#stone cold

𝐃𝐓𝐀 (𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲)

(𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

A/N: I swear barely anyone writes for this man so I had to write something. I hope you guys enjoyyy.

-

The first week you start managing Stone Cold Steve Austin, everybody backstage looks at you like you got assigned a death sentence.

“Good luck with Austin,” one of the production guys tells you while clipping papers to a board. “Man barely likes talking to people.”

Another wrestler laughs. “If he likes you after a month, that’s basically marriage.”

You think they’re exaggerating.

They are not.

The first conversation you have with Steve lasts exactly twelve seconds.

“You the new manager?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Stay outta my way during promos.”

Then he walks off with a towel around his neck and two beers already in his hand before noon.

That’s it.

No smile.

No fake politeness.

Nothing.

At first, you think maybe he hates you specifically, but after a few weeks, you realize that’s just how he is.

Steve keeps everybody at arm’s length.

Locker room conversations never last long with him. He’ll joke around with people, crack a sarcastic comment, drink a beer with the guys after shows, but nobody really knows him. Not completely.

He lives by DTA.

Don’t Trust Anybody.

And somehow, you become the one person he slowly stops shutting out.

It happens little by little.

Small things.

He starts waiting for you before walking through gorilla position.

Starts handing you an extra water bottle without asking.

Starts looking over at you during promos like he wants to see if you approve.

Even the boys backstage notice it.

“Steve likes you,” one of the agents says one night.

You snort. “Steve barely tolerates me.”

“Nah,” he says. “That’s Austin being friendly.”

Friendly.

Apparently, for Steve Austin, friendly means grunting in your direction and making sure nobody talks over you in meetings.

Still, your relationship stays inside work.

The second shows end, you disappear.

Straight to the hotel.

Every city.

Every time.

And Steve notices.

“You ever do anything besides hide in that hotel room?” he asks one night while unlacing his boots.

You shrug. “I like my peace.”

He gives you a look. “You’re twenty-something years old.”

“And?”

“And it ain’t normal.”

“You drink enough for both of us anyway.”

That actually gets a laugh outta him.

A real one.

Low and raspy.

“Come to the bar tonight.”

“Nah.”

“C’mon.”

“I said no.”

“You scared you can’t hang?”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “That’s manipulative.”

“But is it workin’?”

“…Maybe a little.”

Steve smirks like he already won.

And somehow, a few hours later, you end up in a loud bar packed with wrestlers, road agents, and production crew.

The second you walk in, heads turn.

Not just because you’re beautiful.

But because you’re with Steve.

And Steve doesn’t bring people around.

Especially not women.

Especially not women he actually seems comfortable with.

You ignore the stares though.

You slide into the booth beside him while music blasts through the speakers.

One beer turns into two.

Then whiskey.

Then shots.

And Steve starts staring at you funny around your fourth drink.

“You good?” he asks.

You look offended. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gestures vaguely at you. “You tiny.”

You burst out laughing. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Usually people your size halfway dead by now.”

“Please,” you scoff. “You think this is bad?”

Then you toss back another shot without even making a face.

The entire table loses it.

Even Steve’s sitting there looking stunned.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“Told you.”

By the end of the night, you’re leaned back in the booth arguing with one of the wrestlers about college football while Steve watches you with this unreadable expression.

Not lust.

Not exactly.

Something softer.

Something curious.

Because for the first time, he’s seeing who you are outside the arena.

And he likes it.

A lot.

“You’re from where again?” he asks later while the group starts thinning out.

“South Carolina.”

Steve nods slowly. “That explains the accent.”

“I do not have an accent.”

“You absolutely got an accent.”

“You’re literally from Texas.”

“That ain’t the point.”

You roll your eyes, smiling into your drink.

Then the conversation shifts again.

You tell him about growing up with your dad.

About fishing before sunrise.

About learning how to shoot before you learned how to drive.

About hunting trips and muddy boots and venison in the freezer every winter.

Steve looks genuinely shocked.

“You hunt?”

“Mhm.”

“With what?”

“A rifle mostly.”

“You know how to clean one too?”

You give him a look. “Obviously.”

He leans back against the booth staring at you for a second too long.

Because none of this matches what he expected.

Not the jewelry around your wrists.

Not your soft voice.

Not your pretty face.

Not the way you carry yourself.

Steve’s used to women that are loud, flashy, easy to read.

Women he understands immediately.

But you?

You surprise him every single time he learns something new.

And he can’t stop thinking about it.

The ride back to the hotel is quieter.

The city lights blur past outside the window while the other wrestlers stumble around drunk ahead of y’all.

Steve walks beside you with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“You had fun?” he asks finally.

“I did.”

“Told you you needed to stop hidin’ in them hotel rooms.”

You smile a little. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

There’s a comfortable silence after that.

Then you look over at him.

“You know… everybody says you don’t like people.”

Steve snorts softly. “Most people give me reasons not to.”

“But not me?”

His eyes shift toward you then.

Slow.

Heavy.

“You’re different.”

Your stomach flips a little at the way he says it.

Not smooth.

Not flirtatious.

Just honest.

Which somehow feels more dangerous coming from him.

Steve Austin doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

When y’all reach your hotel door, you stop and turn toward him.

“Thanks for inviting me tonight.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes stay on you.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move right away.

There’s tension there now.

Thick.

New.

Steve notices the way your lashes lower slightly when you look at his mouth.

You notice the way his jaw tightens.

For a second, it feels like something might happen.

But Steve steps back first.

Because this feeling creeping up on him?

It scares him a little.

And Steve Austin doesn’t scare easy.

“Get some sleep,” he says quietly.

You nod once. “Night, Steve.”

“Night.”

He waits until your hotel door closes before finally walking away.

But the whole way back to his room, all he can think about is you.

Your laugh.

Your accent.

The way you held your liquor better than half the locker room.

The way you surprised him over and over again without even trying.

And somewhere between that bar and this hallway, Stone Cold Steve Austin realizes something he never planned on feeling again.

He’s falling for you.

-

The next few weeks feel… strange.

Not bad.

Just different.

Because after that night at the bar, Stone Cold Steve Austin starts avoiding you.

Not completely.

He still talks to you during shows.

Still checks in before promos.

Still makes sure nobody backstage gives you a hard time.

But the easy conversations stop.

The lingering looks disappear.

And the second work is done?

He’s gone.

Like he’s trying to put distance between y’all before something gets outta control.

At first, you try not to take it personally.

Steve’s complicated.

Everybody knows that.

But after almost two weeks of him acting weird, irritation starts replacing confusion.

Because you know he feels something.

You saw it that night.

And now he’s pretending he didn’t.

One evening after a live show in Chicago, you finally corner him backstage near the production crates while everybody else starts filing out toward the parking lot.

“Okay, what is your problem?”

Steve looks up from taping his wrists slower than usual.

“My problem?”

“Yes, your problem.” You fold your arms. “You been acting weird as hell.”

“I ain’t actin’ weird.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Nah.”

“Steve.”

Just hearing you say his name like that makes his jaw tighten.

Because you’re looking right at him.

Too close.

Too pretty.

Too damn observant.

He sighs heavily and tosses the tape into his bag.

“You wanna know the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need to be around me like that.”

Your eyebrows pull together immediately. “Like what?”

“Outside work.”

You stare at him for a second. “That makes no sense.”

“Makes perfect sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Steve shakes his head once like he’s already frustrated with himself.

“You’re a good girl.”

You almost laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with anything?”

“People around me get dragged into bullshit.” His voice lowers. “Politics. Drama. Trouble. I don’t got the energy for it anymore.”

“That sounds like your issue, not mine.”

His eyes flash toward yours.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, Steve, you don’t understand.” You step closer. “You don’t get to decide for me what I can handle.”

That hits him harder than he expects.

Because most people back off from him.

Most people get intimidated.

But not you.

Never you.

“You think I’m scared of you?” you ask quietly.

Steve goes silent.

“I grew up around stubborn southern men my whole life,” you continue. “You are not that special.”

And somehow that almost makes him smile.

Almost.

“You should stay away from me anyway.”

“But you don’t actually want that.”

That one lands directly in his chest.

The hallway suddenly feels too quiet.

Too close.

Steve stares down at you for a long moment, his face unreadable, but you catch it—

That look.

The same one from outside your hotel room weeks ago.

Want.

Conflict.

Restraint.

And suddenly you’re tired of pretending not to see it.

“You know what I think?” you say softly.

“What.”

“I think you’re scared.”

His eyes narrow instantly. “I ain’t scared of shit.”

“You’re scared of liking me.”

The air between y’all goes dead still.

Steve lets out this rough exhale through his nose and looks away for half a second like he’s trying to regain control of himself.

Which tells you everything.

Your heart starts pounding.

“Steve…”

“Don’t.”

But his voice sounds weak this time.

Not commanding.

Not convincing.

You step closer anyway.

Close enough to smell beer and leather and the faint soap from his shower earlier.

Close enough that if either one of you leaned in—

“You keep lookin’ at me like you wanna do somethin’ about it,” you murmur.

His throat moves when he swallows.

“Cause I do.”

The confession comes out rough.

Honest.

And the second it does, something shifts.

Your hand slides lightly against his chest.

Steve’s eyes drop to your mouth immediately.

“Then stop fighting it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hand suddenly grabs your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him, and then his mouth crashes into yours.

Hot.

Immediate.

Weeks of tension hit all at once.

You gasp against him when his other hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper.

And Steve kisses like he wrestles—

Intense.

Possessive.

Like he’s been holding himself back too long.

The sound he makes when you kiss him back nearly knocks the breath outta you.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again.

You clutch the front of his shirt while his hands tighten around your waist.

For a man that keeps everybody out emotionally, the way he kisses is devastatingly honest.

Every bit of want he’s been burying comes pouring out through it.

The hallway feels too hot.

Too small.

Your back lightly bumps the wall beside the equipment crates, and Steve immediately crowds closer without even thinking about it.

One thick hand braces beside your head while the other stays firm on your hip.

“You got no idea what you do to me,” he says roughly.

You smile a little, breathless. “I think I’m starting to figure it out.”

That earns you another kiss.

Slower this time.

Still deep.

Still dangerous.

But softer underneath it now.

Like he’s finally letting himself feel this instead of running from it.

When he finally pulls back, both of y’all are breathing hard.

Steve rests his forehead against yours for a second, eyes shut tight like he’s irritated with himself.

“This is a bad idea,” he mutters.

You lightly touch his jaw. “You keep saying that.”

“Cause it’s true.”

“But you still kissed me.”

His eyes open slowly.

And the look in them almost melts you alive.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”

-

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed. Leave some love. PEACE&LOVE