name.”

Paul simply stepped aside and let Y/N saunter in.

Aldis blinked. “No.”

Y/N tilted her head, smirking. “Not even gonna hear me out?”

Nick let out a soft breath, then looked at Paul. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I assure you,” Paul said, “this is very real.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “You’ve got five men scheduled to main event, three of which would rather take a chair to my ribs than let me walk past them. You’re worried about me being out of place?”

Nick sighed, running a hand over his beard. “It’s not about that. I know what you’re capable of. But you’ve already done commentary tonight. You just came off the road. And frankly, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Well, I am.” Her voice didn’t waver. “Joe’s out. You need someone. I’ve got history with all three men they’re going against. I’m an integral part of the Bloodline, and a champion. It makes sense for me to be out there. You want eyes on the product? This is how you do it.”

Paul stepped forward. “Nick. You saw the ratings spike when her commentary segment aired. Imagine what happens when she steps back into the ring tonight against three of the biggest names in the company.”

Aldis looked between them.

Y/N added, “It’s not my first mixed tag. I’ve worked with Jon in the ring before. Joseph, too. And I don’t know if you remember but I had a pretty iconic run with the Voice of the Voiceless. I know the rhythm. I won’t be a weak link.”

There was a long beat. Aldis sighed again, then nodded once. “Alright.” Paul grinned. Y/N just arched a brow. “But,” Aldis added, “you’re on your own if this turns into chaos. I’m not covering your ass if you piss off creative for getting involved.”

Y/N smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

As they turned to leave, Nick’s voice stopped her. “Y/N?” She looked back. “Be careful tonight.”

Something in his tone made her pause. But then she just smiled. “Always.” And with that, she walked out—her fingers already twitching with adrenaline.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The lights were hot and blinding, the way only WWE could deliver them. The main event loomed, and the crowd in Lincoln, Nebraska had no idea what was about to hit them. They thought they were getting a six-man tag match. They didn’t know that one of the six wouldn’t even make it to the ring before chaos erupted.

The thunder of Randy Orton’s music exploded from the speakers, and the crowd immediately rose to its feet. The Viper was back in his element, cool and calculated, walking slowly onto the stage. He paused to take in the reaction, that same chilling composure in his shoulders, when—BAM! Out of nowhere, Solo Sikoa and Jimmy Uso struck like shadows out of the dark. Jimmy hit first, driving his forearm into the side of Orton’s skull. Orton barely had time to react before Solo followed with a running splash that sent him flying into the LED wall.

The crowd erupted in boos. Some gasped. Some chanted “BULLSH*T.” All were stunned. Orton collapsed to the metal stage, holding his ribs. Backstage, Y/N stood in front of the monitor. Her jaw tensed. She’d been waiting all night for her moment — and she knew now it was coming.

The match began anyway. LA Knight’s music hit, and the crowd roared as the Megastar burst from the back. He didn’t wait. No posing. No catchphrases. Just a full sprint to the ring, fury in every step. He slid under the ropes, threw off his jacket, and cracked his knuckles like he wanted blood.

AJ Styles came out next — not much different. No theatrics. Just eyes narrowed and fists clenched. The bell rang — officially a 2-on-2 match until Orton could return. Jimmy and Solo stood in their corner, smug and composed. Jimmy was mouthing off about “finishing the job.” Solo just stared — silent, still, dangerous.

Knight opened for the babyface side, launching himself at Jimmy. The two locked up, trading fists and chops. Jimmy tried a clothesline — Knight ducked — and countered with a running neckbreaker. Tag to Styles. Styles came in hot, connecting with a dropkick and then a sliding forearm. Solo tagged in for the other side and immediately slowed the pace, catching Styles in a clutch and delivering a punishing Samoan Drop. The arena shuddered with every slam.

The heels gained momentum. Quick tags between Jimmy and Solo — a combo of hip attacks, uppercuts, and ground holds. Knight tried to rally the crowd, clapping on the apron, calling to AJ who was being crushed under Solo’s weight.

Then—Randy Orton’s music hit again. The crowd lost its mind. Orton limped from the back, one arm braced around his midsection. The Viper was bruised, battered, but far from broken. His walk was slower now, pained, but purposeful. The kind that made men afraid.

Then, as the crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, a new sound shattered the atmosphere. Y/N’s music.

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by stunned disbelief and then a rising wave of cheers. Y/N exploded through the curtain, every step a statement of power and intent. Her eyes locked on the ring where Jimmy and Solo awaited. The Bloodline was whole again.

The moment Y/N slid into the ring, the energy shifted palpably. Jimmy tagged her in without hesitation. Y/N’s boots hit the canvas, and with lightning speed, she launched herself into the fray. Knight staggered back, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. Y/N struck with a snap knee to the midsection that buckled him, then flowed fluidly into a tilt-a-whirl headlock takedown, spinning him with dizzying force before slamming him down with controlled brutality.

The crowd was on its feet, caught in the tide of her momentum. Then came the moment they’d been waiting for. Jimmy tagged back in, but Y/N didn’t step out. Instead, she locked eyes with LA Knight, who was struggling to his feet. With a nod and a grin, she and Jimmy readied themselves for a move that had once been a secret weapon between her and Punk—now reborn and elevated.

Jimmy positioned himself near the ropes, beckoning Knight forward. Knight stumbled towards them, wary. Y/N darted to the ropes and sprang high, twisting midair into a corkscrew spin that seemed to defy gravity. Jimmy timed his move perfectly, catching Knight’s shoulders as Y/N spun toward him, her body coiling like a spring. In a breathtaking moment of synchronicity, Y/N’s hands locked around Knight’s neck as Jimmy propelled his torso forward. With a sharp, crisp snap, Y/N pulled Knight’s head backward while rotating her body, driving him face-first into the mat with the force of a hurricane.

The impact echoed throughout the arena. The crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. The move was flawless—fluid, powerful, and stunning to witness. Corey Graves almost lost his voice. “That… that’s the corkscrew neckbreaker! The one she and Punk used to do! And she just made it look like a supernova!” he yelled into the microphone, disbelief cracking his voice. Kevin Patrick chimed in, his excitement palpable. “They haven’t seen that in years! And now she’s taken it to another level. Unbelievable.” Y/N’s chest heaved as she rose, eyes sharp, barely acknowledging the momentary flash of nostalgia.

The match roared back to life. Solo took the fight to Styles with a punishing Samoan Drop. Knight retaliated with a leaping DDT on Jimmy. Y/N came in again, unloading a leg-trap powerbomb on Styles that shook the ring. The crowd was electric, caught between shock and awe.

As the match neared its climax, Styles, Knight, and Orton unleashed a coordinated assault. Orton planted Solo with a snap powerslam, then hoisted him into a hanging DDT. Styles and Knight worked over Jimmy. The finale approached with the tension of a coiled spring. Orton caught Solo in mid-charge, delivering a devastating RKO. Knight launched Jimmy into the air and caught him with a BFT. Styles executed a perfect Phenomenal Forearm on Solo. The three men hoisted Solo high above their heads and drove him through the announce table in a shattering crash.

The bell rang. Winners: Orton, Styles, Knight. Breathless, Y/N stood in the ring, the champion’s fire burning bright. Knight swaggered over, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned in close, voice low but loud enough for the crowd to catch, “Well, darling… didn’t know you packed that punch.” His hand lingered briefly on her waist—a teasing, possessive touch.

The crowd erupted instantly, a cacophony of cheers and boos. Those who loved the idea of Y/N and Knight as a duo screamed their approval, while the loyalists who shipped her with Seth Rollins let loose a chorus of boos.

Y/N’s eyes flicked toward Knight, a slow, knowing smirk curling her lips. She shoved him back with a playful but firm shove, her gaze sharp and unapologetic. “Dream on, cowboy.”

Knight chuckled, stepping back, hands raised in mock surrender as he soaked in the divided reaction. “I like stirring the pot,” he said with a wink, eyes sparkling with mischief as the crowd’s roar swelled around them.

Y/N turned away, walking toward Solo’s side, ready to help her teammate. The camera caught her confident stride—unfazed, unbreakable.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Backstage buzzed with static energy, the kind that lingered long after the match ended. Every crew member they passed gave Y/N nods, a few clapped her on the shoulder. She was still high off the performance — the rhythm of the match in her blood, the crowd’s roar echoing in her ears.

Jimmy was bouncing beside her like a kid on a sugar high. “I’m serious! That move was INSANE. Bro, I thought we were gonna mess it up — I almost forgot the timing, but you snapped.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing. “We literally practiced that once. Once.”

“Yeah, and you still made it look like some next-level Avengers tag-team finisher. Jimmy and Y/N: Civil War!”

Solo raised an eyebrow from where he leaned against a wall. “Don’t hype her up. She’s already cocky.”

“Please,” Y/N smirked. “I was born cocky.”

They all shared a laugh, the kind only earned after surviving something together. That shared ring silence, that heartbeat between each spot. It wasn’t just family. It was war comrades. The boys disappeared into the locker room, still chirping at each other, leaving Y/N outside. She paused, rubbing her neck, her chest still tight with the afterburn of adrenaline.

That’s when she saw Colby. He leaned against a wall just around the corner, arms folded over his chest, dark curls damp and tousled from his earlier match. His gear was half-peeled off, revealing the black tank beneath. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between sheepish and stubborn. Y/N slowed her steps, expression flat. He didn’t speak at first. Just pushed off the wall and approached carefully. “You okay?”

“I’m breathing, aren’t I?” she replied coolly.

Colby gave a light nod. “That’s a start.” There was a silence between them again. Thicker this time. Not from anger — not anymore. From tension. From things unsaid.

“You were great,” he said finally.

Y/N shrugged. “I know.”

Colby smirked at that, just a little. “Still humble, huh?”

“Humble’s overrated,” she said. “Especially when the whole world saw me land that spot.”

His smirk faded into something softer. “Yeah. That move…”

“I know,” she interrupted, her tone sharp but uncertain. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t clock it.”

“I’m not pretending.”

There was a long pause. “Did it bother you?” she asked, her voice low, a little raw. “Seeing me use it?”

Colby looked at her, really looked at her. And for once, no sarcasm, no bravado. Just honesty. “No. It didn’t bother me.” He stepped forward, eyes steady. “It’s a cool move. Always was. You were the one who made it pop even back then.”

Y/N blinked. That wasn’t what she expected.

“You elevated it,” he continued. “Tonight? You owned it. I’m just proud you landed it.”

She studied him for a second, guarded.

“About what was said earlier…” he added. “About Punk. About us.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “You were outta line.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I just— It’s hard sometimes, knowing how close you two were. And how far I’ve… not gotten. With you.”

Her expression softened, just barely. “You really think this is a competition?”

“With him?” Colby laughed once. “Always felt like it.”

Y/N shook her head. “Then you’ve been playing a game I never signed up for.”

They stared at each other again — so much history in the space between them. So many broken pieces neither of them had cleaned up yet. Colby let out a long breath. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once. Then, after a beat, she stepped in and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him in. He folded into the hug, arms tight around her, forehead brushing the top of her head. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But it was real.

She pulled back and muttered, “We’re not okay.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Y/N let out a breath, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “Shit,” she suddenly muttered. “I left my phone and protein bar at catering.”

Colby raised a brow. “That really an emergency?”

“Yes, it is. I’m starving and I’m not going through three more interviews without it.”

He chuckled. “Want me to come?”

“Nah. I’ll be quick. Go ahead and start the rental or… whatever it is you do when you brood in corners.”

He gave her a look. “Funny.”

She grinned as she jogged off. The catering area was mostly cleared out, aside from a few stragglers and an exhausted road agent nursing his third Diet Coke. Y/N beelined for her duffel, muttering under her breath about leaving it under a damn table. Just as she crouched down and yanked it out, her phone buzzed violently against her thigh.

Incoming Call: PHIL

She stared at the screen. Her lips twitched — uninvited. It was too soon to feel this familiar. Too soon to smile. She answered. “What do you want, old man?”

“Damn,” came Phil’s voice, dry and amused, that unmistakable rasp curling through the receiver. “Didn’t even get a ‘hello’ after buying you coffee?”

“I gave you a what do you want. That’s basically affection in my language.”

He chuckled — deep, low, and a little too fond. “You’re such a sweetheart. Always were.”

“Yeah, well,” she stood up, letting the strap of her bag slide over her shoulder, “don’t let the glitter fool you. I bite.”

“That explains the main event.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and laughed softly, still breathless from the match. “You watched?”

“I might be a bit older than what you remember but I don’t go to bed before the show airs. And I’ve got eyes. Of course I watched.”

“You stalking me now?”

“I prefer ‘monitoring.’ Sounds more CIA.”

“Oh, so you’ve upgraded from ‘washed-up cult leader’ to government spook. Nice.”

“I contain multitudes,” he said smoothly. “But yeah. I saw your commentary too.”

Her brows lifted. “Oh?”

“Reminded me of the old days,” he said, quieter now. “When we used to sit at that godawful desk on Raw and roast everyone like we ran the place.”

Y/N smirked. “We did run the place.”

“Damn right we did.”

There was a beat — long enough for something unspoken to stretch between them. “And the move…” he said finally. “You really broke that out tonight, huh?”

“Didn’t think you’d miss it,” she replied, trying to keep her voice light — but her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the catering table.

“Of course I didn’t,” Phil said. “It was ours. You just… upgraded it.”

She smiled faintly, shifting the phone against her cheek. “Well, Jimmy’s not you, but he sells a hell of a launch.”

“I’ll try not to be offended.”

“You should be flattered.”

“Oh, I am. It looked sick as hell. Like, actual rewind-worthy.”

Y/N let the compliment hang for a second longer than necessary. It meant something — more than she wanted it to. “Nice to know I can still get your attention,” she teased.

“You always had it,” he said. Then added, because he was Phil and couldn’t help himself: “Even when you were yelling at me on live TV.”

“You earned that,” she shot back. “You disappeared.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

That stopped her. “Look,” he continued, voice quieter, but steadier. “I know I burned it all down. I left. I shut the door. I didn’t call, I didn’t write—hell, I didn’t even text a happy birthday. You were my best friend and I treated you like you didn’t exist. I can’t fix that overnight. I’m not even sure I can fix it. But I’m trying.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second, pressing her fingers to her temple. “You’ve said that before.”

“I know. And maybe I didn’t mean it enough then. Maybe I didn’t know how much damage I’d done until I saw your face again on commentary—saw you talking trash like nothing had changed and everything had changed.”

She didn’t respond.

“And tonight…” he continued. “Tonight, you reminded me who the hell you are.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And who’s that?”

“The woman who made me look good for years,” he said. “Who carried half our tag matches without breaking a sweat. Who called spots on the fly better than I ever did. The woman who—no offense to your current crew—still outworks the entire locker room.”

Y/N sighed, half-smiling. “You’re trying really hard to butter me up.”

“I’m not buttering,” he said. “I’m being honest.”

That was the problem. He was.

“You know what the hardest part was?” he added after a beat. “Coming back and realizing you had every right to hate me.”

“I did hate you,” she said, and her voice was sharper now. “For a long time. You left without a word, like I was just collateral damage in your big ‘fuck you’ to the system.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said.

“Well, guess what? You weren’t.”

Silence.

“I know that now,” he said, quietly. “I should’ve stayed. Or at least told you why I couldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Phil hesitated. “Because you were my voice of reason. The only person who could make me change my beliefs. If I heard your voice… I would’ve stayed for the wrong reasons.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She hated how much that admission cracked something in her. How easily he could still reach that part of her she’d buried a decade ago.

“I’ve worked too hard to be where I am.” She finally said, breaking the silence. “I’m finally… happy. With myself. With what I’ve built.”

“I know,” Phil said. “And I’m not trying to mess that up.”

There was a pause. “I just—” he exhaled, the tension crackling gently in his voice. “I miss knowing what makes you laugh.” That stopped her. Before she could react, he added lightly, “Also kind of miss being the reason you roll your eyes so hard you nearly fall over.”

She smirked. “That’s still possible. You’re halfway there already.”

“See?” he said, dry and warm. “Still got it.”

Y/N leaned against the catering table, shaking her head, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You’re looking for a reaction.”

“Nah,” he replied, faux innocence bleeding through. “Just reminiscing. Pure nostalgia. Very wholesome.”

“Phil.”

“What?” he said, sounding wounded. “I can’t be nostalgic for the days when you’d threaten to superkick me under the desk and then smile at the camera like America’s sweetheart?”

“That was your fault for making fart jokes during serious segments.”

“I was setting the tone,” he countered. “Lightening the mood.”

“Sabotaging me.”

“Flirting with you.”

He said it quickly, casually — so fast she almost missed it. A beat passed. “Except,” he corrected, voice lower, “I wasn’t allowed to call it that back then. Not in the beginning at least. Had to pretend I didn’t care.”

Y/N was quiet. Not stunned — not flattered — just watchful. “You still pretending?” she asked.

Phil didn’t answer immediately. Then— “Depends. You still mad at me?”

“…Sometimes.”

“Then maybe I am. For now.”

Another silence. But it wasn’t awkward — it pulsed with something unresolved and decades deep. “You’re a mess,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” he replied easily. “But I was always your mess, remember?”

She exhaled slowly, lips parted. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, standing upright again, throat tight. “Because I might remember what it felt like. And I can’t afford to do that.”

Phil was quiet, the air between them feeling fuller somehow. “Okay,” he said at last. “Then I’ll stop.”

But the words hung too softly in the air to be believed. There was a beat between them before he spoke up again, voice curious. “You gonna be on Raw?” he asked.

Y/N raised a brow. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Tell me.”

“I just think you should come.”

“Are you planning something?”

“Me?” he said, mock innocence lacing his voice. “Never.”

She shook her head. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet…?”

“I still picked up,” she finished, sighing.

He smiled into the phone. “Old habits.”