#randyortonxreader

But the universe, specifically the wrestling universe, rarely gave you what you wanted without a fight. 

I turned the corner near the equipment crates, a narrow hallway dimly lit by the flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead, and nearly collided with a wall. 

Not a literal wall. A human one. 

I stumbled back, my boots scuffing the concrete, and looked up. And up. 

He was leaning against a stack of anvil cases, arms crossed over a chest that looked carved from granite. He was wearing a sleeveless hoodie, the hood pulled up slightly, casting a shadow over his eyes, but there was no mistaking the posture. It was the relaxed, predatory stance of an apex predator who knew exactly where everyone in the room was located. 

He tilted his head, the shadow retreating to reveal ice-blue eyes that could cut glass. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, one I hadn't seen in person in three years. 

"Isn't this a sight for sore eyes," Randy Orton drawled. 

His voice was deep, smooth, and carried that signature vibration that usually signaled an RKO was imminent. 

My heart did a traitorous little flip in my chest. "Randy," I breathed, quickly composing myself. I hitched my bag higher. "I didn't think you'd be lurking in the shadows this early. Don't you have a locker room to intimidate?" 

"I like the shadows," he said, pushing himself off the cases. He towered over me, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the narrow corridor. "You see more from the dark. And I heard a rumor that a certain Neidhart was back in the fold. I had to see if it was true." 

"Just 'a' Neidhart?" I raised an eyebrow, channeling every ounce of Nattie’s sass and my dad’s stubbornness. "I thought I was 'the' Neidhart." 

Randy chuckled, a low rumble. "Nattie is the responsible one. You... you were always the wild card, YN. The one who threw punches first and asked questions never." 

"I've mellowed," I lied. 

"Have you?" He took a step closer. The air between us crackled with a static charge that had nothing to do with the nearby electronics. "Because the look in your eyes says you're ready to tear someone's head off." 

"First night back jitters," I dismissed, though he was right. I was wired tight. "And maybe I just missed the violence. It’s genetic." 

"I know the feeling," he murmured. He looked me over, his gaze analytical but not disrespectful. It was the look of a veteran assessing another veteran. We had history—not romantic, exactly, but something adjacent to it. We had come up in a similar era, surviving the changing tides of the business. We had bonded over the unique pressure of being multi-generational stars. He knew what it was like to have a last name that weighed a ton. 

"You look good, YNN," he said, the smirk softening into something genuine. "Healthy." 

"I feel... put back together," I admitted. "Which is the best we can hope for in this circus." 

"Who do you have tonight?" 

"Ripley," I said, the name tasting like ash. "Management thought they’d feed me to the wolves right out of the gate. Sink or swim." 

Randy nodded slowly. "Rhea is tough. Brutal. But she’s not a dungeon graduate. She doesn't know how to stretch a person until they wish they were never born." 

"That's the plan," I grinned. "Technical dismantling." 

"Give her hell," Randy said. He reached out, his hand brushing my shoulder. It was a brief contact, but it sent a jolt of warmth through the cold adrenaline pumping in my veins. "And find me after. We have catching up to do. The place hasn't been the same without your specific brand of chaos." 

"Is that the Viper admitting he was lonely?" I teased. 

He winked, actually winked, and turned to walk away. "I never get lonely, YN. I just get bored. You make things... interesting." 

I watched him walk away, the swagger unmistakable, before shaking my head and heading toward the locker room. The anxiety hadn't vanished, but the encounter had grounded me. Randy was a constant variable in an ever-changing equation. If he was still standing, still fighting, then I could do it too. 

The match was a war. 

Rhea Ripley was everything they said she was—strong, fast, and radiating an aura of absolute dominance. The crowd in the arena was deafening, a mix of cheers for the returning underdog and adoration for the dominant champion. 

I took bumps I hadn’t taken in years. A clothesline that nearly took my head off. A boot to the face that I was sure loosened a molar. But the moment I hit the mat, the muscle memory kicked in. The pain wasn't a deterrent; it was fuel. 

I countered her power bomb with a hurricanrana, the crowd popping as I rolled through. I targeted the knee, channeling the most of my Uncle Bret, dissecting the limb with surgical precision. I locked in the Sharpshooter in the center of the ring, the roar of the crowd reaching a fever pitch. For a moment, I thought I had her. I pulled back, screaming, the lights blinding, the sweat pouring into my eyes. 

She made the ropes. Just barely. 

The end came swiftly after that. A momentary lapse in concentration, a split-second hesitation where I looked for the crowd's approval instead of the kill. The Riptide planted me into the canvas with enough force to rattle my ancestors. 

1... 2... 3. 

Lying there, staring up at the rig, my chest heaving, I felt the bitter sting of defeat. But beneath it, there was something else. Satisfaction. I had gone twenty minutes with the best in the world after two years on the shelf. I wasn't broken. I was back. 

Two hours later, showered and dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, I felt the crash. The adrenaline had evaporated, leaving behind a map of bruises blooming across my ribs and a deep, throbbing ache in my neck. 

Most of the roster had already left for the hotel or the next town. The arena was in the process of being deconstructed, the ring crew dismantling the stage with practiced efficiency. 

I wandered toward the loading dock, needing fresh air before cramming myself into a rental car. 

"You tapped out too early on that headlock," a voice said from the gloom. 

I stopped, smiling despite the pain. Randy was sitting on the tailgate of a black SUV parked near the exit ramp, a bag of ice taped to his shoulder. He was dressed in street clothes now, looking less like a demigod and more like a tired man who had just worked a shift at a very violent factory. 

"I didn't tap," I corrected, walking over to him. "I transitioned." 

"You transitioned into a forearm shiver," he countered, shifting to make room for me on the tailgate. 

I hopped up beside him, groaning slightly as my ribs protested. "Details, Randall. Details." 

He handed me a bottle of water he had sitting next to him. "You looked good out there, YNN. You made her earn it. The crowd was with you." 

"They were," I sighed, cracking the seal on the water. "God, I missed that sound. It’s the only drug that works." 

"Careful," Randy warned softly. "That drug has a hell of a comedown." 

"I know," I said, taking a long drink. I looked at him sideways. "What about you? I saw your segment on the monitor. RK-Bro is... surprisingly wholesome." 

Randy actually laughed, a genuine sound. "Riddle is an idiot. But he’s useful. It keeps me relevant. Keeps me on my toes." 

"You don't need help staying relevant. You're Randy Orton." 

"Everyone expires, YN. Even me. It’s just a matter of how long you can delay the inevitable." He looked at the ice pack on his shoulder, his expression darkening for a moment. "Every bump adds up. The bill always comes due." 

"Is that why you were lurking earlier?" I asked. "Checking to see if I was another casualty coming back for one last payday?" 

He turned to face me fully, his knee brushing against mine. The air shifted again, returning to that heavy, charged atmosphere from the hallway. "No. I checked because I missed my friend. And because... when you left, you didn't say goodbye." 

The accusation hung in the air. He was right. When I had left two years ago, it had been in the middle of the night, a silent retreat after a devastating injury and a mental breakdown following my dad's passing. I had cut ties with almost everyone, needing to disappear to find myself again. 

"I couldn't," I whispered, looking down at the water bottle in my hands. "I was in a dark place, Randy. If I had said goodbye, I might not have been able to leave. And if I hadn't left, I think I would have died. professionally and personally." 

Randy was silent for a long moment. Then, his hand moved, his fingers wrapping around my chin, gently lifting my face so I had to look at him. 

"You're a Neidhart," he said fiercely. "You're tough as nails. But you don't have to be a stone wall all the time." 

"Says the man who carved himself out of granite," I shot back, though my voice lacked bite. 

"I learned the hard way," he said, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I burned every bridge I ever crossed until I realized I was stranded on an island. I didn't want you to do the same." 

I looked into those blue eyes and saw the years of experience, the regrets, and the resilience. "I'm back now," I said softly. "I'm not running anymore." 

"Good," he said. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. The tension was palpable, a magnetic pull that had been dormant for years, suddenly awake and demanding attention. 

"So," I cleared my throat, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs. "What happens now?" 

"Now?" Randy removed his hand from my face but didn't pull back. "Now we get out of this damp loading dock. I know a bar near the hotel that serves a bourbon that will make you forget that powerbomb." 

"I don't drink much these days," I said. 

"Then you can watch me drink and tell me stories about the Dungeon that I know you were at most of the time," he compromised and then I gave him a confused look. "Nattie told me. You never trained much but you were there. I just... I don't want the night to end yet." 

The vulnerability in his voice was startling. Randy Orton, the Viper, admitted he didn't want to be alone. 

"Okay," I nodded. "But I'm driving. You have a bag of ice on your shoulder." 

He smirked, the cocky glint returning. "I like a woman who takes charge." 

He hopped off the tailgate and offered me a hand. As I took it, his grip was firm, grounding. I slid off the truck, landing close to him. Too close. 

We stood there for a beat, the sounds of the ring crew dropping steel beams echoing in the background. 

"YN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I meant it earlier," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It really is a sight for sore eyes. seeing you here. Alive. Fighting." 

I felt a blush heat my neck. "You're getting soft in your old age, Orton." 

"Maybe," he leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "Or maybe I just realized what I was missing." 

He pulled back before I could react, grabbing his bag with his good arm. "Let's go. I'm starving, and if I have to listen to Riddle talk about his scooter one more time tonight, I'm going to punt someone." 

I laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to be back. 

I walked beside him toward the exit, our shoulders brushing with every step. The wrestling business was a meat grinder. It chewed you up, spat you out, and demanded you thank it for the privilege. But as I glanced at Randy, watching the streetlights illuminate the sharp angles of his face, I realized that sometimes, it gave you something back. It gave you people who understood the madness. 

"Hey, Randy?" I asked as we reached the parking lot. 

"Yeah?" 

"Next week... tag match?" 

He stopped at the driver's side of my rental, grinning over the roof. "You and me?" 

"Why not? The Hart and the Viper. We could run this place." 

He considered it, a dangerous light igniting in his eyes. "I'll talk to creative. But only if you promise not to put me in the Sharpshooter if I tag myself in." 

"No promises," I said, unlocking the car. 

"Fair enough," he slid into the passenger seat. 

As I started the engine, looking over at him, I realized the "sore eyes" feeling went both ways. The arena, the ring, the pain—it was all manageable. But seeing him there, a constant in the chaos, that was the real homecoming. 

"Drive, Neidhart," he commanded, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. 

"Aye aye, Captain," I whispered, pulling out onto the highway, the road ahead looking a lot less lonely than it had this morning. 

The bar was a dive, the kind with sticky floors, dim red lighting, and a jukebox that seemed to only play classic rock from the 80s. It was perfect. It was a wrestler's sanctuary. 

We found a booth in the back, far away from the few other patrons who might have recognized the tattoos peeking out from Randy’s collar. He ordered a bourbon; I ordered a club soda with lime. 

"So," Randy said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Where were you? Really? For two years." 

I traced the rim of my glass. "Calgary, mostly. At the house. Just... being. Not being 'YN Neidhart, WWE Superstar.' Just being YN. I helped train some of the kids at the new academy for a bit. Worked on my knee rehab." 

"Did you miss it?" 

"Every day," I admitted. "But I need to get away from the heat of it for a while. It’s a toxic relationship, isn't it? This business." 

"The most toxic," he agreed, taking a sip. "But we’re addicted to the pop. To the heat." 

"What about you?" I asked. "You've been going non-stop. No breaks." 

"I don't know how to stop," Randy said, his eyes unfocused, staring at a flickering neon sign on the wall. "If I stop, I have to think. I have to deal with... life. The ring is simple. You hit me, I hit you harder. The rules are defined, even when we break them. Out here?" He gestured to the empty bar. "It’s messy." 

"You have kids, Randy. You have a life." 

"I do," he nodded firmly. "And I love them. But there's a part of me that only exists between those ropes. The Viper. And sometimes I worry that the Viper is taking up too much space. That there won't be enough of Randy left when it's all over." 

It was a fear we all shared. The gimmick consuming the person. 

"You seem balanced," I observed. "More than before." 

"I'm trying," he said. He looked at me. "Seeing you helps. Reminds me of the old days. OVW. The road trips. Remember when we got stuck in that blizzard in North Dakota?" 

I burst out laughing. "God, don't remind me. You, me, Teddy and Cody huddled in that sedan with the heat broken." 

"I thought we were going to freeze to death," Randy chuckled. "And you threatened to put Cody in a figure-four if he didn't stop complaining." 

"He was whining!" I defended. "And it kept us warm. Anger generates heat." 

"We were kids," Randy said, his voice soft. "We didn't know anything." 

"We knew we wanted to be legends," I said. 

"And now?" 

"Now I just want to be able to walk when I'm fifty," I said wryly. 

Randy reached across the table, covering my hand with his. His palm was warm, rough with calluses. "We'll make sure you do. We watch each other's backs now. That's the deal." 

"Is that an alliance proposal?" 

"Call it a pact," he said. "The survivors' pact." 

I turned my hand over, interlacing my fingers with his. It felt natural. Easy. "I like the sound of that." 

We sat in silence for a while, the jukebox playing "Turn the Page." It was a cliché, but appropriate. 

"You know," Randy said after a while, his thumb tracing the knuckles of my hand. "When I saw you in the hallway... my heart actually skipped a beat. I thought I was having an arrhythmia." 

"Very romantic," I rolled my eyes. "Comparing me to a cardiac event." 

"You know what I mean," he grumbled, but he was smiling. "I didn't realize how much I missed having someone who... gets it. Someone from my era. Someone who knows the Dungeon." 

"I get it," I squeezed his hand. "It’s lonely at the top of the mountain, Randall." 

"It is," he said. "But the view is better when you're not looking at it alone." 

He lifted my hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. It was a courtly gesture, at odds with the tattoos and the bad reputation, but entirely fitting for the man I knew. 

"Welcome home, YN," he whispered. 

"Good to be home, Randy." 

The night wore on, the stories flowing as easily as the drinks. We talked about matches, about politics, about the future. But mostly, we just existed in each other's orbit, two veterans finding solace in the shared scars of a life lived on canvas and steel. 

As we finally left the bar, the early morning air crisp and cold, I knew that this run would be different. I wasn't just fighting for a title or a legacy anymore. I had an anchor. I had a partner. 

And as Randy held the car door open for me, that smirk playing on his lips, I knew that the Viper and the Neidhart were about to tear the whole damn show down. Together. 

The door creaked, the hinges groaning in the dry air of the arena, and clicked shut. I could smell the perfume before I saw her—something expensive, sharp, but with an underlying scent of something burning, like ozone. 

"You’re not dressed," she said. 

I finished the knot on my left boot, gave it a solid tug, and finally looked up. 

YN Heyman stood with her back against the door, arms crossed over a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than most of the rookies made in a year. She didn't look like Paul. She didn't have the frantic, sweating energy of her father. She was still, composed. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, revealing a face that was uncomfortably readable. She looked like she was doing calculus in her head while everyone else was playing checkers. 

"I'm dressed enough," I said, leaning back. "Match isn't for an hour. Why are you here, YN?" 

"We need to go over the finish," she said, pushing off the door and walking further into the room. She moved like a cat. Not a house cat. A jaguar. Something that knew how to walk through the jungle without snapping a twig. 

"I know the finish," I said, eyeing her. "I hit the RKO. Usually, that’s where the conversation ends." 

She stopped a few feet away, invading my personal space just enough to be annoying, but not enough to be a threat. It was a power play. A Heyman specialty. 

"That’s the result, Randy. Not the finish. There’s a difference," she said, her voice smooth. "Solo isn't going to just let you hit it. Jimmy is going to be on the apron. And my father… well, you know Paul. He’s already been in the production truck twice tonight. He’s up to something." 

I stood up. I towered over her, but she didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. That was the thing about YN. She had grown up in this circus. She had seen giants, monsters, and maniacs since she was in diapers. I was just another coworker to her, regardless of how many legends I’d put on the shelf. 

"I handle Paul," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I’ve handled Paul since before you knew how to tie those combat boots you’re wearing. He’s a weasel. You stomp on the floor, and he scatters." 

"He’s desperate," she corrected me. "Roman is pressuring him. If the Bloodline loses tonight, the heat falls on the Wiseman. A desperate Paul Heyman is a dangerous Paul Heyman. He’s not going to rely on interference. He’s going to rely on a distraction." 

I walked past her, heading to the mirror. I checked the tape again. "And that’s why you’re out there. To neutralize the distraction. That was the deal." 

I saw her reflection in the glass. She turned to face my back. 

"The deal was that I watch your back," she said. "But you’re walking into a setup. I’ve seen the run sheet. They cut your entrance time by ninety seconds. They extended the commercial break before the main event. They’re squeezing the window. They want you rushing. They want you frustrated." 

I turned around slowly. "You think I care about a run sheet?" 

"I think you care about winning," she said. "And I think you care about not looking like a fool while my father cackles at ringside holding up the Ones." 

I stared at her. It was hard to separate the daughter from the father. She had his intellect, that was obvious. But where Paul used words as a bludgeon, YN used them like a scalpel. She was precise. She was advocating for me, supposedly. But in this business, 'advocating' usually meant 'manipulating.' 

I walked over to my bag and pulled out my vest. "So, what’s the pitch, YN? You didn’t come in here just to tell me the timing is off. You came in here with a plan. You Heymans always have a plan." 

She smirked. It was the first crack in the armor. It was a small, dangerous smile. 

"I do," she admitted. "But it requires you to trust me." 

I laughed. It was a dry, harsh sound. "Trust. That’s a funny word. Especially coming from someone with your last name. Your father stabbed me in the back more times than I can count. Why is the apple any different from the tree?" 

"Because the tree is rotting, Randy," she said, the smile vanishing. "Paul chose his side. He chose the Tribal Chief. He chose to be a servant to a king who rules by fear. I’m building my own kingdom. And right now, destroying his is the best way to start mine." 

She reached into her jacket pocket. My muscles tensed instinctively. Even after twenty years, you never lose the reflex to anticipate a weapon. 

She pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out. 

I took it. It wasn't a script. It was a printout of a technical schematic. Lighting rigs. Pyro cues. 

"What is this?" I asked. 

"It’s the cue sheet for the ending," she explained. "When you signal for the RKO, the lights are scheduled to flicker. A 'power outage.' It gives Solo the chance to use the Spike while you’re blind. Paul paid off the tech guy." 

I looked at the paper, then back at her. "And how do you have this?" 

"I paid him double," she said simply. 

I felt a begrudging respect rise in my chest. It was ruthless. It was efficient. It was exactly what I would have done if I had the patience to deal with production crews. 

"So the lights stay on?" I asked. 

"No," she said. "The lights go out. But not when they want them to. They go out five seconds early. When Jimmy tries to slide the chair in." 

I watched her eyes. They were dark, calculating, and utterly devoid of fear. She was playing 4D chess while the Bloodline was playing checkers. She was setting up her own father to fail, publicly and spectacularly. 

"You’re vicious," I said. It was a compliment. 

"I learned from the best," she replied, not specifying if she meant her father or the industry itself. 

I tossed the paper onto the bench. I grabbed my vest and pulled it on, feeling the weight of the leather settle on my shoulders. I rolled my neck, feeling the vertebrae pop. The adrenaline was starting to drip into my system now. The beast was waking up. 

I stepped closer to her, looking down. "So, I’m the bait." 

"You’re the Viper," she said. "You’re always the bait. You just happen to have the deadliest bite." 

I smirked. "And what happens when the lights come back on? What’s your play, YN?" 

She tapped the side of her nose. "Let’s just say I made a few adjustments to the ringside environment. Paul likes to use the timekeeper's area as a shield. I made sure it’s... accessible." 

I shook my head, a small chuckle escaping me. She was terrifying. I liked it. 

"You know," I said, checking my wrist tape one last time, "You talk a good game. You walk in here, you dissect the politics, you bribe the tech crew, and you set up a double-cross on your own flesh and blood." 

I locked eyes with her. 

"I'm sure you've got something up your sleeve," I said. "Something you aren't telling me. A backup plan for your backup plan." 

YN’s smile returned, sharper this time. "Randy, if I told you everything, you wouldn't need me. Just hit the cutter when the lights flash red. I’ll handle the Wise Man." 

"Fine," I said. "But if this goes south... if the lights go out and I catch a thumb to the throat..." 

"You won't," she promised. 

"If I do," I continued, leaning in, "You’re next." 

She didn't back down. "Deal." 

The Gorilla Position—the area just behind the curtain—was chaos. Producers running around with headsets, referees stretching, the muffled roar of fifteen thousand people vibrating through the floorboards. It was the heartbeat of the monster. 

I stood by the curtain, pacing. Left, right. Left, right. The zone. I needed to be in the zone. 

YN stood a few feet away. She was watching a monitor, her eyes scanning the feed of the ring. The Bloodline was already out there. Roman wasn't here tonight, which meant Solo was the pack leader. He stood in the corner, staring at nothing, a towel over his head. Jimmy was bouncing on the ropes. And Paul... Paul was holding the championship belt—Roman’s belt—looking at it like it was the Holy Grail. He looked nervous. He kept glancing at the timekeeper's area. 

YN was right. He knew something was coming. 

"Music in ten!" the stage manager yelled. 

I stopped pacing. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I visualized the ring. The canvas. The ropes. The bodies. I visualized the RKO. The jump, the grab, the impact. 

"Showtime," YN whispered. 

My music hit. I hear voices in my head... 

The crowd eruption was instantaneous. It wasn't just noise; it was physical force. It hit you in the chest. I walked through the curtain and the world exploded in gold light. 

I didn't rush. I never rushed. I walked out to the stage, looking out at the sea of bodies. I scanned the arena. Signs, flashes, screaming faces. I did the pose—arms out, soaking it in. The Golden Shower of pyro rained down behind me. 

I looked to my right. YN was walking a few steps behind me. She kept her distance, letting me have the spotlight, but her presence was felt. She walked with a swagger that rivaled mine. She caught Paul’s eye from the top of the ramp. 

I saw Paul’s face on the TitanTron. His jaw dropped. He whispered something to Solo. He hadn't expected her. Good. 

We marched down the ramp. I kept my eyes on Solo. He was the threat. Jimmy was the distraction. Paul was the nuisance. 

I slid into the ring, climbing the turnbuckle to pose again. The crowd chanted along with the music. It was intoxicating. But I couldn't get drunk on it. Not tonight. 

The bell rang. 

We didn't lock up immediately. We circled. Solo was strong, fast for his size, and ruthless. He had that Samoan dynasty power. 

"Come on, old man!" Jimmy shouted from the apron. 

I ignored him. I lunged, locking up with Solo. He shoved me back. I came back with a forearm. He absorbed it. We traded blows—heavy, meat-slapping strikes that echoed in the arena. 

The match fell into a rhythm. I controlled the pace early, working the arm, keeping Solo grounded. But the numbers game always crept in. Jimmy took a cheap shot when the ref was distracted by Paul. Solo capitalized, hitting a spinning heel kick that rattled my teeth. 

I spent the next ten minutes fighting from underneath. The crowd was rallying, clapping, stomping. Ran-dy! Ran-dy! 

I was in the corner, gasping for air. Solo charged for the hip attack. I moved. He crashed into the buckles. 

This was the opening. 

I hit the clotheslines. The powerslam. The crowd rose to their feet. I grabbed Jimmy, who tried to interfere, and hit the draping DDT. 

I was on fire. The adrenaline washed away the pain in my back. I dropped to the mat. I pounded the canvas. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

The crowd knew what was coming. 

I waited for Solo to get up. He stumbled, turning around. 

Flicker. 

The arena lights spasmed. It wasn't a blackout, but a strobe effect. Red. Black. Red. Black. It was disorienting. 

I saw Jimmy toss a chair into the ring. This was the setup. Solo caught the chair. He wound up to swing. 

But the lights didn't come back on fully. They went pitch black. 

The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath. 

In the darkness, I heard a loud clatter of metal on metal. A yelp—Paul’s voice. Then a heavy thud inside the ring. 

Three... two... one... 

The lights slammed back on, blindingly bright white. 

The scene had changed. 

Solo was standing there, looking confused. The chair was gone. 

YN was standing on the apron. She held the steel chair. She hadn't hit Solo. She had intercepted the pass. She had snatched the chair out of the air in the darkness. 

But that wasn't the "something up her sleeve." 

At ringside, Paul Heyman was handcuffed to the bottom rope. 

I looked at YN. She grinned, tossing the chair down to the floor, far away from Solo’s reach. She pointed at Solo. 

Solo looked at Paul, panicking. He looked at YN. 

He turned back to me. 

Distraction achieved. 

I didn't hesitate. I didn't think. I just moved. 

Solo turned into the jump. I grabbed the head. I dropped. 

RKO. 

The impact was perfect. The crowd pop was deafening. 

I hooked the leg. 

One! Two! Three! 

The bell rang. My music hit. 

I rolled off Solo, clutching my ribs, and sat up. I looked at the turnbuckle. Paul was screaming, trying to pull his wrist free from the cuffs attached to the bottom rope. He was red-faced, furious, shouting obscenities at his own daughter. 

YN hopped off the apron and walked over to him. She knelt down, just out of his reach. She held up a small key. 

She dangled it in front of his face, then dropped it... right down her own cleavage. 

She stood up, smoothed her jacket, and slid into the ring. 

I got to my feet. The referee raised my hand. I yanked it away, needing a second. I walked over to YN. 

She stood in the center of the ring, the chaos of the Bloodline retreating (Jimmy was trying to free Paul, failing miserably). 

"Handcuffs?" I asked, breathing heavy, sweat dripping off my nose. "That was the plan?" 

"I told you I made the timekeeper's area accessible," she shouted over the noise of the crowd. "Paul always keeps a pair under the table for... emergencies. I just repurposed them." 

I looked at Paul, who was currently kicking the barricade in frustration. I looked back at YN. 

"You're dangerous," I said. 

"I'm a Heyman," she replied, a genuine smile breaking through her stoic mask. "And I'm on the winning side." 

I extended a hand. She looked at it for a second, then shook it. Her grip was firm. 

"Good call," I said. 

I climbed the turnbuckle to pose for the fans, listening to the roar. They were happy. The bad guys lost. The Viper won. 

But as I looked down from the ropes, watching YN exit the ring and walk up the ramp without looking back at her trapped father, I felt a different kind of chill. 

I had been right back in the locker room. 

She definitely had something up her sleeve. And the terrifying part wasn't that she had used it to help me win. 

The terrifying part was how easy it had been for her to take out the Wise Man. 

If she could do that to him... I’d have to make damn sure she never had a reason to do it to me. 

I hopped down, grabbed a water bottle, and followed her up the ramp. The Viper and the Heiress. 

It was going to be an interesting run. Hopefully, I’d see the knife coming before she stuck it in. But looking at the back of her leather jacket, confident and cold, I had my doubts. 

YN nodded, her eyes flickering from the monitors to the curtain. Her brother was out there right now, tearing the house down in a tag match. But her anxiety wasn't for AJ. He was in his element here in Georgia. The crowd was deafening, a sea of noise that vibrated through the floorboards. 

No, her anxiety was anchored to the man listed next on the run sheet. 

Randy Orton. 

Just reading the name in black ink caused a hitch in her breath. Three weeks ago, in a dimly lit hotel bar in Chicago, the line between "colleague’s sister" and "something more" had been blurred. It hadn't been crossed—not fully—but they had stood on the precipice. There had been a touch of a hand on a forearm that lingered too long, a conversation that stripped away the Viper persona to reveal the complex man beneath, and a gaze that felt like it scorched her soul. 

And then? Radio silence. 

For three weeks, Randy had been a ghost. He arrived late, left early, and seemed to possess a supernatural ability to be in whatever room YN wasn’t. 

"He’s on deck," a tech whispered near her. 

YN stiffened. She turned slowly, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. 

Randy Orton emerged from the shadows of the hallway like a predator stepping out of the tall grass. He was wearing his signature sleeveless hoodie, the fabric unable to hide the massive expanse of his shoulders. He was taping his wrists, his head down, focused. The Viper. The Legend Killer. He looked terrifyingly composed, a statue of coiled violence. 

He looked up. 

The backstage chaos seemed to fall away, the shouting of producers and the roar of the crowd fading into a dull hum. His ice-blue eyes locked onto hers with the precision of a sniper. There was no smile, no nod of acknowledgment. Just a raw, intense stare that stripped her defenses bare. 

YN wanted to say something. She wanted to demand to know why he had frozen her out. But her throat felt dry. 

Randy paused, just for a fraction of a second, his steps faltering as he passed her station. His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering near his ear. He looked like he wanted to stop, like he was fighting the momentum of his own life. 

"Go time, Randy," the producer signaled. 

The moment shattered. Randy rolled his neck, the familiar cold mask sliding back into place. He brushed past her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to smell the unique scent of sandalwood and expensive soap that clung to him even before a match. 

"Good luck," she whispered, the words barely audible. 

He didn't turn, but she saw his hand twitch at his side. Then, the music hit—Voices—and he walked through the curtain into the blinding light, leaving her standing in the dark, colder than she had been before. 

The show ended three hours later. The adrenaline crash that followed a live broadcast was palpable backstage. The arena, once a hive of frenetic energy, was now being dismantled. Road cases were being slammed shut, cables coiled, and talent were rushing to showers to scrub off the sweat and the character. 

YN sat in her rental car in the underground parking garage, staring at the concrete wall. She should go to the hotel. She should get some sleep before the flight to Tampa in the morning. But her mind was replaying the look in Randy’s eyes. 

It wasn't indifference. She knew indifference; she had seen Randy look at opponents he didn't respect with dead eyes. This was something else. It looked like conflict. 

Her phone buzzed. A text from AJ. Heading to Waffle House with the Good Brothers. You coming? 

She typed back quickly. Pass. Exhausted. Heading straight to the hotel. Love you. 

She needed to be alone. Or rather, she needed to not be surrounded by her brother’s protective orbit. AJ knew nothing about Chicago. If he knew that Randy Orton—a man AJ respected professionally but knew was complicated personally—had been getting close to his little sister, the "Phenomenal One" would likely have a phenomenal meltdown. 

YN drove to the hotel, the downtown Atlanta skyline glowing amber and gold in the night. The hotel bar was the unofficial post-show meeting ground, but she intended to bypass it. She walked through the lobby, her heels clicking on the marble, head down, clutching her room key like a shield. 

"YN." 

The voice was low, smooth, and unmistakable. It came from a shadowed alcove near the elevators, not the bar. 

She froze. Slowly, she turned. 

Randy was leaning against the wall, dressed in civilian clothes now—dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He looked tired. The showmanship was washed away, leaving the man. The lights of the lobby cast deep shadows over his features, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones. 

"Randy," she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "I didn't think you were staying at this hotel." 

"I wasn't supposed to," he admitted, pushing off the wall. He took a step toward her, closing the distance. "Changed my booking last minute." 

"Why?" 

"Because I knew you were staying here." 

YN let out a short, incredulous laugh. "That’s rich. You change hotels to be where I am, but for the last three weeks, you’ve been treating me like I have a contagion. I practically had to send a search party to find you in catering." 

Randy looked down, his boots scuffing the expensive carpet. He looked chastened, which was a look so foreign on Randy Orton it was almost disorienting. "I know." 

"You know?" YN crossed her arms, the anger finally bubbling to the surface, overriding the attraction. "Chicago wasn't... it wasn't nothing, Randy. If you regretted it, you could have just said so. You didn't have to hide." 

Randy’s head snapped up. The blue eyes flashed, not with anger, but with a fierce intensity. He took another step, invading her personal space, towering over her. 

"I wasn't hiding from you," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble. "I was hiding from myself." 

The sentence hung in the air between them. YN blinked, her arms dropping to her sides. "What does that mean?" 

Randy sighed, running a large hand over his short hair. He looked around the lobby to ensure they were alone, then motioned toward a quiet seating area tucked away behind a large decorative planter. "Can we sit? Please. My back is killing me." 

YN hesitated, then nodded. They sat on a plush velvet sofa, sitting at opposite ends, the cushion depressed under Randy's weight. 

"YN, look at me," Randy said softly. 

She turned to face him. Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the scars that mapped his history on his skin. 

"I’m forty-five years old," Randy began, leaning his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. "I’ve lived a life that would break most people. I’ve made mistakes—public ones, loud ones. I come with baggage, bad press, and a reputation that I earned the hard way." 

He looked at her, his gaze softening. "In Chicago... that was the first time in a long time I felt like I was just a guy talking to a woman. Not the Viper. Not a wrestler. Just Randy. And you... You’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you have your life together." 

"I most certainly do not have my life together, Randy," she interjected gently. “It’s a shitshow. I just cover it well with a southern smile and a ‘Bless your heart.’” 

"You’re perfect compared to the chaos I usually bring," he countered. "After Chicago, I panicked. I thought about what would happen if we started this. I thought about AJ coming for my head. I thought about the dirt sheets dragging you into my mess. I thought the best thing I could do for you was to stay the hell away." 

YN absorbed his words. It wasn't rejection; it was a misguided attempt at protection. It was classic Randy Orton—thinking ten moves ahead but analyzing the board with paranoia. 

"You decided for me," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "You decided I couldn't handle the chaos. That’s not your call to make, Randy." 

"I know," he whispered. "I realized that tonight. When I walked past you at Gorilla... it took every ounce of self-control I had not to stop. I saw you standing there, looking so... fierce. And I felt like a coward. I don't like feeling like a coward." 

YN shifted, sliding closer to him on the couch. The distance between them was now only inches. "So, you weren't hiding because you didn't want me. You were hiding because you did." 

Randy turned his head, his face inches from hers. The air between them crackled, charged with the same electricity that had been there in Chicago, but amplified by the confession. 

"I haven't been able to think about anything else," he admitted. "I lay in bed at night, and I hear your laugh. I see the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're reading a script. It’s driving me insane, YN." 

He reached out, his hand hesitating for a moment before cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed over her skin, rough calluses against softness. "I tried to stay away. I failed." 

YN leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Good. Because I wasn't planning on letting you run forever." 

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with a reverence that took her breath away. "What about AJ?" she asked, the practical part of her brain firing one last warning shot. 

Randy’s lip curled into a half-smirk, the dangerous edge returning, but tempered with affection. "I’ve RKO’d AJ out of mid-air before. I can handle a conversation with him. As long as I know you’re with me." 

"I’m with you," she whispered. 

Randy didn't wait any longer. He leaned in, closing the gap. His lips met hers, not with the aggressive hunger of a man who took what he wanted, but with the slow, deliberate passion of a man who had been denying himself for too long. It was a kiss that tasted of longing and relief. 

YN’s hands found their way to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape. Randy groaned low in his throat, his other hand coming to rest on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss deepened, the world outside the hotel lobby melting away. There was no WWE, no travel schedule, no AJ Styles. Just the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. 

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Randy rested his forehead against hers. His eyes were closed, a peaceful expression smoothing out the harsh lines of his face. 

"No more hiding," he murmured against her skin. 

"No more hiding," she agreed. 

Randy pulled back slightly, looking at her with a clarity she hadn't seen before. "You hungry? I know a place that’s open late. Not Waffle House either Somewhere quiet." 

YN smiled. "Starving." 

Randy stood up and extended his hand. YN took it, her hand engulfed by his. As he pulled her up, he didn't let go. He interlaced their fingers, a public claim, a silent promise. 

They walked toward the hotel exit, the automatic doors sliding open to reveal the humid Atlanta night. The air was still heavy, but to YN, it felt different now. It didn't feel like a weight; it felt like a blanket, warm and encompassing. 

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Randy squeezed her hand. "You know, AJ is going to lose his mind." 

YN laughed, swinging their joined hands. "Oh, absolutely. He’s going to be furious." 

Randy smirked, glancing down at her. "Let him be. I’m not going anywhere." 

"Neither am I," YN said. 

They walked down the street, two figures under the streetlights, moving away from the arena and into the city. The noise of the industry was behind them, and for the first time in weeks, the silence wasn't empty. It was full of possibility. 

The Viper had stopped coiling. He had found a reason to be still. And YN Jones, the woman who managed chaos for a living, had found the one storm she didn't want to tame—she just wanted to ride it out, together. 

The hotel restaurant was buzzing with the breakfast rush. Wrestlers, agents, and crew were fueling up before the loop continued to Florida. 

YN sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, reviewing the travel manifest on her tablet. She felt a shadow fall over the table. She didn't need to look up to know who it was; the scent of sandalwood gave him away. 

Randy slid into the chair opposite her. He didn't say a word, just placed a plate of fruit and a bagel down, then looked at her with a lazy, satisfied grin. 

"Morning," he said, his voice rough with sleep. 

"Morning," she replied, fighting a blush. "Sleep well?" 

"Best in years," he said, taking a sip of her coffee without asking. 

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Conversation died down. Heads turned. 

AJ Styles stood in the doorway of the restaurant. He looked tired, his hair slightly messy, wearing a frantic expression. He scanned the room, looking for his sister. His eyes landed on their table. 

He saw YN. Then he saw Randy. Then he saw Randy drinking YN’s coffee. 

AJ’s eyes widened. He walked over to the table, his steps quick and sharp. He stopped, looking between the two of them. Randy didn't flinch; he just leaned back in his chair, looking calm, collected, and utterly unbothered. 

"YN?" AJ asked, his voice rising in pitch. "Randy?" 

YN set her tablet down. She looked at her brother, then at the man she had fallen for. She reached across the table and took Randy’s hand, resting it openly on the white tablecloth. 

"Hey, Al," she said casually. "Grab a chair.” 

Randy smirked at AJ, a glint of the old Viper mischief in his eyes. "Yeah, AJ. Sit down. I promise I won't bite." He paused, looking at YN. "Unless she asks me to." 

YN kicked him under the table, but she couldn't hide her smile. AJ looked like he needed a chair, a drink, and possibly a medic.