#sethrollinsxreader

"And what might that be?" He asks turning towards you and wrapping his arms around you.

"What if we went ahead and got married here? You know just the two of us and we can still have the one next year with all of our family and friends if you want." You said.

"You wanna have a shotgun wedding here and be married by Elvis?" He asked.

"I mean I know it's super last minute and all, but weren't you just saying that you couldn't wait until I finally had your last name?" You asked him.

"Yes, I was and I meant so let's go find some better-looking outfits and let's get married sweetheart." He said.

About an hour later you two finally had some better-looking outfits and you were finishing up your makeup when you heard a gasp behind you. You turned and saw Seth standing there looking absolutely handsome in his suit.

"Sweetheart you look absolutely gorgeous. I can't believe in just an hour you will officially be Mrs. Lopez." He said.

"I know I can't believe it either. You look absolutely handsome baby." You said placing a kiss on his lips.

After you finished getting ready, you two made your way down to the chapel, where you were seen immediately and the receptionist promised to take photos for you guys since it was just the two of you. Once the ceremony started you could see the tears forming in Seth's eyes as Elvis read through the speech.

"And do you Colby Lopez take Y/N, do be your loving wife?" Elvis asked.

"I do." He said with the biggest smile on his face.

"And do you Y/N take Colby to be your husband?" Elvis asked you.

"You know I do." You said.

"By the power invested in me and the great state of Nevada, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." Elvis said as Seth dipped you in his arms and kissed you.

"I love you, Mrs. Lopez." Seth said as you two kissed.

She looked up, sensing my gaze. It’s a talent all the good ones have; you learn to feel when the predator enters the room. Her eyes, dark and sharp, narrowed instantly. She didn't smile. She didn't swoon. She pointed at the curtain and mouthed, “Go.” 

I laughed. It wasn't my TV laugh—that high-pitched cackle designed to grate on the nerves of the mid-western populous. It was a genuine chuckle. God, she hated me. Or at least, she tried very hard to convince herself she did. 

"Music!" the stage manager shouted. 

The opening chords of my theme hit the PA system. The crowd erupted, the "Oooooh-ohhh-ohhh" chant starting immediately, a choir of devotees worshipping at the altar of Seth Freakin’ Rollins. 

I stepped through the curtain, the blinding lights hitting me, and the persona took over. I strutted, I conducted the crowd, I bathed in the adoration and the hatred. But as I made my way down the ramp, sliding into the ring with the grace of a man who had done this ten thousand times, a part of my brain remained backstage. 

I was thinking about the script YN had handed me three hours ago. I was thinking about how much I was about to dismantle it. 

The segment went long. Of course it went long. I held the microphone like a scepter, teasing the crowd, winding up my opponent—some young upstart from NXT who thought he could hang with the Architect—and generally causing havoc for the timekeepers. I saw the referee checking his watch, sweating bullets. I saw the production crew at ringside frantically waving for me to wrap it up. 

I ignored them all. I kept talking. I kept preening. 

When I finally decided to drop the mic and engage in a "spontaneous" brawl that saw us tumble over the announce table, I made sure to crash right in front of the timekeeper's area where the producers often hovered. 

I took a stiff shot to the ribs, grimacing as my back collided with the barricade. Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, I looked up. YN was there now, standing next to Michael Cole, her headset pulled off one ear. She looked furious. She tapped her wrist aggressively. 

I winked at her. 

The brawl ended with security pulling us apart. My music hit again. I rolled back into the ring, raising my arms in victory despite having not actually won a match. The crowd ate it up. As I walked up the ramp, backing away, I saw YN vanish behind the curtain. 

Perfect. 

By the time I walked through the curtain myself, the adrenaline was beginning to curdle into soreness. The sweat was cooling on my skin, making the velvet suit stick uncomfortably. 

"Rollins!" 

The voice was unmistakable. It had that slight Oklahoma twang, buried under years of professional polish, but when she was angry, the JR came out. 

I turned, feigning surprise. "YN! Did you hear that pop? They love me. They absolutely love me." 

YN Ross marched up to me, the run sheet rolled up in her hand like a weapon. She was smaller than me, obviously, but in that moment, she felt seven feet tall. She had that "mom voice" down pat, the kind that makes grown men flinch. 

"You went four minutes over," she hissed, backing me toward a stack of flight cases. "Four minutes, Seth. We had to cut the women's tag backstage segment. Do you have any idea how much rescheduling I have to do now?" 

I leaned back against the cases, crossing my arms. I tried to look contrite, but I knew the smirk was bleeding through. "Art cannot be rushed, YNN. You know that. Your dad knows that. How many times did he have to ad-lib because Stone Cold decided to drink beer for an extra ten minutes?" 

"Don't bring my father into this," she snapped, though the mention of JR softened her eyes for a fraction of a second before the steel returned. "This isn't the Attitude Era. We have strict timing. We have sponsors. And you... you were just messing around out there." 

"I was storytelling," I corrected gently. "I was building intrigue." 

"You were staring at me," she accused, pointing a finger at my chest. It landed on one of the ridiculous ruffles of my shirt. "You took that bump into the barricade right in front of me on purpose. You’re like a child showing off on the playground." 

I pushed off the cases, closing the distance between us. The hallway was bustling with sweaty wrestlers, frantic makeup artists, and camera crews, but I tuned them out. I lowered my voice, dropping the projection, dropping the "Visionary" volume. 

"Did it work?" I asked softly. 

She blinked, caught off guard. "What?" 

"Did it work?" I repeated, looking down at her. "Did I get your attention, Ms. Ross?" 

She held her ground, refusing to be intimidated by the proximity. She smelled like vanilla and stress. "You always have everyone's attention, Seth. That's the problem. You suck all the oxygen out of the room." 

"Maybe I just want to share the air with you," I murmured. 

She rolled her eyes, exacerbatingly, wonderfully. "Go shower. You smell like stale sweat and ego. We have a production meeting in twenty minutes, and if you're late, I'm fining you." 

"Fining me? Is that even in your jurisdiction?" 

"I'm JR's daughter," she said, a small, dangerous smile finally touching her lips. "I know where all the bodies are buried, and I know who to call to make your life a logistical nightmare. Go. Shower." 

She turned on her heel and walked away, the click-clack of her boots echoing on the concrete. I watched her go, the ache in my ribs suddenly feeling a lot less bothersome. 

The locker room was a sanctuary of male toxicity and deep heat rub. I showered quickly, washing away the hair gel and the grime, and changed into a slightly less loud outfit—a track suit that probably cost more than my first car. 

I sat on the bench, taping up my knee. It was aching again. The years add up. The bumps add up. I looked at the mirror on the locker door. The grey in my beard was real. The lines around my eyes were real. 

Why did I do it? Why did I push the envelope every single night? 

YN’s face popped into my mind. It was the challenge. It was always the challenge. 

I finished dressing and headed toward catering. The show was in the third hour now; the main event guys were warming up. The vibe backstage had shifted from frantic energy to a low-level endurance test. Everyone just wanted to get to the hotel. 

I found her in catering, sitting alone at a round table, picking at a salad. She had her laptop open, the blue light reflecting on her glasses. She looked tired. Being a producer in this madhouse was harder than taking bumps. We get to release our aggression; she had to absorb everyone else’s. 

I grabbed two bottles of water and slid into the chair opposite her. 

She didn't look up from the screen. "I told you, production meeting is in the conference room down the hall. You're in the wrong place." 

"Meeting got pushed," I lied effortlessly. "Paul’s stuck on a call with the network." 

She sighed, finally looking at me. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Without the frames, she looked younger, softer. "You're lying." 

"I am," I admitted. "But you look like you need a break, and I'm charming company." 

"You're exhausting company," she corrected, but she closed the laptop. She took the water bottle I offered. "Thanks." 

"Rough night?" 

"Standard night," she said, cracking the cap. "You went long. The tag match went short. One of the pyro cues failed. And my dad texted me a picture of his barbecue sauce display at a grocery store in Tulsa. I mean it looked good. But still. 

I laughed, taking a swig of my water. "Good old Jim.” 

"He thinks you're a bad influence," she said, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of the bottle. 

"He loves me," I scoffed. "He calls me the 'most talented athlete in the game today.' I heard him say it on a podcast." 

"He also said you dress like a peacock that got into a paintball fight," she countered. 

"Fashion is subjective." 

We sat in silence for a moment. It was comfortable, strangely. For all our bickering, there was an understanding there. We were both lifers. We both grew up in this business, in different ways. She had sawdust in her veins; I had it in my lungs. 

"Why do you do it, Seth?" she asked suddenly. The tone wasn't accusatory anymore. It was curious. 

"Do what?" 

"Push buttons. Deviate from the script. Chaos for the sake of chaos. Today... you could have just done the promo, hit your cues, and come back. It would have been great. You're Seth Rollins; you could read the phone book and get a reaction. But you had to make it difficult. You had to risk getting heat with management. You had to take a bump you didn't need to take." 

I leaned back, resting my arm on the back of the chair. I studied her face. She really wanted to know. She was the structured one. The organizer. The one who made sure the trains ran on time. I was the one who liked to derail them just to see the explosion. 

"It keeps me alive," I said honestly. "If I just go out there and do exactly what's on that paper... I'm just an actor. I'm just a cog in the machine. But if I change the timing? If I make the ref panic? If I make you panic? Then it's real. For a few seconds, it's real again." 

She shook her head, a lock of dark hair falling over her face. "It's reckless. You're going to burn out. Or get fired. Or get hurt." 

"I'm already hurt," I shrugged. "That's the gig." 

"It doesn't have to be," she insisted. "You can be great without being a liability." 

I looked at her, really looked at her. I saw the concern beneath the professional veneer. I saw the daughter of a man who had seen too many friends die young, too many careers end in tragedy. She was trying to protect the business, yes, but maybe she was trying to protect me too. 

It terrified me. It thrilled me. 

"YN," I said, my voice dropping to that low, intimate register again. 

"What?" 

"Travel with me tonight." 

She froze. "Excuse me?" 

"I'm driving to the next town. Three hours. Come with me. Cancel your flight. Ride with me." 

"I can't do that, Seth," she said, her voice rushing. "It’s unprofessional." 

"Since when has 'professional' ever been fun?" 

"It's not about fun," she said, her hands tightening around the water bottle. "It's about the job. It's about maintaining boundaries. We work together. You are talent. I am management adjacent. It's... it's messy." 

"Messy is good," I countered. "Messy is real." 

"No," she shook her head, almost desperately. "Safe is good. Predictable is good. Predictable means everyone goes home in one piece." 

I stood up. I walked around the table until I was standing right next to her chair. She didn't look up, staring resolutely at the plastic grain of the catering table. I placed my hand on the table, leaning down so my face was level with hers. 

"You're scared," I whispered. 

"I am not scared," she lied. 

"You are. You're scared that if you get in that car with me, you might actually enjoy yourself. You're scared that you might realize that chaos is a lot more addictive than order." 

She turned her head to look at me, her eyes blazing. "I am not scared of you, Seth Rollins. I am simply trying to be a responsible adult in a building full of overgrown children." 

"Then prove it." 

"Prove what?" 

"Ride with me. We'll listen to bad music. We'll stop at a gas station at 2 AM for terrible coffee. I'll let you lecture me about time management for three straight hours. I won't even argue back. Much." 

She bit her lip. I saw the war in her eyes. The Ross logic fighting against the instinct. 

"It's a bad idea," she whispered. 

I grinned. It was the grin of the Architect, the one who saw the checkmate ten moves ahead. 

"Safe, boring, predictable," I listed, ticking them off on my fingers. "You could go to the airport, wait in line, sit in a cramped seat, get to the hotel at 4 AM, and sleep alone. That’s the safe option." 

I leaned closer, close enough that I could count the eyelashes framing her dark eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her. 

"Where's the fun in that?" 

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and electric. It was the mantra of my life, the philosophy that had garnered me gold belts and broken bones. 

YN looked at me. She looked at my lips, then back to my eyes. The tension in her shoulders didn't leave, but something in her expression shifted. The wall didn't crumble, but a door opened. 

She let out a long, ragged sigh, picking up her glasses from the table. She slid them back on, regaining a fraction of her armor. 

"If you play country music," she said, her voice steady but quiet, "I will tuck and roll out of the moving vehicle. I rather not feel like I’m 6 years old again riding with Dad and Austin." 

My heart hammered against my ribs—a harder hit than any barricade bump. "Top 40 pop only. I promise." 

"And no stops at sketchy diners. I don't want food poisoning." 

"Gas station snacks only. The breakfast of champions." 

She stood up, gathering her laptop. She looked at me, and for the first time all night, the scowl was completely gone. In its place was a look of reluctant amusement, and beneath that, a spark of something that looked a hell of a lot like desire. 

"You're impossible," she said. 

"I'm Seth Freakin’ Rollins," I corrected, offering her my arm. 

She looked at my arm, then at my face. She shook her head, ignoring the arm but falling into step beside me as we walked out of catering. 

"Don't make me regret this," she warned as we headed toward the exit. 

"YNN," I said, bumping my shoulder against hers. "Regret is just a memory with a bad attitude. We're going to make memories." 

"That doesn't even make sense." 

"It sounded good, though." 

We pushed through the double doors, leaving the sterile air conditioning of the arena for the humid night air of the parking lot. The fans were still out by the barricades, screaming names, but for once, I didn't look at them. 

I unlocked my rental car—a flashy black SUV, naturally—and tossed my bag in the back. YN hesitated by the passenger door. She looked back at the arena, the monolith of concrete and steel where her father had made his name, where she was making hers. It represented safety. Rules. The script. 

Then she looked at me. I was leaning against the hood, keys swinging from my finger, wearing a ridiculous tracksuit and a grin that promised absolutely nothing but trouble. 

She opened the door. 

"Just drive, Rollins," she said as she slid into the seat. "Before I come to my senses." 

I laughed, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine. I revved it once, just to see her roll her eyes, and pulled out of the lot. 

The road ahead was dark, winding, and completely unscripted. 

Exactly the way I liked it. 

The drive was exactly as I promised, and exactly as she feared. 

For the first hour, we argued. We argued about the show. We argued about the finishes. We argued about whether or not the undeniable chemistry between us was actually just professional friction. (I argued it was chemistry; she argued it was indigestion). 

"You cannot just change the finish of a match because you 'feel it'," she said, gesturing with a piece of beef jerky she’d bought at a Love’s Travel Stop. 

"I didn't change the finish," I said, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of a Taylor Swift song she pretended to hate but was secretly humming along to. "I just changed the journey to the finish. That’s jazz, baby." 

"It's insubordination," she countered. 

"It's genius." 

"You're insufferable." 

"You're eating my beef jerky." 

She looked at the jerky, then took a defiant bite. "Compensation for emotional damages." 

By the second hour, the arguments faded. The radio volume went down. The highway was a ribbon of darkness illuminated only by my headlights. The adrenaline of the show had finally fully worn off, leaving us in that strange, intimate exhaustion that only exists on the road between towns. 

"My dad likes you, you know," she said quietly, breaking a long silence. 

I glanced over. She was leaning her head against the window, watching the trees blur by. 

"I know," I said. "He respects the work." 

"He worries, though. He says guys like you... you burn so bright you burn out fast." 

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, tightening my grip on the wheel. "I've got too much left to do." 

"Just..." She turned her head, looking at me in the dim light of the dashboard. "Be careful. Okay? Just a little bit. For me." 

The vulnerability in her voice hit me harder than a Curb Stomp. It wasn't the producer talking to the talent. It was YN talking to Colby. 

I reached over the console. It was a risk. A deviation from the script. But I took her hand. Her fingers were cool, her palm soft. She didn't pull away. Instead, she laced her fingers through mine, squeezing tight. 

"I'll try," I said. "But no promises. Safety isn't really my brand." 

"I know," she whispered. She looked down at our joined hands. "God, I'm in so much trouble." 

"The worst kind," I agreed cheerfully. 

We pulled into the hotel parking lot just after 2 AM. The building was quiet, the lobby empty except for a sleepy night clerk. We got our keys—separate rooms, ostensibly. Her room was on the third floor. Mine was on the fourth. 

We stood in the elevator, the silence thick and heavy. The numbers ticked up. One. Two. 

"Well," she said, clutching her room key card like a shield. "Thanks for the ride. And the jerky." 

"Anytime." 

The elevator dinged at the third floor. The doors slid open. She stepped out, then stopped. She turned back to look at me, holding the door open with her hand. 

"Seth?" 

"Yeah?" 

"If... hypothetically... you wanted to come down to room 314 in about ten minutes to finish arguing about the match structure..." 

She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. 

I grinned, the tiredness vanishing instantly. "Hypothetically?" 

"Hypothetically," she confirmed. "Strictly professional analysis." 

"Of course," I nodded solemnly. "I have some very strong points I need to make regarding the transition sequences." 

"I bet you do." 

She let go of the door. "Ten minutes. Don't be late. I hate lateness." 

"I'm never late," I said. "I arrive precisely when I mean to." 

The doors slid shut, hiding her from view, but the image of her—flushed, expectant, and finally breaking the rules—burned into my retina. 

I leaned my head back against the elevator wall and laughed. It bubbled up from my chest, echoed in the metal box. 

Safe? Boring? Predictable? 

I looked at the floor indicator as it hit the fourth floor. I didn't even go to my room. I just waited for the doors to open, hit the button for the third floor immediately, and waited for the ride back down. 

Why wait ten minutes? Why follow the rules? 

On the screen, the titantron was flashing a name that made my chest tighten. YRN. 

My step-sister. The girl who used to steal my wrestling figures and throw them off the roof of the garage. The woman who had spent the last nine months sitting on a couch in Davenport, Iowa, crying out of frustration because a surgeon told her she might never wrestle again. 

They told us it was a herniated disc with nerve impingement. They told us the risk was too high. I had sat there in that sterile white room, holding her hand while the doctor explained that one bad landing could mean a wheelchair. I remembered the way her grip had crushed my fingers, the way her eyes—so much like her father’s, dark and fierce—had welled up with a terrified defiance. 

I had been the one to tell her to quit. I told her the business wasn't worth her life. I told her I could take care of her, that she could work at the wrestling school, that she could do anything else. 

She had told me to go to hell. 

And now, nine months later, here she was. Main event of Monday Night Raw. A grudge match against Rhea Ripley. No disqualification. 

"She looks good, Seth," road agent Jamie Noble muttered, standing beside me, arms crossed. "She’s moving well. No hesitation." 

"It's not the moving I'm worried about," I muttered back, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. "It's the landing." 

On the screen, Rhea threw YN into the barricade with a sickening thud. I flinched. My body reacted sympathetically, a phantom pain shooting through my own back. YN crumpled, clutching her ribs, her hair a chaotic dark halo around her face. She looked small against the nightmare that was Rhea Ripley. But then, she started to crawl. She pulled herself up using the ring apron, shaking her head, spitting hair out of her mouth. 

The crowd was deafening. I could hear them through the heavy black curtain, a roar that vibrated in the soles of my feet. They loved her. They loved her resilience. They had no idea that every time she took a bump, her brother was back here holding his breath, waiting for the one time she wouldn't get up. 

"Come on, YN," I whispered, gripping the back of a production chair until my knuckles turned white. "Just finish it. Hit the stomp. Hit the pedigree. Just finish it." 

But she didn't. She was a Rollins by proximity, by training, by spirit. And that meant she didn't do things the easy way. 

Rhea rolled into the ring, laughing, pulling a table out from under the apron. The crowd went feral. 

"No," I said aloud. "Don't do it." 

"It's No DQ, Seth," Jamie reminded me gently. 

"I don't care what the stipulation is!" I spun on him, the Visionary persona slipping to reveal the terrified big brother underneath. "She promised me. She looked me in the eye this afternoon and promised she wouldn't take any stupid risks with the hardware." 

Jamie just looked at the screen. 

I turned back just in time to see YN reverse a powerbomb. She sent Rhea crashing into the turnbuckle. The momentum gave YN a window. She was panting, clutching her lower back—a gesture that made my blood run cold. Was that selling? Or was that real? I analyzed her movement. Her gait was uneven. 

She’s hurt. 

I took a step toward the curtain. I didn't know what I was going to do. Run out there? Cause a disqualification in a No DQ match? Throw a towel in? I was Seth "Freakin" Rollins; I couldn't just run out there like a concerned parent. It would ruin the segment. It would ruin her moment. 

But then, she did something that froze me in place. 

She didn't go for the pin. She didn't go for a submission. She looked at Rhea, prone on the table set up in the center of the ring. Then, she looked up. 

She looked at the top turnbuckle. 

"Don't you dare," I hissed. 

She climbed the first rope. Slow. Methodical. 

"YN, get down!" I yelled at the monitor, as if she could hear me through the LCD screen. 

She climbed the second rope. The crowd was rising to their feet, a sea of arms and screams. 

Then, she looked up higher. She looked at the top of the steel cage that had been lowered for the previous match but hadn't been fully raised yet. It was hanging about fifteen feet above the ring, suspended like a sword of Damocles. 

She stepped onto the top rope. She reached up. She grabbed the mesh of the cage. 

"No," I breathed. My heart hammered against my ribs like a bird trapped in a box. "No, no, no." 

She pulled herself up. She was scaling the outside of the hanging cage. 

"Cut the feed!" I shouted at the producer. "She’s going to kill herself! Get the ref to stop it!" 

"We can't stop it, Seth, it's the finish!" the producer yelled back, his own voice cracking with tension. 

She was dangling from the bottom of the cage structure, fifteen feet in the air, directly above the table where Rhea lay. It was a height that would shatter a normal person. It was a height that could shatter a surgically repaired spine. 

The camera zoomed in on her face. She was sweating profusely, her mascara smudged, but her eyes were focused. Laser-focused. She looked down, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a split second. 

I stopped breathing. I physically stopped existing in that moment. I was just a void of pure, unadulterated terror. 

She let go. 

She didn't just drop. She rotated. A Frog Splash. From fifteen feet. 

Gravity took over. The world slowed down. I saw the arc of her body, the perfect extension, the terrifying velocity. 

CRASH. 

The table exploded into a thousand splinters. Bodies bounced. The ring shook. The crowd erupted into a noise that wasn't just a cheer; it was a sonic boom of shock and awe. 

"Holy shit!" Jamie yelled. 

I didn't wait for the pin. I didn't wait to see the referee count to three. I didn't wait to see her hand raised. 

I pushed past Jamie, pushed past the cameramen, and stormed into the medical bay area right behind the curtain. I paced back and forth, vibrating with adrenaline and rage. I needed to see her walk. If she came through that curtain on a stretcher, I was going to burn this entire arena to the ground. I would tear the Titan Towers down brick by brick. 

The music hit. Her music. She won. 

A minute passed. It felt like an hour. 

Then, the curtain twitched. 

First came the referee, looking exhilarated. Then came Rhea, rolling off the medical gurney they had brought for her, selling the devastation but giving a subtle thumbs-up to the agents. 

And then, YN. 

She walked through the curtain. She was limping. Her gear was torn, her skin covered in welts and table debris. She was clutching her ribs, her chest heaving as she sucked in greedy gulps of air. But she was walking. She was upright. 

She looked up, eyes bright with the high of the performance, a wide, wild grin plastering her face. She saw me. The grin widened. 

"Did you see that?!" she gasped, stumbling toward me, arms open for a hug. "I got so much height! The pop, Colbs! Did you hear the pop?" 

I didn't hug her. I stepped into her space, grabbing her by the shoulders—gentle enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to stop her dead in her tracks. I looked her up and down, checking her pupils, checking the way she held her neck, checking for tremors. 

"You," I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of fury and relief. 

"I know, I know, it was high, but I felt good!" she rambled, the adrenaline making her talk a mile a minute. "I knew I could clear the rotation. Rhea was perfectly positioned. It was safe. It was—" 

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" 

The words ripped out of my throat, louder than I intended. The medical staff nearby stopped what they were doing and looked over. I didn't care. 

YN blinked, the smile faltering slightly. She looked at my hands on her shoulders, then up at my eyes. She saw the fear there. The sheer, unmasked terror that I never let the cameras see. 

"Colby..." 

"Don't ‘Colby’ me," I snapped, letting go of her and turning away, running a hand through my damp hair. I paced a small circle around her. "You promised. You looked me in the eye and said, 'I'll keep it on the mat, Colby.' You said, 'No high spots.' And then you climb a damn cage?" 

"It wasn't the whole cage," she argued weakly, her voice losing its manic edge. "Just the lower frame." 

"It was fifteen feet in the air, YN!" I spun back around, pointing a finger at her. "Do you have any idea what happens if you over-rotate? Do you know what happens if you land an inch to the left? You don't just lose a match. You lose your legs. You lose everything we fought for." 

She went quiet. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and I could see the pain settling in. Her shoulders slumped. She winced, reaching back to rub her neck. 

That small movement broke me. The anger evaporated, leaving only exhaustion. 

I closed the distance between us in two strides. I didn't yell this time. I reached out and carefully, delicately, wrapped my arms around her. I pulled her head against my chest, my hand cradling the back of her neck—the very spot that had kept me awake for nights on end. 

"You idiot," I whispered into her hair, which smelled like sweat and hairspray. "You absolute idiot." 

She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her face in my jacket. I could feel her shaking now. The crash, the adrenaline dump, the reality of what she’d just done—it was all hitting her. 

"I had to," she mumbled against my chest. "I had to show them I'm back. I couldn't just wrestle a safe match. They needed to know I'm not broken." 

I sighed, resting my chin on top of her head. I squeezed her tighter. "You proved it. Okay? You proved it. Everyone knows. The whole world knows." 

I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyeliner was running, and there was a nasty bruise forming on her cheekbone, but she looked alive. More alive than she had in the nine months she sat on my couch watching old tapes. 

"Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice dropping to that quiet, brotherly tone reserved only for her. 

"Everything hurts," she admitted, letting out a breathless chuckle. "My back... it feels tight. But not the bad kind of pain. Just... impact pain." 

"We're going to get you checked out. X-rays. MRI. Now." 

"Colby, I'm fine—" 

"Non-negotiable," I cut her off. "You want to pull stunts like Jeff Hardy? You get the medical treatment like a car crash victim. Let's go." 

I wrapped my arm around her waist to support her, taking her weight. She leaned into me, grateful for the support now that the cameras were off. We began the slow walk toward the trainer's room, moving through the labyrinth of the backstage area. 

Wrestlers and crew members clapped as we passed. Some shouted congratulations. A few looked at her with wide eyes, shaking their heads in disbelief at the spot. She waved at them, smiling that superstar smile, but her grip on my side was tight. 

As we walked, the noise of the arena faded behind us. It was just the sound of our boots on the concrete. 

"Hey, Colby?" she asked quietly, using my real name. 

"Yeah?" 

"I was scared," she whispered. "When I was up there. I looked down and I was terrified." 

I looked at her. "Good. That means you're not stupid. Fear keeps you alive." 

"I thought about you," she continued. "I thought, 'If I die, Colby is going to be so pissed at me.'" 

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Damn right I would be. I’d resurrect you just to kick your ass." 

She laughed, but then she winced, clutching her ribs. "Ow. Don't make me laugh." 

"Serious question though," I said as we reached the door to the medical suite. "Why the cage? You could have just done the splash off the top rope. The crowd was already hot." 

She stopped and looked at me. There was a fire in her eyes, that same fire that I saw in the mirror every morning. The fire that drove us to be the best, to steal the show, to be the ones everyone talked about when the lights went down. 

"Because," she said simply. "I'm the Visionary's sister. I don't do halfway." 

I stared at her for a moment. I wanted to scold her again. I wanted to lecture her on longevity and risk management and the politics of the business. But looking at her there, battered and bruised but glowing with the pride of a show-stealing performance, I couldn't do it. 

I saw myself in her. The arrogance. The passion. The stupidity. 

I smirked, shaking my head. "God help us both." 

"Does this mean you're not mad anymore?" she asked hopefully. 

"I'm furious," I lied, pushing the door open for her. "I'm going to be mad for at least a week. You're buying dinner. Tonight. And not the catering crap. I want actual food." 

"Deal," she said, limping into the room. 

I watched her climb onto the examination table, wincing as the doctor began to prod at her ribs. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. The adrenaline was finally leaving my system, replaced by a dull ache in my knees and a profound sense of fatigue. 

This life... it was madness. It was a meat grinder. It chewed you up and spit you out and asked you to say thank you. But when you hit that note, when you created that moment that made twenty thousand people lose their minds... there was nothing else like it. 

YN knew that. I knew that. 

She looked over at me while the doctor manipulated her shoulder. She gave me a thumbs up, a small, tired smile on her face. 

"Hey," she called out. 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks for waiting at the curtain." 

I nodded, looking down at my boots to hide the emotion in my eyes. "Where else would I be?" 

And that was the truth. No matter how many heart attacks she gave me, no matter how many times she drove me crazy with her recklessness, I would always be there. At the curtain. Waiting to catch her when she fell, or to scream at her when she flew too high. 

Because that’s what family does. Even when they try to kill you with anxiety. 

"Next time," I called out, pushing off the doorframe. "Stick to a headlock. Please." 

She laughed, and even the doctor cracked a smile. 

"No promises," she said. 

YN Lawler was sitting on the edge of a exam table, her legs swinging back and forth like a bored toddler. She had an ice pack strapped to her right shoulder and another pressed against the back of her neck. Her gear—a jagged, royal blue and silver ensemble that paid subtle homage to Memphis wrestling royalty without being a costume—was scuffed with black marks from the floor mats. 

She looked like she’d been in a car crash. And technically, considering who she had just been in the ring with, she had. 

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. I let the silence hang there for a moment, waiting for her to notice me. She was scrolling through her phone, probably checking Twitter to see if the GIFs of her near-death experience were trending yet. 

She swiped a stray hair out of her face, looked up, and froze. The smirk that usually rested on her face—that Lawler smirk, the one that said I know something you don’t—faltered for a split second before she plastered it back on. 

"If you're here to tell me my boots didn't match my lipstick, save it, Rollins," she drawled, her voice raspy. "I was going for 'battle-worn chic.'" 

I didn’t smile. I didn’t uncross my arms. I just stared at her, channeling every ounce of disappointed veteran energy I had stored up over the last decade. 

"You missed your cue," I said, my voice flat. 

"I did not," she countered, wincing slightly as she shifted her weight. "I hit the mark. The ref counted three. The crowd popped. That is strictly speaking, a job well done." 

"I'm not talking about the finish, YN." I pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, closing the door behind me to drown out the noise of the hallway. "I'm talking about the spot on the apron. The one where you decided physics was just a suggestion." 

She rolled her eyes, a gesture that involved her whole upper body. "It was a high-risk maneuver. High risk, high reward. You of all people should get that. Mr. 'I jump off cages for breakfast.'" 

"Calculated risk," I corrected, walking over to grab a bottle of water from the cooler. I cracked it open and handed it to her. She took it, her fingers brushing mine. Her hand was shaking. Just a tremor, barely noticeable, but I felt it. "I take calculated risks. What you did out there? That was a gamble with bad odds. You took a backdrop on the hardest part of the ring, and you didn't tuck your chin." 

"I tucked," she lied. 

"I watched the replay, YNN. You didn't tuck. You whiplashed your head so hard I thought it was going to fly into the third row." 

She sighed, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink. When she lowered the bottle, the bravado had slipped a little. She looked tired. The fluorescent lights were harsh, highlighting the bruises already forming on her collarbone. It was easy to forget sometimes, with her sharp tongue and her father’s legendary wit, that she was still carving her path. She wasn't just Jerry "The King" Lawler's daughter; she was a kid trying to survive in a shark tank. 

"It looked good though, right?" she asked, her voice smaller. 

I pulled up a rolling stool and sat down in front of her, knees knocking against the exam table. "Yeah. It looked like a murder scene. The crowd loved it." 

"Then what's the problem?" 

"The problem is that we have a live event in brave, old Peoria on Saturday, and another TV taping on Monday, and a pay-per-view in three weeks. And if you keep wrestling like you're trying to prove you're invincible, you're going to be watching all of those from a couch in Memphis." 

She looked down at her boots. "I have to make an impact, Colbs. You know how it is. They see the last name, they expect... I don't know. They expect the piledriver. They expect the crown. I have to show them I'm not just a nostalgia act." 

I softened. I knew that feeling. The crushing weight of expectation. I didn't have a famous father in the business, but I had the weight of being "The Guy." I knew what it felt like to think you had to burn the whole building down just to prove you deserved to stand in the ashes. 

"You're not a nostalgia act," I said quietly. "You're one of the sharpest workers in that locker room. But you can't work if you can't walk." 

"I'm fine," she insisted, though she rotated her neck gingerly. "Just a stinger. Doc said I'm clear." 

"Doc says a lot of things. Doc isn't the one who has to drive you to the next town." I reached out and tapped the ice pack on her shoulder. "How's the rotator cuff?" 

"It's screaming," she admitted, a dry laugh escaping her lips. "Like a banshee." 

"Great. Put some heat on it later. And for the love of God, no gym tomorrow. heavy lifting is out." 

"Yes, Dad," she mocked, though there was no bite in it. 

I shook my head, running a hand through my damp hair. "I'm serious. I'm not doing this for my health. I'm doing it because you're my friend, and I'd prefer not to visit you in a hospital." 

She looked at me then, really looked at me. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, searched my face. There was a bond there, something forged in thousands of miles of rental cars and late-night diners. We were platonic soulmates of the road—me, the architect of chaos, and her, the princess of the palace who refused to wear a tiara. 

"I got caught up in the moment," she said softly. "The crowd was hot. Rhea was egging me on. I just... I thought I could clear the gap." 

"You cleared it," I conceded. "But the landing is the important part. It's not the fall that kills you, YNN. It's the sudden stop." 

She groaned. "Okay, Confucius. I get it. I messed up." 

"You didn't mess up. You survived. There's a difference." I stood up, stretching my back. The lingering ache of my own career was a constant companion, a reminder of why I was nagging her. "Come on. I'm starving. Let's go find catering before the crew eats all the good chicken." 

She hopped off the table, wincing again but masking it quickly. "You buying?" 

"I always buy." 

An hour later, we were sitting on some road cases near the loading dock. The air was cooler here, smelling of diesel fumes and impending rain. We had plates of lukewarm chicken and rice, the glamorous diet of champions. 

YN was picking at her food, her mood contemplative. The high of the match had fully worn off, leaving behind the soreness and the reality of the tape review. 

"You know," she started, stabbing a piece of broccoli. "My dad called me right after the match." 

I chewed slowly, swallowing before I answered. "Yeah? What did the Ol’ King have to say?" 

"He said it was a 'hell of a bump.' Said it reminded him of a spot he took against Dundee in '82." 

I chuckled. "Of course he did. Jerry Lawler thinks a severed artery is just 'good color.' You can't listen to the old timers about bumping, YNN. Their rings were boxing rings with garden hoses for ropes. We're flying around like superheroes." 

"He liked it, though," she said, and there was a vulnerability in her voice that tugged at my chest. "He sounded proud." 

"He's always proud of you," I said firmly. "He's proud when you cut a promo. He's proud when you lace up the boots. He doesn't need you to paralyze yourself to be proud." 

"It's hard to tell sometimes," she murmured. "He's... he's the King. And I'm just..." 

"You're YN," I interrupted. "And that's enough." 

She looked at me sideways, a half-smile playing on her lips. "You're being awfully nice tonight, Rollins. Did Becky replace your protein powder with sugar?" 

"I'm always nice," I scoffed, taking a drink of water. "I am a benevolent visionary. A leader. A mentor." 

"You're a maniac in a fur coat," she corrected. 

"That too." 

We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the ring crew load the massive LED boards into the trucks. The sheer scale of the production never ceased to amaze me, even after all these years. And amidst all this metal and technology, we were just bodies. Flesh and bone throwing ourselves at the ground for applause. 

"You remember that tag match in Philly?" she asked suddenly. "The one where you and I teamed up for the mixed tag challenge?" 

"Vividly. You tried to powerbomb a guy twice your size." 

"I got him up!" 

"You got him up, and then you both fell over like a Jenga tower." 

She laughed, a genuine, bright sound that cut through the industrial hum of the loading dock. "God, that was embarrassing. But you didn't yell at me then." 

"I was too busy laughing," I admitted. "Plus, you didn't almost break your neck. You just bruised your ego. Ego bruises heal. Spines don't." 

She put her plate down on the road case and leaned back against the concrete wall, looking up at the metal rafters. "I just want to be great, Colby. I want to be undeniable. Like you." 

I looked at her. I saw the fire in her eyes, the same fire that had burned in me when I was Tyler Black in a humid gym in Iowa, the same fire that burned when I turned on the Shield, the same fire that kept me going through knee surgeries and rehab. 

It was a dangerous fire. It could fuel you, or it could consume you. 

"You are great," I said. "You have the instincts. You have the charisma. You have the bloodline. But being undeniable isn't about one move, YNN. It's about showing up every single week. It's about consistency. It's about longevity." 

I leaned in closer, dropping the voice to a whisper, intimate and severe. 

"If you burn out in two years because you wanted a pop on a random Monday in Chicago, you're not undeniable. You're a footnote. And you are too damn talented to be a footnote." 

She held my gaze. The playful deflection was gone. She was absorbing it. 

"I got scared," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "In the air. When I let go of the ropes... I realized I was too far out. I got scared." 

"Good," I said. "Fear keeps you alive. If you stop being scared, you start getting careless. Today was careless. You got lucky." 

"I know." 

"Do you?" 

"Yes." She looked down at her hands again. "I won't do it again." 

"You will," I said, leaning back. "You're a wrestler. We're wired wrong. You'll do something stupid again. But maybe next time, you'll hesitate for half a second. And that half a second might save your career." 

She smirked, the Lawler coming back out. "So, you're saying I should hesitate? Isn't the saying 'he who hesitates is lost'?" 

"I'm saying," I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You're an idiot, you know that?" 

The words hung in the air, not as an insult, but as a badge of honor. In our world, being an idiot was practically a job requirement. It meant you were brave enough, crazy enough, and passionate enough to do this for a living. 

She laughed, grabbing a dinner roll from her plate and chucking it at my head. It bounced off my forehead harmlessly. 

"Takes one to know one, Rollins," she shot back. 

I picked up the roll and tossed it back at her. "Yeah, well. I'm an idiot with a belt. You're just an idiot with an ice pack." 

"Give it time," she said, her eyes flashing. "Give it time." 

"I've got nothing but time," I said. "As long as you don't kill yourself, I'll be right here waiting to see it." 

"You're a good friend." 

"Don't spread that around. It ruins the gimmick." 

"Your secret is safe with me." She hopped off the road case, wincing one last time as her boots hit the concrete. "I'm gonna go hit the showers. The bus leaves in thirty?" 

"Twenty," I checked my watch. "If you're late, I'm leaving you in Chicago." 

"You wouldn't dare." 

"Try me." 

She gathered her trash, pausing for a moment before she walked away. She looked back at me, her expression serious again. 

"Colby?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks. For checking on me. And for... the lecture." 

I nodded, giving her a small salute. "Anytime, kid. Just... tuck your chin next time." 

"I tucked it!" she shouted over her shoulder as she walked back toward the arena hallway. 

"Liar!" I shouted back. 

I watched her go, shaking my head. She walked with a slight limp, favoring her left side, but her head was held high. She was stubborn, reckless, and frustratingly talented. She was Jerry Lawler's daughter, alright. 

I sat there for a moment longer in the cool air of the loading dock, listening to the rhythm of the crew breaking down the show. The circus was packing up. We’d drive through the night, sleep in a hotel that looked exactly like the last one, and do it all over again. 

I pulled out my phone and texted Becky. Heading out soon. Show was good. YN tried to fly. She survived. 

I put the phone away and stood up, the World Heavyweight Championship belt feeling a little lighter in my bag. She was an idiot. I was an idiot. We were all idiots. 

But God, I loved this business. 

I grabbed my bag, smoothed out my chaotic jacket, and headed toward the bus. I had to make sure the kid actually made it there before I left her behind. Not that I ever would. But she didn't need to know that. 

The bus ride was quiet. Most of the roster was asleep or plugged into headphones, the soft glow of screens the only light in the cabin. I was sitting near the back, reviewing the match footage on my iPad. I wanted to see the transition into the finish again; I felt like the timing was slightly off on the Curb Stomp setup. 

Across the aisle, YN was curled up in her seat, a blanket pulled up to her chin. She was asleep, her mouth slightly open, the ice pack now resting on the tray table in front of her. 

I paused the video and looked at her. 

In the ring, she was larger than life. She was glitter and attitude and violence. Here, asleep on a charter bus speeding down I-55, she looked small, dim, and peaceful. 

I thought about the conversation on the dock. The pressure she felt. The shadow of the King. It was a unique burden. I had my own demons—the constant need to reinvent myself, the fear of irrelevance—but I didn't have a legacy hanging over my head like a guillotine. 

She shifted in her sleep, a frown creasing her forehead, probably feeling the ache in her shoulder even in her dreams. 

I reached across the aisle and adjusted the air vent above her head, turning it away so it wouldn't blow cold air directly on her stiff muscles. 

"Idiot," I whispered again, affectionately. 

I went back to my match footage. 

The transition was off. I needed to plant my foot half a second earlier. 

A notification popped up on my screen. It was a tweet from a fan account. Video: YN Lawler takes INSANE bump at Raw! Is she crazy?? 

I clicked the video. I watched it again. The launch. The height. The sickening thud. The way she bounced. 

It was reckless. It was stupid. 

But as I watched the crowd in the background of the video—thousands of people leaping to their feet, mouths open in shock and awe—I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. 

It was a hell of a bump. 

She had the guts, that was for sure. Now, if I could just teach her the patience, she might actually run this place one day. 

I closed the case of the iPad and leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. The hum of the bus tires on the asphalt was a lullaby I had known for fifteen years. 

I wasn't worried about her. Not really. She was tough. She was smart. And she had me to tell her when she was being an idiot. 

That's what family is for. Even the kind of family you find in a locker room full of spandex and hair dye. 

"Hey, Colbs?" 

I cracked one eye open. YN was awake, blinking sleepily at me from under her blanket. 

"Yeah?" 

"Did you turn my air vent?" 

"Maybe. You looked cold." 

She smiled, tired and genuine. "Softie." 

"Go to sleep, Lawler." 

"Night." 

She closed her eyes and drifted back off. I watched her for a second longer, then let myself relax. 

We’d arrive in the next town in four hours. We’d find a gym. We’d find coffee. We’d tape up the injuries and lace up the boots.