#summerslam 2025

She waves politely at some of the crew members she recognies, a few of them having previously worked some NXT shows. The amount of talent whirring past her is overwhelming, but she doesn’t let it show. She’s here to make an impression. Show no fear and people will respect you.

“Y/N?!” A loud and excited voice calls out to her.

The woman spins around and her smile grows wide as she watches Jessica, more popularly  known as Tiffany Stratton, darting towards her. She laughs happily as Jessica swoops her up in a hug, “Oh my gosh, I didn’t know you decided to sign with SmackDown!” She exclaims, slapping her arm playfully. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to surprise everyone,” Y/N explains, giggling as Jessica takes in her appearance. “Besides, it’s no fun if my decision gets leaked. So I kept it close to my chest.” 

Jessica rolls her eyes playfully, “Well, I’m super excited you’re here. Definitely gonna cause some trouble.” 

Y/N smirks playfully, “Damn straight. So you better keep an eye on that title,” she says teasingly. 

Jessica scoffs but she can’t help her smile, “Okay, okay… I see how it is. Hopefully you keep that energy in the ring.” 

Y/N throws her a wink before squeezing her arm fondly, “Oh you know I will.” 

She adjusts the strap of her gear bag and keeps moving down the bustling hallway. She made a point to nod or smile at whoever crossed her path, camera ops, producers, even the makeup crew she didn’t know by name yet. Every nod returned, every subtle glance of curiosity reminded her she wasn’t invisible. Her debut was already making waves.

A familiar voice cut through the noise. “Well, well, well… look who finally joined the land of the giants.”

Y/N turned sharply, her face breaking into a grin. “Priest?”

Damian Priest leaned casually against a road case, arms folded across his chest, his usual smirk pulling at his lips. His presence radiated the kind of cool confidence that made rookies nervous, but to Y/N, it was just Luis, the guy she’d shared late-night NXT training sessions and banter with.

“Thought I’d have to wait another year before seeing you up here,” he said, pushing off the case and walking closer.

“You got called up early,” Y/N countered, tilting her head. “Don’t act like you didn’t rub it in every chance you got.”

He chuckled, deep and warm. “What can I say? Raw needed me. Guess SmackDown got lucky tonight. Now they’ve got both of us in the same place. Almost like nothing’s changed.”

She rolled her eyes, but her grin didn’t fade. “Always so full of yourself.”

“Hey, confidence pays the bills,” Luis teased, his eyes flicking over her attire. “Besides, I knew you’d make it. You’ve got that… spark.”

The compliment hit heavier than she wanted it to, but she just smirked and nudged his arm. “Careful, Priest. Keep talking like that, and people will think you’re soft.”

Damian leaned in just a little, lowering his voice in that way he always did when he wanted to get a rise out of her. “Soft’s not the word anyone’s ever used to describe me.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head, but before she could fire back, a sudden burst of cheers broke out down the hallway. Cody Rhodes had just rounded the corner, carrying himself with the weight of a man who was everywhere all at once.

“Y/N L/N,” Cody greeted warmly, extending his hand. “Welcome to SmackDown. Big night for you, huh?”

Y/N shook his hand firmly, masking her nerves with a grin. “Biggest night of my career. Hoping I don’t trip over the ropes or something stupid.”

Cody laughed, the kind of laugh that immediately put her at ease. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Everyone’s excited to see what you bring up here. Just do what you always do — fight like hell, and you’ll fit right in.”

“Appreciate that,” she said genuinely, nodding.

As Cody moved along, Y/N caught Damian still watching her, an unreadable look in his eyes. Before she could question it, a low rumble of conversation quieted when Triple H appeared.

The air shifted.

“Y/N,” he said, his gravelly voice carrying weight as he stopped in front of her. “Glad I caught you. Got some news for you.”

Her stomach tightened, but she straightened her posture. “What’s up?”

“We’re going to slot you into Tiffany’s segment tonight,” he explained. “She’s out there jawing with Nia, so we want you to make an impact. Hit the ring, take them both out. Leave the crowd wondering who the hell you are and why you just flattened two stars in your first five minutes.”

Her lips curled into a slow smirk. “So… chaos. My specialty.”

“That’s the idea,” Hunter confirmed with the faintest grin. “Then, Cathy Kelley’s going to catch you backstage for a quick promo. Nothing too heavy — just fire, intensity, a little edge. Show the people who Y/N is.”

Y/N nodded without hesitation. “Got it. I’ll make it count.”

“Good,” he said, clapping her shoulder before moving on. “Don’t overthink. Just do what got you here.”

As he disappeared down the hall, Y/N looked at Luis, her smirk still playing at her lips. “Looks like I get to steal the show tonight.”

He leaned closer, his voice low again. “Try not to forget me when you’re running the place.”

Y/N grinned, brushing past him with a playful glance over her shoulder. “No promises, Priest.”

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The crowd inside the arena was buzzing, the kind of restless energy that only happened when two women with egos too big for one ring stood face to face. Tiffany Stratton, flawless in pink sequins and her Women’s Championship glinting on her shoulder, was nose-to-nose with the towering force of Nia Jax.

“You think you’re championship material?” Tiffany sneered, her voice dripping with arrogance as the crowd booed. “You couldn’t lace up my boots, sweetie.”

Nia smirked, stepping in closer. “That title looks real comfortable on your shoulder, blondie. Shame it won’t be there much longer.”

The tension crackled, the audience hanging on every word. Wade Barrett’s voice cut through from commentary. “These two are about to explode, Joe. You can feel it. Tiffany’s ego, Nia’s temper—it’s a recipe for chaos.”

Joe Tessitore jumped in, “Wait a minute—hold on, who—WHO IS THAT?!”

The camera panned to the ramp. A figure in a black hoodie had vaulted the barricade with catlike precision, sliding under the bottom rope before either woman even realized what was happening. The arena erupted, half in shock, half in wild cheers.

Wade’s voice rose, his words stumbling. “Who the hell—who just hit the ring?!”

The hooded stranger struck first. Nia barely had time to turn before she was yanked into a brutal Muay Thai–style clinch, the stranger’s knee driving up into her gut once, twice, three times, each one echoing through the arena. Tiffany swung wildly, but the figure ducked low, catching her by the wrist and whipping her into the ropes with a snapmare so crisp it drew an audible gasp from the crowd. Tiffany hit the mat hard.

Joe yelled over commentary, “Whoever this is, they know what they’re doing in there!”

Nia tried to rally, storming forward, but the intruder spun under her lariat attempt, snatching her into a judo-style hip toss that slammed the powerhouse flat on her back. The crowd was now roaring, the chants already breaking out: “Holy Shit! Holy Shit!”

The hooded figure stood tall, chest heaving, and slowly… deliberately… pulled the hood back.

Y/N’s face was revealed, and the camera caught the smirk pulling across her lips. The roof practically blew off.

“It’s Y/N! It’s Y/N from NXT!” Joe shouted, disbelief in his voice. “She’s here on SmackDown!”

Tiffany crawled toward her title, but Y/N stomped her hand down, forcing her to recoil in pain. Y/N bent, snatched the title belt clean from the mat, and raised it high in the air. The crowd reaction was deafening, cheers, chants, phones flashing everywhere.

Wade’s voice was almost a growl. “That is a STATEMENT. Y/N hasn’t even had her first official match here, and she’s already laying waste to the champion and the challenger.”

Y/N tilted her head, smirk deepening as she lifted a microphone from where Tiffany had dropped it. She rested the belt on her shoulder, pacing like she owned the ring.

“This…” she lifted the mic, her voice calm but laced with venom, “…this is what I’ve been waiting for. My time.” She tapped the title with her finger, eyes flicking between Tiffany and Nia sprawled on the mat. “See, whether it’s a rookie trying to make a name for themselves, or one of you vets who think you’ve got this business on lock…” Her laugh was sharp, condescending. “…you’re all about to find out real quick— you’ve got nothing on me.”

The arena popped again, the mix of cheers and gasps fueling her grin.

“So here’s your warning, step up, or get stepped on.” She raised the belt one more time, holding Tiffany’s championship high above her head as if it already belonged to her.

The camera caught the fury on Tiffany’s face and the rage in Nia’s glare as Y/N dropped the mic with a loud thunk and threw her hood back up. She mouthed the words “my time” one last time before sliding out of the ring, leaving chaos behind.

The fans were still chanting her name as she disappeared back up the ramp, the commentary team stunned into silence.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Y/N shoved past the curtain, her chest still heaving from the rush of the crowd. The noise out in the arena bled faintly into the hallway, a low roar chasing her footsteps. Before she could even pull her wrist tape loose, Cathy Kelley slipped in front of her, mic already in hand, a cameraman scrambling to keep up.

“Y/N— just a quick word?” Cathy asked, breathless but eager.

Y/N smirked and tilted her head. “Sure. Why not?”

The red light on the camera blinked alive. Cathy straightened her shoulders, voice shifting into her on-screen polish. “Y/N, tonight was your first night on SmackDown. What does this moment mean for you?”

Y/N leaned into the mic, her eyes cutting sharp into the lens. “It means SmackDown just got flipped on its head. Everyone’s been walking around here like they’ve got this division on lock, like they’re untouchable. Well, I’m here now, and I don’t play by the ‘wait your turn’ rules. I don’t care if you’re the flavor-of-the-month rookie or someone who’s been here forever. I didn’t come here to fall in line. I came here to run it.”

Cathy, quick as ever, followed up. “You sound confident. Some might say over-confident. Do you really believe no one in the women’s division can stop you?”

Y/N laughed softly, not breaking eye contact with the camera. “No one. Not even just the girls in the women’s division. That applies to everyone. Not a soul in that locker room can outwork me, outfight me, or outshine me. Some of these so-called ‘vets’ have been coasting on reputation for years, living off what they did back then instead of proving who they are now. That ends tonight. I’m not here to kiss rings. I’m here to take crowns.”

Cathy blinked, thrown just slightly by the edge in her words, but managed to keep the interview rolling. “So what’s next for you? Who’s the first target?”

Y/N arched a brow, that same cocky grin tugging at her lips. “Whoever’s brave enough to step up. Doesn’t matter who. The end’s gonna look the same.”

She brushed past Cathy and the camera like she was brushing off the entire division, the faint echo of her boots on the concrete fading with her.

Off to the side, Drew stood in front of a monitor, arms folded tight across his chest. He’d been listening since the first word left her mouth, and that line, coasting on reputation, hit harder than a claymore. She hadn’t named him, but the sting landed anyway. His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing as her cocky grin filled the screen.

“She thinks she’s clever,” he muttered under his breath, the words clipped and heavy. “We’ll see how far that mouth gets her.”

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Y/N had barely made it a hallway away from Cathy when she felt the tension shift. The hum of production crew chatter, the chaos of road cases being wheeled by, all of it seemed to fade the second she spotted him. Drew McIntyre, arms crossed, a storm brewing in his expression as he watched her like she’d just insulted his mother.

“Ah, there she is,” Drew muttered, stepping into her path. His voice had that low, rolling growl to it, each word deliberate. “The rookie with the mouth. Thought I’d come say hello since you couldn’t keep mine and every other veteran’s name out of yours.”

Y/N arched a brow, tightening her grip on the towel around her neck. “Funny, I don’t remember saying your name at all. Must’ve struck a nerve though, huh?”

His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching. “You think you’re clever. You think this business owes you a damn thing just because you can string a few cocky lines together on a microphone. But respect— respect is earned. Not demanded.”

“Respect is a two-way street,” Y/N shot back without missing a beat, smirking. “And last I checked, I don’t need a lecture from the self-proclaimed locker room dad. You want me to curtsy too, or just kiss the ring?”

Drew’s nostrils flared. He stepped closer, towering over her, voice sharp. “You want to make it here? You’d better learn to keep that smart mouth in check. Because the veterans you’re mocking? They paved the road you’re walking on.”

“And yet here I am, already lapping a few of them.” The words rolled out of Y/N like venom, her grin widening at the flicker of anger in his eyes.

For a split second, it looked like Drew might snap, his shoulders squared, his voice dropping into that dangerous calm of his. “Careful, lass. Keep talking like that and you’ll find yourself flattened before you even get started.”

“Big words for someone picking fights with a woman half his size,” a smooth voice cut in. Both Y/N and Drew turned. Damian Priest had arrived like a shadow, sliding between them with that calm, almost lazy swagger that made him seem untouchable. He rested an arm loosely against Y/N’s shoulder, not shielding her, but staking his claim.

“Real gentleman move, Drew,” Damian added, his tone deceptively light. “Going after someone who was just doing her job. You upset because she’s got more bite than most of the guys in your little veterans’ club?”

Drew’s eyes narrowed at him. “Stay out of it, Priest. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does when you’re barking down at her like she’s some trainee who spilled your coffee.” Damian’s voice stayed calm, but there was an edge there now.

Y/N smirked again, leaning just past Damian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Drew. I’ll send you a thank-you card when I’ve got that title around my waist. You know, since I’m apparently standing on your precious road.”

That sharp grin stayed plastered across her face as she raised her hand and flipped him off, deliberate and bold. Drew’s face darkened, his voice a warning rumble. “You’ve got no idea the storm you’re calling down on yourself, lass.”

“Good,” Y/N shot back, her eyes glinting. “I love the rain.”

With that, Damian pulled her with him, the two of them disappearing down the hallway. But not before Priest threw Drew one last smirk over his shoulder. “Better hope she doesn’t run you over.”

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Creative had seen the spark immediately. The second Y/N made her SmackDown debut, the audience’s reactions weren’t just loud, they were electric. Pairing her with Damian Priest wasn’t just smart, it was inevitable. The sly chemistry between them, that mischievous edge in her smile when she stood at his side, and the added wrinkle of Drew McIntyre’s growing resentment created the perfect storm. The writers wanted fire, and this trio gave them a blaze.

The main event of the night: Damian Priest versus Drew McIntyre.

The arena was already buzzing before the bell rang, the energy thick in the air. “This is gonna be a war,” Wade Barrett muttered over the live broadcast, but inside the arena it was even louder, the fans split right down the middle. Some were bellowing Drew’s name with pride, others chanting for Damian, the chants overlapping until the entire arena became a wall of sound.

From the opening lock-up, Drew and Damian matched each other’s intensity. Drew used his sheer power, shoving Damian back toward the ropes with a grunt, flexing his size advantage. Damian, however, countered with fluidity, rolling under Drew’s arm and snapping a quick kick to his ribs. The crowd reacted instantly, roaring as Damian smirked and motioned for Drew to “bring it.”

The two men went move for move. Drew hitting a stiff clothesline that nearly took Damian’s head off, only for Damian to kick out at two and roll straight into a chokehold attempt. The crowd ate it up, cheering every near-fall, groaning at every close kickout. Both men were fighting like this was personal, and in a way, it was.

Halfway through, Damian had the clear upper hand. He stomped down hard on Drew in the corner, leaning into him with vicious forearms. “Priest is all over him!” Joe Tessitore shouted as Damian launched Drew into a Broken Arrow that shook the mat. Drew kicked out at two, and the audience erupted, chanting “This is awesome!”

But Drew wasn’t going down without a fight. He pushed himself up, jaw tight, sweat running down his face as he glared at Damian like he’d just made a grave mistake. He rallied with sharp, punishing offense: belly-to-belly suplexes, a thunderous neckbreaker, and finally that spine-tingling “3…2…1…” countdown from the crowd as Drew retreated to the corner, stomping his foot against the mat, lining Damian up for the Claymore.

The energy peaked, fans were on their feet, the chants deafening. Drew sprinted across the ring, ready to end it—

And that’s when the roof nearly blew off.

Y/N appeared out of nowhere, sliding under the bottom rope in a black leather jacket, hood down, eyes burning with defiance. The referee had no time to see her, Y/N moving faster than anyone thought she could. Before Drew even registered it, she grabbed his boot mid-run, halting his momentum. He stumbled forward, breaking stride, fury flashing across his face as he looked down at her.

The crowd roared, some cheering wildly, others booing, but no one sat still. Y/N only smirked up at him, daring him to say something.

That split-second distraction was all Damian needed. He surged forward with a choke slam, throwing Drew roughly into the mat. The Scotsman gasped, eyes up at the lights, stunned. Damian hooked the leg.

“ONE! TWO! THREE!”

The referee’s hand hit the mat, and the bell rang as the arena erupted in shock and noise. Damian had pinned Drew McIntyre.

The ex-Judgment Day star rolled to his feet, chest heaving, and immediately turned to Y/N. She slid into the ring with fluid confidence, grabbing his wrist and yanking his arm into the air like she had just claimed the victory herself. Her smug grin locked directly onto Drew, who was propped up on his elbows, glaring daggers through the hair matted to his face.

The tension in the ring was white-hot. So much so that the audience could feel it, practically taste it in the air. Y/N tilted her head, raising her brows at Drew like she’d already beaten him without ever stepping in the ring. Then Damian leaned down, brushing his lips against the side of her head in a quick, deliberate kiss.

The crowd popped again, some gasping, others screaming, the mix of cheers and boos echoing off the arena walls. Drew’s expression twisted even further, disbelief and fury carving across his features. His jaw clenched, his fists slammed against the mat, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.

Y/N only tightened her grip on Damian’s raised hand, her eyes still locked on Drew like this was only the beginning. And truthfully, it was. Y/N had no idea what she just started with the Scottish Warrior, but she was about to find out.

Creative had barely waited for the dust to settle before pulling the next card. They wanted to strike while the iron was hot. And so, the very next week, Y/N found herself pacing in gorilla position, rolling her shoulders, shaking out her wrists, her eyes narrowed on the monitor. Chelsea Green was already in the ring, taunting the crowd with exaggerated pouts and cocky waves.

“Remember,” one of the producers said, clipboard in hand, “this is your showcase. Go out there and remind them why you’re here.”

Y/N smirked, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure they never forget it.”

Her music hit. The crowd erupted, not the polite, cautious cheer of a newcomer, but genuine excitement. She was already becoming must-see. Walking down the ramp with her signature swagger, she played to both sides of the arena, pointing at a group holding up a “SmackDown’s New Queen” sign, before sliding smoothly into the ring.

The bell rang. 

From the start, Y/N owned the pace. Chelsea tried to stall, ducking between the ropes with a dramatic squeal, shaking her head at the ref. The crowd booed, and Y/N leaned against the ropes, smirking. “What’s the matter, Chelsea? Scared already?” she mouthed.

When Chelsea finally stepped in, Y/N was relentless. A chain wrestling sequence showcased her crisp technique; headlock takeover, quick wrist control, rolling seamlessly into a snapmare. The crowd popped for every transition, and when Y/N popped up to her feet with a playful bow, they roared.

Chelsea tried cheap shots, raking the eyes, yanking the hair, but Y/N countered with fluid reversals, her athleticism undeniable. A sharp dropkick sent Chelsea sprawling into the corner, and Y/N strutted across the ring, cupping her hand to her ear as the fans rallied behind her.

“She’s really got them eating out of her hand already,” Wade muttered from commentary. “And let’s be honest, it’s not just hype. She’s backing it up.”

“She’s arrogant,” Joe countered. “Confidence is one thing. This? This is poking a hornet’s nest. You don’t walk into SmackDown and act like you own the place.”

“Tell that to the people cheering,” Wade counters sassily. 

Momentum built. Y/N hit a running knee strike, then climbed the turnbuckle, pointing to the crowd before launching into a missile dropkick that flattened Chelsea. She hooked the leg.

One… two—Chelsea kicked out.

No problem. Y/N rolled to her feet, adrenaline pumping, the fans clapping in rhythm now. She circled Chelsea like a predator, signaling her finisher. This was it. She hauled Chelsea up—

The crowd suddenly erupted in boos. Y/N froze mid-movement, her eyes darting to the ramp. Drew McIntyre.

The Scottish Warrior’s theme blasted through the arena, and there he was, striding down the ramp with that smug grin plastered across his face. He wasn’t storming, wasn’t charging, just walking slowly, deliberately, sword in hand, eyes locked on the ring.

Y/N’s heart sank.

“What the hell is he doing out here?!” Wade's voice nearly cracked over commentary.

“He’s returning the favor,” Joe said smugly. “Fair is fair.”

“Fair?!” Wade snapped. “This isn’t about fair, this is about ego. He couldn’t stand her stealing his spotlight, so now he’s here to ruin hers.”

Y/N yelled from the ropes, pointing at Drew. “What the hell are you doing?!”

But in her distraction, Chelsea seized the opening. Rolling Y/N up into a tight schoolgirl, the ref dropped to count—

One… two… three!

The arena gasped. Shock, cheers, and boos all tangled together as Chelsea squealed, scrambling out of the ring, hands over her mouth like she’d just won a title. Y/N sat in the ring, stunned, hair falling in her face. Her chest heaved as reality sank in, her big showcase, stolen right out from under her.

And Drew? He stood halfway up the ramp, laughing. A deep, mocking laugh that carried over the jeers. He pointed at her, shaking his head, as if to say welcome to the big leagues.

Y/N gripped the ropes, her knuckles white. Her glare could’ve cut through stone. Then she screamed at him, voice raw, fury echoing through the arena: “You think this is funny?!”

The camera caught every second, the rage in her eyes, the disbelief, the unfiltered venom. She pounded the ropes, flipping him off with both hands as Drew smirked, turned on his heel, and walked away.

The crowd was split down the middle, half booing Drew mercilessly, half eating up the feud they knew was brewing. But one thing was clear. Y/N wasn’t just a flash in the pan anymore. She was in the middle of a war.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Y/N stormed through the curtain, her chest still heaving from the match. Sweat slicked her hairline, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. She ripped the wrist tape from her arm and tossed it to the floor, muttering curses under her breath. She was beyond pissed, this wasn’t just losing. This was her match, stolen out from under her, and no one had the decency to even tell her that the outcome had changed.

And she knew exactly who was behind it.

Drew McIntyre stood a few feet down the hallway, laughing with two producers, his massive frame still radiating arrogance after what he’d just pulled.

That was the last straw.

Y/N marched right up to him, shoved him square in the chest, and snapped, “Who the hell do you think you are, huh? You had no right interfering in my match!”

Drew barely stumbled, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at her. His jaw flexed before he tilted his head, voice low but cutting. “It became my right the moment you decided to stick your nose in mine. You wanted to play games out there with Priest? Well, congratulations, sweetheart. Now you’re in my game.”

“Sweetheart?” she spat back, her eyes blazing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Drew. I wasn’t playing games, I was doing my job. Something you clearly don’t understand.”

His lips curled into a humorless smirk. “Your job? Your job is runnin’ your mouth and hidin’ behind Priest every time you get in over your head. Don’t act like you’re the one carryin’ the weight around here.”

The camera crew had noticed the scene brewing, their red lights blinking as they recorded every word. The footage was already rolling across the arena screens, the crowd buzzing with anticipation as the fight outside the ring began to spill into reality.

Y/N jabbed a finger into Drew’s chest, her voice like venom. “You think you’re God’s gift just because you’ve been here longer? Because you’re 6’5 and  got your little sword? Newsflash, McIntyre, I’ve done more in a month to get this crowd behind me than you’ve managed in the last year.”

That one hit. Drew’s expression hardened, his nostrils flaring as his thick accent cut through. “Careful, lass. You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that. But talent doesn’t equal respect. You don’t just take it, you earn it. And right now? You’ve earned nothin’ but a broken reputation for stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She stepped even closer, her forehead nearly touching his chest, refusing to be intimidated by his size. “Respect isn’t something you can demand, Drew. You might scare everyone else backstage, but not me. You want respect? Try not acting like a bitter caveman every time someone else gets the spotlight.”

The crowd watching on the screens roared at the exchange, sensing just how real it was getting. Drew’s eyes burned down at her, his voice dropping into a growl. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, but sooner or later, it’s gonna write a cheque your body can’t cash. And when that time comes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Her laugh was sharp, mocking. “Funny. You sound just like every man who’s been afraid of me since day one. Guess it’s true— biggest guy in the room, smallest ego.”

The crew nearby glanced at each other nervously, stepping closer as if ready to intervene. Drew took half a step forward, his shoulders squared, his voice nearly a roar now. “Keep pushin’ me, and you’ll find out firsthand what happens when respect is forced!”

“Bring it on, Braveheart!” she shot back, shoving him again. “I’ll end you faster than your sword entrance does!”

That was when two crew members finally rushed in, separating the two before Y/N actually swung on him. She strained against their hold, still shouting over their shoulders. “You think this is over? You’ve just started something you’re not man enough to finish!”

Drew’s glare stayed locked on her as the men kept them apart. He gave a low, dangerous chuckle, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that, lass. We’ll see.”

The crowd in the arena was eating it up, the tension palpable, the feud now lit on fire.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Y/N was still muttering under her breath as she stalked down the hallway, every step echoing like the crack of a whip. When she reached Paul Levesque’s office door, she didn’t bother knocking, just shoved it open.

Her eyes immediately narrowed when she saw Drew McIntyre sitting there, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed like he owned the place. “Oh, hell no,” Y/N said, already turning on her heel. “Not doing this, not sitting in the same room as him.”

“Sit down,” Paul said firmly, holding up a hand before she could storm out. The authority in his voice froze her in place. “Now.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, exhaled sharply through her nose, then stomped over and dropped into the chair beside Drew like the seat had personally offended her. She crossed her arms tightly, refusing to look his way. Drew smirked slightly, his thick accent dripping with mockery. “Aw, what’s the matter? Don’t like sharin’ the spotlight with the big bad Scotsman?”

Her head snapped toward him. “Spotlight? Please. If anything, I’ve been carrying your overgrown ass in relevance these past two weeks.”

Paul raised a brow, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “You two done? Or should I give you a cage to settle this in before we get to business?”

Neither of them answered, just glared at each other. Paul sighed, shaking his head. “Look. Normally, I don’t let personal drama spill outside of kayfabe. If this was any other situation, I’d shut it down before it got out of hand.” He paused, locking eyes with both of them. “But the truth is, the fans are eating this up. Your tension, your animosity, the way you can’t even breathe the same air without sparks flying— it’s money. And we’d be idiots not to capitalize on it.”

Drew snorted. “So what, you want us to claw each other’s eyes out on TV until one of us snaps? Sounds brilliant.”

Y/N leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’d be more than happy to snap if it meant shutting you up.”

Paul raised his hand again, cutting her off. “Enough. Here’s the deal— you’ve both got the Euro tour coming up. A lot of press, a lot of eyes on the company. And thanks to this little feud of yours, you two are hotter right now than half the damn roster. So congratulations, you’re going to be handling those events together. As partners.”

The silence was deafening for a beat, then Y/N shot up out of her chair. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Drew’s head jerked toward Paul, his face tightening. “No chance. Absolutely not. Put me with literally anyone else.”

Paul’s smirk returned, calm but unyielding. “You think I’m asking? This isn’t optional. You’re both adults, you’re both professionals, and if you want to keep cashing those paychecks, you’ll figure out how to coexist. At least for the next few weeks.”

Y/N’s hands were balled into fists at her side. “You’re basically putting me on babysitter duty for the Scottish psychopath over here.”

Drew’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your mouth, lass, or I’ll give you a real reason to be scared of me.”

“Oh, trust me,” Y/N fired back instantly, “I’ve seen scarier in my bathroom mirror first thing in the morning.”

Paul chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You two…” He leaned forward, voice sharpening. “Here’s the bottom line: you either make this work, or you can kiss your contracts goodbye. Your call.”

The room fell into a thick, tense silence. Finally, Drew stood up, glaring down at Y/N. “Fine. I’ll play along. But if she gets in my way, don’t blame me when I stop bein’ polite.”

Y/N stood as well, stepping chest-to-chest with him, refusing to back down. “Try me, big man. I dare you.”

Paul’s voice cut through like steel. “Good. Glad we’re clear. Now go get yourselves prepared for the next few weeks before I change my mind.”

The two of them turned sharply toward the door, still glaring daggers at each other as they left, the tension thick enough to choke on.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The flight was long-haul, the kind that stretched hours into eternity, and of course— of course— they’d been seated right next to each other. Y/N dropped into her aisle seat with a sharp sigh, already bracing herself when Drew lowered himself into the seat beside her, his massive frame practically swallowing the row. His elbow immediately claimed the shared armrest like it was his birthright.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N muttered, shooting him a glare. “Do you take up this much space on purpose, or is it just a talent you were born with?”

Drew turned his head, lips twitching into that insufferable smirk. “I’m six-five, lass. I take up space by existing. Not my fault ye’ve got arms like twigs.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of him, his voice a low murmur that sent unwanted goosebumps along her arms. “Nothin’ wrong with twigs. They bend easy.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Keep talking like that and you’ll find out how easy they snap, too.”

That earned a chuckle from him, low and rumbling, and damn if it didn’t curl somewhere deep in her stomach. She hated that sound. She hated that she liked that sound. He didn’t move his arm from the armrest when she shifted in her seat, forcing her to press closer than she wanted. His scent, clean, sharp, a little musky, hit her. Then the warmth radiating from his body. Then the fact that, annoyingly, the muscles in his forearm looked even more defined this close. She hated herself for noticing, and hated him more for making it impossible not to.

“You always this grumpy, or is it just me that brings it out of you?” Drew asked casually, like he hadn’t just made her pulse tick faster.

“It’s definitely you,” she shot back, buckling her seatbelt. “And you’re not as charming as you think.”

“Charming?” His eyebrows lifted, smug. “Didn’t realize that was on the table. Sounds like you’ve been thinkin’ about me more than you’d like.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Braveheart. Just because you’ve got the size advantage doesn’t mean you’re carrying your weight in the ring. Half the time, your opponent’s making you look good.”

That jab landed, she could see it in the way his jaw tightened. But then his gaze flicked to her, slow and heavy, and lingered a second too long on her mouth before he dragged it back up. His lips curved. “Funny. I was gonna say the same thing about you.”

She almost choked. “Excuse me?”

“Plenty of flash, sure. You’re quick, you’re clever. But when it comes to grit?” His voice dropped, the rumble curling around her in the confined space. “You’ve barely been tested. One rough night, and I wonder if you’d crack.”

Her breath hitched, but she leaned closer, fire in her eyes. “Try me. I’ll last longer in this business than you ever will.”

For a moment, they just stared, too close, too tense, and too aware of how much heat buzzed between them. She hated the way her stomach flipped at the way he looked at her, like she was a fight he was eager to lose himself in.

Finally, the flight attendant stopped beside them, smiling stiffly. “Everything okay here?”

“Perfect,” Y/N said sweetly, tearing her glare from Drew.

“Couldn’t be better,” Drew echoed, voice dripping with something that sounded too much like challenge.

When the attendant left, Y/N crossed her arms and muttered, “Nightmare.”

“Don’t act like you’re not enjoyin’ it,” Drew replied, smirk tugging at his mouth.

She refused to answer, but her cheeks burned hotter than she wanted them to.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The convention hall buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the snapping of camera flashes. A long row of autograph tables stretched across the floor, banners hanging above each one. Drew McIntyre’s was crowded, fans in kilts and replica Claymores, some shouting his name like they were at ringside. Just a few feet away, Y/N’s line was just as long, people holding signs, t-shirts, and Funko Pops, eager for her autograph.

It was easy enough to stay in character. The feud was hot right now, and every fan seemed desperate to see it play out live, even here.

“Drew, man, you’ve got to admit, Y/N’s been giving you hell lately!” one fan shouted as he slid a glossy photo across the table.

Drew gave a dark laugh, signing the photo with a flourish before glancing over at Y/N. “Aye, lad, she’s been a thorn in my side, I’ll give ye that. But don’t confuse persistence for power. She’s loud, not lethal.”

From her table, Y/N looked up, pen paused mid-signature. “You sure about that, Braveheart?” she shot back, smirking at the crowd’s laughter. “Because last I checked, I’m the one still standing every time we go toe to toe.”

Fans howled with approval, loving the jabs. “Keep dreamin’, lass,” Drew muttered, though he kept smiling at the kid in front of him. “Nightmares don’t last forever.”

It went on like that for a while, autographs, banter, trading insults like they were passing a ball back and forth. No one noticed how much of it wasn’t just for show.

The event rolled on like that until she noticed a small commotion near Drew’s line. A boy, maybe ten years old, walked up with his parent by his side. His little frame swam in an oversized Drew McIntyre t-shirt, the kilt from a costume store wrapped proudly around his waist. His mom smiled nervously as he tugged her hand and practically bounced toward Drew. The volunteer at the front whispered something in Drew’s ear—Make-A-Wish. Y/N froze, realizing instantly.

Drew’s expression softened in an instant. His whole presence shifted from performer to protector. “Well look at ye,” Drew said warmly, crouching slightly so he wasn’t towering so high above the boy. “Dressed better than I am. Bet ye’ve been practicin’ the claymore too, aye?”

The boy beamed. “You’re so big and strong! Do you ever get scared?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. The boy’s voice was small, but it carried enough weight to cut through the buzz of the event.

Drew paused. His eyes flicked briefly toward Y/N, maybe instinct, maybe habit, but when he looked back at the boy, his face was open, unguarded. “Aye, lad,” he said, lowering his voice to a soft burr. “I get scared all the time. I’ve spent years tryin’ to prove myself, tryin’ to earn respect. It wasn’t always easy, and it wasn’t always fun. But y’know what I learned? Bein’ strong isn’t about how big yer arms are or how high ye can lift someone over yer head.” He reached out, steadying the boy’s shoulder gently. “It’s about gettin’ back up when life knocks ye down. And you…” He smiled, eyes crinkling. “…you’re stronger than I could ever be.”

The boy’s mom wiped her eyes quietly as the boy threw his arms around Drew. The big Scot hugged him back carefully, tenderly, as though he were made of glass. When the boy finally pulled back, his eyes went wide as he looked over Drew’s shoulder toward Y/N. “C-can she be in the picture too?” he asked, shy but hopeful. “She’s funny. And really tough.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

The boy nodded earnestly. She smiled, an unguarded, real smile, and stood, crossing over. “Of course, kiddo. Scoot over, I’ll be right here.” She crouched beside him, throwing up a playful mock-fighting pose. The boy mimicked her, sword raised proudly, while Drew crouched down on the other side with his own fierce scowl.

His mother snapped the picture, the boy glowing between them. When the kid finally skipped off with his mom, Y/N glanced at Drew. For a moment, the walls they’d built cracked, the look in his eyes wasn’t mocking, and hers wasn’t combative. It was… something else. Something that neither of them liked to acknowledge.

Drew broke it first, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t think ye had it in you, sweetheart. Almost looked human there for a second.”

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t get all sentimental just because you found your mini-me. The only reason that picture’s worth anything is because I was in it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You keep tellin’ yourself that, lass.”

She crossed her arms, leaning closer with a sharp smile. “I will. Because unlike you, I don’t need a claymore or a funny accent to stay relevant.”

Fans within earshot laughed, eating it up. Neither of them broke character, but under the noise and the smiles, that lingering softness from a moment ago stuck like a thorn neither could quite pull out.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The backstage monitor had already been buzzing with chatter. A mixed tag: Drew McIntyre and Y/N versus Montez Ford and Bianca Belair. The crowd was alive before they even stepped through the curtain, energy pulsing in a way that promised either disaster or magic.

Drew adjusted his wrist tape as they waited by the gorilla position, glancing down at Y/N with that same mixture of disdain and something else he’d never admit out loud. She was stretching, rolling her shoulders, utterly focused—except for the smirk she caught him with when she noticed him watching.

“Try not to cost me this one, big man,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear over Montez’s entrance music blaring through the curtain.

Drew arched a brow, his Scottish burr laced with dry humor. “Funny, I was about to say the same to you. Don’t worry, lass, I’ll carry the weight.”

She scoffed. “Please. You’d be on your back within three minutes without me.”

The music hit, their names announced, and the two stepped through the curtain—side by side but not touching, the reluctant team that nobody thought would gel. The crowd roared regardless, sensing the tension, the possibility.

Drew started things off with Montez. He towered over him, locking up with sheer power, forcing Montez into the corner with ease. The crowd erupted with Drew’s dominance—until Montez ducked low, used his speed, and came flying off the ropes with a slick dropkick that staggered the Scotsman.

Y/N slapped Drew’s back, tagging herself in before he could react. “Step aside, Braveheart,” she taunted, slipping between the ropes.

Drew shot her a glare, muttering, “Patience clearly isn’t your strong suit.”

She ignored him, eyes locked on Bianca as the EST hopped into the ring, ready. The two women went at it fast—chain wrestling to start, counters and reversals, until Bianca launched Y/N into the ropes. Y/N ducked a clothesline, springboarded off the middle rope, and hit a flying back elbow that popped the crowd. She smirked as she glanced back at Drew, mouthing: See? Carried.

Bianca rallied, forcing Y/N into the corner, and Montez sneaked a tag, stepping back in. Before Y/N could react, Drew smacked her shoulder hard enough to tag himself in.

“Get out,” he ordered, stepping past her.

Her jaw dropped. “You just tagged me out?!”

“Correct. You’re welcome.”

The crowd laughed at their bickering, eating it up.

Things shifted when Montez’s athleticism caught Drew off guard. A running enziguri, then a frog splash that had the crowd convinced the match was over—1…2…Drew just barely kicked out.

Drew was still down, clutching his ribs, when Y/N suddenly hopped the ropes, breaking the pin. The referee scolded her, but she didn’t care.

She crouched down beside Drew, glaring at him. “Get up. Don’t you dare make me carry your ass alone.”

He blinked at her, stunned, not at the words, but at the fire in her eyes. For a second, she looked like she actually cared.

She yanked him up by the wrist before he could process it, then spun and drilled Montez with a brutal snap DDT. The arena went wild.

Drew, still catching his breath, stared at her. She just shot him a sharp smirk. “You’re welcome.”

Bianca stormed the ring to even the odds, charging straight at Y/N. But Y/N ducked, sent Bianca flying over the ropes, and turned right back to Drew.

“Tag me!” she barked, slapping his chest hard enough to echo.

Drew’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Bossy.” But he obliged, stepping back to let her fly.

Y/N vaulted off the ropes, taking Montez down with a flying crossbody. The two traded near-falls, but soon Drew reached out a massive hand. Y/N glanced at it—hesitated just a beat too long—then slapped it.

From there, something clicked.

Drew scooped Montez up for a suplex, but instead of dropping him, he held him vertical. Y/N ran in, leapt, and dropkicked Montez’s chest mid-air, sending him crashing down harder than ever.

The crowd roared. Moments later, Y/N whipped Montez toward Drew, and Drew blasted him with a Claymore that nearly took his head off. Bianca tried to rush back in, but Y/N met her halfway, cutting her off with a wicked superkick that sent her tumbling through the ropes again.

The crowd was on fire, chants breaking out from every direction. Drew covered Montez, Y/N standing guard. 1…2…3. The bell rang.

The place erupted. Their music hit, echoing through the arena. Drew pushed to his feet, sweat dripping, chest heaving. He turned to find Y/N already standing in the middle of the ring, hand outstretched, not in insult, not in mockery, but as if daring him.

For once, he didn’t overthink it. He smirked, took her hand, and together they raised each other’s arms high in victory.

The crowd popped so loud it shook the rafters. And for the briefest of moments, amidst the cheers, the lights, the heat of the win, they both felt it. Not hatred. Not rivalry. Something else.

They dropped each other’s hands quickly after. Neither spoke. But the smirk they shared said enough.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The adrenaline from the match still hummed in the air as Y/N followed Drew backstage. Sweat dripped down her temple, and her chest heaved from the final sequence they’d just pulled off. The crew parted around them, some nodding, others clapping them on the back. A few still looked shocked that the two of them had managed to function as a team at all.

Drew dragged a hand through his damp hair and let out a low chuckle, still catching his breath. “Never thought I’d say this,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “but we actually pulled it off.”

Y/N smirked, tugging at the tape around her wrist. “Don’t sound too surprised. I am good at this, you know.”

He gave her a look, that dry, Scottish patience only he could pull off. “Oh aye, you’re good. Doesn’t mean I expected you to save my arse out there.”

She cocked a brow. “What, you think I’d just let Montez pin you? Please. I couldn’t ruin my record. I’ve got bigger things to worry about— like Tiffany’s title.”

That earned her a short laugh, his shoulders shaking. “So it wasn’t about me at all, then?”

“Not even a little,” she shot back with a grin. “You were just… collateral damage I had to drag along with me.”

Drew leaned against a crate, towering as he tilted his head at her. “Funny, because from where I was lying, it looked an awful lot like you cared.”

She scoffed, refusing to let the flicker of warmth in his tone land. “Don’t flatter yourself, big guy. I just don’t like losing. Especially not to Montez and Bianca. Do you know how long I’d have to hear about it from them?”

His mouth curved, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Fair enough. Still, I’ll admit… you surprised me. Didn’t think you had teamwork in you.”

“And yet,” she said, tugging at the cap of a water bottle before tossing it to him, “we won.”

He caught it easily, twisting the cap open. He took a long drink, then extended another bottle toward her. Their fingers brushed as she grabbed it, barely a touch, a fleeting graze, but it lingered in the air longer than it should have. Neither of them moved to pull away too quickly.

Y/N cleared her throat first, breaking the moment with a quick smirk. “Careful, Galloway. Keep talking like that, and people will think you actually like teaming with me.”

Drew’s eyes narrowed, though the amusement was clear beneath the weight of his stare. “Don’t push your luck, lass. Tonight was a one-off.”

She tilted her bottle toward him in mock salute, her grin tugging wider. “Sure it was.”

And for the first time since they’d been thrown together, the silence that followed wasn’t sharp or hostile. It was… strangely easy.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The crowd’s roar still echoed in Y/N’s ears as she pushed through the curtain, adrenaline humming in her veins. She’d just put Nia Jax down in the middle of the ring, clean, decisive, and in style. Sweat clung to her temples, her chest still rising and falling as Cathy Kelley appeared with a cameraman in tow.

“Y/N!” Cathy’s smile was bright, microphone raised. “Congratulations on your victory tonight. Beating someone as dominant as Nia is a huge statement for your main roster run. How are you feeling right now?”

Y/N dragged a wrist across her forehead, grinning like she owned the place. “How am I feeling? Like I just reminded the entire women’s division that I’m not here to fill space. I’m here to take it over. Nia was step one.”

Cathy nodded, clearly impressed. “It’s no secret the fans are buzzing about you. Your popularity’s skyrocketed since your debut, and a lot of people say that being paired in segments with Drew McIntyre helped boost that momentum—”

The smirk on Y/N’s face twisted sharp, cutting. “With all due respect, Cathy, my momentum comes from me. Not from standing next to some guy who swings a sword and broods into the camera. I didn’t need Drew to beat Nia. I don’t need Drew to make a name for myself. And I sure as hell don’t need him to validate what I can do in this ring.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Cathy blinked, eyebrows arching at the pointed remark, while the crew nearby went silent, listening. That silence broke with the sound of heavy boots. Drew McIntyre stepped into frame, towering over Y/N, his eyes glinting under the harsh backstage lights. He’d clearly been watching from a monitor, and he didn’t look amused.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue, lass,” Drew said evenly, voice edged with steel. “But you’re forgetting something. The reason folk are talking about you at all is because of the company you’ve kept. A little gratitude might not kill you.”

Y/N tilted her head, refusing to back down. “Gratitude? For what, Drew? For you showing up and pretending like I need saving? I just proved I don’t. I’m climbing this ladder with or without you, and if that bruises your ego— well, that sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw flexed, shoulders squaring as he stepped closer, the air between them suddenly suffocating. “Careful now. You might think you’re above learning respect, but the veterans you mock? They’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

Y/N’s smile only widened, taunting, dangerous. “Guess I’ll just have to chew harder, then.”

The two were nearly nose-to-nose now, Cathy frozen between them, eyes wide as if she wasn’t sure whether to cut the camera or keep rolling. Drew’s gaze drilled into hers, chest rising with slow, simmering breaths. “You’re going to regret underestimating me.”

“And you’re going to regret ever thinking I needed you.” Y/N’s voice was calm, but the venom in it cut like glass.

Cathy hurriedly tried to close the segment, her nervous voice barely covering the tension sparking between them. Crew members shifted, ready to step in if things escalated. But even when a small step pulled them apart, their eyes stayed locked — both furious, both stubborn, both too aware of the pulse hammering in their chests.

Neither of them said it, but they both felt it: this wasn’t just rivalry anymore.

This was something dangerous.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The hotel room was thick with silence. Y/N sat on the bed, massaging her thigh and trying not to wince, though every movement sent pain rippling through her legs. She hated showing weakness, especially here, with him.

Drew leaned against the desk, scrolling through his phone like he couldn’t care less. But his eyes flicked up every few seconds, catching the way she shifted, the way she bit back a hiss.

“You’re makin’ it worse,” he said finally, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N’s head whipped toward him. “I didn’t ask for a medical opinion.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious.” He set the phone down, his arms crossing over his chest. “You’re stubborn enough to work yourself into a wheelchair, and for what? To prove a point no one asked you to?”

Her mouth fell open, incredulous. “A point? That was a match against Piper freakin’ Niven. If I didn’t give it everything, she would’ve steamrolled me.”

He shrugged, maddeningly calm. “Sometimes living to fight another day is the smarter choice.”

“Oh, right, because you’re so full of wisdom.” Her voice sharpened, eyes blazing. “Tell me, Drew, do you hand out advice because you actually care, or because it makes you feel better to remind everyone you’ve been here longer?”

His brows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Careful.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Hit too close to home? You don’t like it when someone calls you out for being old and obnoxious?”

His nostrils flared, his accent deepening with his rising temper. “Obnoxious? Lass, I’ve bled in more rings than you’ve had birthdays. You think you’re the first brash young thing to come in screamin’ about changing the business? You’ll burn yourself out before you even begin.”

“Better to burn out than fade away!” she snapped. “At least I’m fighting. At least I’m making people notice me. You think I’ve got ten years to find myself like you did? I don’t. I either prove I belong now, or I’m gone.”

Drew stepped closer, towering over her now. “You think respect’s earned by breakin’ yourself in half every night? You think I wanted to start over in bingo halls with fifty people watchin’? No, but I did, because I had to earn back every ounce of respect I lost. You’re playin’ with fire, and one day you’ll get burned.”

“And what—” she bit out, rising to her feet despite the pain— “you’ll be there to say ‘I told you so’?”

Her knee buckled suddenly, pain lancing through her leg. She staggered forward with a gasp. Before she could hit the floor, his arms wrapped around her, strong and steady. The sudden closeness made her breath catch, the fury in her chest colliding with something far more dangerous.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, less angry, more… worried. “You tryin’ to kill yourself out there?”

“Get off me,” she snapped, though her hands clutched at his arms, grounding herself.

He didn’t let go, easing her back onto the bed with surprising gentleness. His big hands stayed firm on her arms, anchoring her. “You think this is strength? Pushin’ until your legs give out? All I see is someone too proud to admit she’s hurtin’.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes locked with his. “And all I see is someone pretending he doesn’t care when he clearly does.”

That stopped him. His jaw tightened, eyes flickering like she’d struck a nerve. He didn’t move, still close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. “Of course I care,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant. “You’re my partner, whether I wanted it or not. You think I enjoy watchin’ you throw yourself to the wolves? You think I don’t respect the fire you’ve got? But fire unchecked…” His hand shifted to her injured leg, holding it carefully. “…burns everything in its path.”

She swallowed hard, heart racing. The way he said it, the way his hand lingered just enough to steady her, it was more intimate than anything they’d ever let slip between them.

“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Aye. And yet you’re still sittin’ here, lettin’ me patch you up.”

Her mouth curved into something between a glare and a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want to hobble into SmackDown like Bambi on ice.”

“Whatever you say, lass,” he said, grabbing the first-aid kit. But when he wrapped her leg, his touch was impossibly careful.

They talked as he worked, snapping at first, then easing into quieter truths. Drew admitted how long it had taken him to shake off the shame of losing everything once. Y/N confessed how badly the pressure was crushing her, how much she needed to prove she wasn’t just a flash in the pan.

By the time he tied off the bandage, the anger had burned down into something heavier, quieter. Their eyes met again, lingering too long. The tension was different now, softer but sharper all at once. Drew leaned just slightly closer, like the weight between them pulled him in. Her breath caught, lips parting without thought.

For a second, it felt inevitable. But then he blinked, jaw clenching, and pulled back abruptly. “You should rest,” he muttered. But the heat in his eyes betrayed the restraint in his voice. And for the first time, silence between them didn’t feel like avoidance. It felt like possibility.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The crowd was still buzzing from the electric finish as Y/N and Drew pushed through the curtain backstage. Both were flushed with adrenaline, sweat glistening under the harsh arena lights. Crew members clapped shoulders and shouted praise as they passed.

“Bloody hell, that spot with the double suplex— genius,” one producer grinned, shaking his head. “Crowd ate it up.”

“And the synchronized kip-up? Chef’s kiss,” another added.

Drew just smirked, shrugging like it had all been easy. “Aye, light work.”

Y/N barked out a laugh, tugging at the tape on her wrists. “Light work? You were huffing like a steam engine two minutes in.”

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me? Lass, I carried Bo halfway across that ring like he weighed nothin’. You’re welcome for settin’ you up with the easiest hot tag of your life.”

Her jaw dropped, mock-offended. “Easy? Please. Who saved your Scottish ass when Nikki was about to put you in the Sister Abigail?”

He tilted his head, lips curving in that infuriating smirk. “Saved me? You just wanted the spotlight back. Admit it.”

Y/N stepped closer, chin tilted defiantly. “If I wanted the spotlight, Drew, I wouldn’t have let you steal half my thunder out there.”

His low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and before she could move past him, he nudged her shoulder with his own, playfully rough. “Thunder, huh? More like a drizzle.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Did you just call me drizzle?”

He leaned down, deliberately lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Aye. Cute drizzle.”

Her cheeks heated, and she shoved at his arm with a scoff, though her lips betrayed her by twitching into a grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

He straightened, smirk firmly in place. “And yet, you’re smilin’.”

Before she could come up with a comeback, he gave her a final nudge. “I’m headin’ to catering before you decide to pick another fight. Don’t go breakin’ your legs again while I’m gone.”

She rolled her eyes, waving him off. “Go eat your chicken breast and pretend it has seasoning, old man.”

He chuckled as he walked off, tossing over his shoulder, “Better than whatever nonsense you eat.”

The moment he disappeared around the corner, a voice piped up behind her. “Well, well, well. Look who’s suddenly besties with Scotland’s finest.”

Y/N turned to see Jessica leaning against a crate, arms crossed and a mischievous smirk plastered on her face.

“Don’t start,” Y/N warned, tugging at the towel draped over her neck.

Tiffany’s brows shot up. “What? I’m just noticing things. Like how you were smiling at him. And how he was definitely checking you out when you flipped Nikki into that headlock takeover.”

Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed, flustered. “He was not.”

Tiffany tilted her head, clearly amused. “Uh, yeah, he was. Girl, everyone could see it. You two had, like, a whole moment out there.”

Y/N scoffed, defensive. “It’s called chemistry. In the ring. You know, for the crowd.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tiffany drew out the sound, clearly not buying it. “Chemistry, sure. Totally nothing to do with the way you two were practically flirting when you came back here.”

“I was not flirting!” Y/N snapped, maybe a little too quickly.

Jessica just smirked, unbothered. “Whatever you say. But if you start showing up to the gym with a tartan scarf, I’m calling you out.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her towel. “I hate you.”

“Love you too,” Tiffany sang, sauntering off, leaving Y/N standing there, cheeks warm, replaying Drew’s stupid smirk in her head.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The crowd was still electric after Drew’s match with Damian Priest. Sweat soaked through his hair, his chest heaving as he raised his arm in victory. He snatched the mic, pacing the ring with that usual fire in his eyes.

“You see that? That’s what it means to fight like a warrior!” Drew roared, his accent thick, his voice booming. “That’s what it means to stand toe to toe with the very best and come out on top. Damian Priest is no easy man to beat, but I—”

The chant cut him off.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

He froze, lips pressing into a thin line. The chant rolled louder, drowning out his words, feeding off itself. Drew’s nostrils flared. He gripped the mic tighter, pacing harder. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” he muttered into the mic, drawing boos and cheers. “I give you a war, I give you a win, and instead of chantin’ for me— you chant for her?”

The crowd doubled down. “Y/N! Y/N!”

Drew’s voice sharpened, the bitterness seeping out. “She didn’t fight this match. She didn’t spill her blood tonight. I did. But no, you’d rather sing for the rookie— because she’s shiny, she’s new, she’s got a couple of flashy moments under her belt.”

Boos. Gasps. A few cheers from the diehards.

“You all need to hear this. She’s not me. She’s not tested. She’s not proven. She’s just a rookie ridin’ hype, and the day’s comin’ when all that noise fades away. But me?” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “I’ll still be here. I’ll still be the one carryin’ this brand while you all chase your next favorite.”

The boos were deafening now, but Drew just hurled the mic down and stormed out, jaw locked, eyes dark. 

Backstage was a blur of noise, but the second Drew walked through the curtain, the tension was different.

Y/N was waiting. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, jaw set, but her eyes, there was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Not fire. Not defiance. Something heavier.

“What the hell was that?” Her voice was sharp, but thin, like it was stretched too far.

Drew frowned, still riding the high of the promo. “It’s called doin’ business, lass. Workin’ the crowd. You know that.” 

Her laugh was bitter, brittle. “Don’t. Don’t stand there and tell me that wasn’t personal.”

He straightened, his own temper prickling. “You think I care enough to make it personal? I said what needed to be said. You’re the one who’s been struttin’ around like you built this place after five minutes on the main roster.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, hands curling into fists. “You don’t respect me.”

“Respect is earned,” he shot back. “Not handed out like free merch at the door.”

Her breath hitched, barely audible, but he heard it. And when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “I thought… I thought maybe you did. After everything. Even just a little.”

Something twisted in his gut. The usual fire in her was dimmed, replaced by something raw, and it knocked the wind out of him.

“Lass—” he started, but she cut him off, her chin trembling.

“You humiliated me out there.” Her eyes shone, though she blinked hard, fighting it back. “You made it sound like I don’t belong. Like I haven’t bled and trained and clawed my way here. You made me sound like a joke. On live TV.”

Drew’s chest tightened, his words catching before they left his throat. He hadn’t expected this, her shoulders tight, her voice breaking, her face trying and failing to hold itself together.

For the first time, she wasn’t spitting fire at him. She was breaking. And he’d done it. “Y/N…” His voice softened despite himself, his accent thick with something almost like regret. “That wasn’t—”

“No.” She shook her head, jaw set even as her eyes brimmed. “Don’t. I can’t trust you. Not if you’re willing to cut me down just to make yourself feel taller.”

Before he could move, before he could find the right words, she turned and stormed down the hallway, shoulders stiff, wiping at her face.

Drew stayed rooted to the spot, his chest tight, replaying the crack in her voice.

He’d fought wars in this business. He’d broken bodies, cut promos that gutted people. But this? The look in her eyes as she walked away? This one felt different. And for the first time, Drew McIntyre wasn’t sure if he liked what he’d just done.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The arena was buzzing before the bell even rang. Anticipation hung in the air like static, every fan on their feet for what could be the match that defined Y/N’s career. Jade Cargill stood across the ring, her sculpted frame gleaming under the bright lights, every movement radiating power and dominance. Y/N rolled her shoulders back, adjusting her wrist tape with steady hands, but her jaw was tight, eyes never leaving Jade. Tonight was hers to win or lose.

Backstage, Drew McIntyre had been pacing for twenty minutes, running a hand through his hair until it nearly stuck up on end. He knew he didn’t belong out there. Not tonight. Not after what he’d said.

But the guilt ate at him. The look on her face after his promo, the cracked voice, the way she’d stormed off like he’d just ripped something vital out of her, it had been gnawing at him every night since. He’d replayed it over and over, hearing himself sneer the words, “just a rookie ridin’ hype,” and hating himself more each time.

He didn’t want to interfere again, didn’t want to take anything away from her. But he also couldn’t sit in the back and do nothing. Not when she had the biggest fight of her career standing right in front of her.

So when the time came, he made his decision. The lights shifted. A ripple ran through the crowd. Then his music hit. The audience erupted instantly, the kind of roar that rattled the rafters. Drew appeared at the top of the ramp, not in gear, not storming toward the ring with sword in hand. Just jeans and a black shirt, arms folded across his chest. No mic. No theatrics. Just him. Watching.

A deliberate choice. He wasn’t here to steal spotlight. He wasn’t here to overshadow. He was here to show her the one thing he hadn’t before: respect.

Y/N’s head snapped toward the entrance. Her stomach twisted sharply the moment she saw him. Of course he’d be here. Of course he’d pick tonight, the most important night of her career so far.

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She turned back to Jade, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The bell rang.

Jade came out swinging, scooping Y/N up and slamming her down hard enough to shake the mat. Then another. Then a suplex, rattling through Y/N’s sore legs, pushing her endurance to its limits. The crowd groaned with each blow.

Still, Y/N kept getting up.

And every time she rose, Drew’s eyes followed. He gave a small nod from the ramp, silent approval that only sharpened the knife twisting in Y/N’s chest. She didn’t need him there. She didn’t want him there. But she couldn’t ignore the way his presence set the arena buzzing, how his nods fueled the crowd into chants of her name.

The match built to its fever pitch. Jade hooked Y/N up for Jaded, the finisher that had ended so many others before her. But mid-air, Y/N twisted, flipping into a desperate hurricanrana that sent Jade crashing to the mat. The crowd exploded.

Y/N hit the ropes, wild energy driving her. She launched with a sharp, clean kick, then dropped her finisher with precision born of pure grit.

One. Two. Three.

The referee’s hand slapped the mat.

The noise was deafening. Y/N rose slowly, clutching her ribs, sweat running down her face as the referee lifted her arm in victory. The crowd screamed her name, chanting it in waves that shook the building.

And yet her eyes were pulled, unbidden, up the ramp. Drew was clapping. Slow. Deliberate. His expression unreadable, somewhere between pride and regret.

Her heart ached. She wanted to let herself feel it, to soak in the validation. To believe the respect was real. But she couldn’t.

Instead, she slid out of the ring, her boots hitting the floor hard as she stormed up the ramp. She brushed past him without a single glance, disappearing backstage before the crowd could even process the moment.

Drew’s applause faltered, hands lowering slowly. He exhaled hard, jaw tightening as guilt burned through his chest. He deserved that. Every bit of it. But he wasn’t going to stop trying. Not until she believed him.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The cameras were rolling, the Impaulsive set buzzing with energy as Logan Paul leaned across the table, grinning ear to ear. “Ladies and gentlemen, sitting across from me right now is a man who needs no introduction, The Scottish Warrior, DrewMcIntyre.”

The crowd off-camera popped, and Drew gave a small smirk, nodding toward Logan. “Cheers. Happy to be here.”

“Big fella, you’ve done it all. Royal Rumble winner, multiple-time world champ, carried WWE through the pandemic era… I mean, that’s legendary shit.” Logan slapped the table for emphasis. “How does it feel knowing you’re one of the pillars of this company?”

Drew leaned back in his chair, folding his massive arms. His voice carried that trademark Scottish grit. “It feels like a lot of pressure, truth be told. But pressure’s good. Means the company trusts ye, the fans believe in ye. I wouldn’t trade it for anythin’.”

Logan nodded, impressed. “Alright, so what about the current landscape? Lot of people say WWE’s in a renaissance. New stars rising, vets holding it down. Where do you see yourself fitting in right now?”

“Right where I’ve always been,” Drew replied evenly. “At the top of the mountain, fighting off anyone tryin’ to take my spot.” He smirked, the competitive edge in his eyes clear. “That part’s never changed.”

Logan chuckled. “Fair enough. Speaking of fighting people off… you’ve had some wild rivalries lately. Damian Priest, CM Punk, Roman Reigns— the list is stacked. But I gotta bring this up, man, because the internet is obsessed.”

He leaned in closer, grinning mischievously. “You and Y/N. People call you the weirdest tag team that shouldn’t work, but somehow does. The tension, the banter… what’s the real story there?”

The studio fell just a little quieter.

Drew’s smirk faltered. He shifted in his chair, his jaw tightening for a brief second before something softer flickered across his face. It was so subtle, but enough to make Logan blink in surprise.

“The real story?” Drew repeated, his accent low, deliberate. He hesitated, then leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “She’s… one of the most stubborn, hard-headed, fiery people I’ve ever met in this business. And I mean that as a compliment.”

Logan raised a brow, picking up on the change in tone immediately. “Compliment, huh? That’s not what it sounded like last week on SmackDown.”

For the first time since the cameras started rolling, Drew’s expression dropped the bravado. He exhaled through his nose, the guilt behind his eyes unmistakable.

“Aye,” he admitted. “I said somethin’ in the heat of the moment that I regret. Deeply. That’s on me. I let my ego get in the way when it should’ve been about givin’ credit where it’s due.” He looked directly into the camera now, voice steady. “The truth is… Y/N is one of the fastest rising stars we’ve got. She doesn’t need me, or anyone else, to validate her. She’s earned every bit of what she’s gettin’ right now. And anyone who doesn’t see that?” He gave a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re blind.”

Logan blinked, taken aback. “Damn. That was… respectful. Not what I expected.”

Drew gave a soft chuckle, rubbing his jaw. “She deserves respect. Always has. And I’ll make sure she gets it, even if it’s not me she wants to hear it from.”

The room was silent for a beat, the weight of his words settling. Even Logan, the king of chaos, seemed momentarily at a loss.

“Alright,” Logan finally said, grinning again but clearly thrown. “That was… not the savage Drew McIntyre I thought I was getting today. But hey, respect where it’s due. Y/N’s gonna see this, man.”

Drew’s lips quirked faintly. His gaze didn’t leave the camera. “Good. That’s the point.”

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Later that week, the backstage corridor buzzed with the usual chaos, crew wheeling production carts, wrestlers heading toward gorilla, agents barking into headsets. Drew walked with his usual measured stride, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, mind already focused on the night ahead.

And then he heard it.

Two lower-card guys, barely blips on the roster, leaned against a crate just ahead. Their voices carried over the noise.

“Crazy how quick hype fades,” one of them snickered. “Y/N’s nothin’ special. Just another pretty face they’ll feed to Tiffany.”

The other barked out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly. Fans’ll get bored of her real fast. Doesn’t matter how much they chant her name— she ain’t built to last. She’s just the flavor of the month.”

Drew froze. His body locked up like a predator catching a scent. Slowly, he set his duffel down on the floor. His fists curled so tight his knuckles cracked. His chest rose and fell, every inhale sharp, every exhale heavier.

He turned. His boots echoed against the concrete as he stalked toward them. “What,” Drew said, voice low, guttural, dangerous, “did you just say?”

The two men straightened, startled. One tried to laugh it off. “Just—just talkin’, man. Don’t get all—”

Before he could finish, Drew exploded forward. His hand shot out, grabbing the guy by the collar and slamming him back against the wall so hard the crates rattled. A forearm pressed into his throat, cutting his words to a strangled cough.

“You think you’re funny?” Drew snarled, his Scottish brogue thick with rage. “You think you can stand here, run your mouths about her, like she hasn’t bled for what she’s got?” His face was inches from the man’s, eyes blazing.

The second wrestler backed up, hands raised. “Whoa, Drew, chill—”

Drew’s glare snapped to him, lethal. “Don’t you tell me to chill.” His voice thundered down the hallway, drawing eyes. “She’s fought harder than either of you’ve ever fought in your worthless careers. She’s earned every damn chant she gets! She’s got more heart in her pinky than you’ve got in your entire bodies!”

The man against the wall choked, squirming, his face red as Drew’s forearm pressed harder. Drew’s free hand curled into a fist, veins standing out along his forearm. He was seconds away from swinging, from unleashing every ounce of rage pounding in his chest.

And deep down, he knew— it wasn’t just about their words. It was about him. About the fact that once upon a time, he had stood in front of thousands and said things not too different. He’d dragged her down when he should’ve lifted her up. And hearing her name spit out with that same venom from someone else’s mouth made him sick.

“Drew! Drew, stop!”

Crew members swarmed in, trying to wedge themselves between him and his target. A road agent grabbed his arm, another tugged at his shoulder. “Enough, man, enough!”

Drew resisted, body trembling with fury, his fist still cocked. He wanted to break this guy in half. He wanted to make sure he never said her name again. It took three people to pull him back, and even then, Drew shoved them off, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead.

The wrestlers scrambled away like frightened rats, muttering apologies, heads down. They didn’t even look back.

Drew stood there, breathing hard, hands shaking with adrenaline. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, trying to ground himself. He knew he’d nearly lost control. He knew if he’d landed that punch, it would’ve been ugly.

But for once, it wasn’t about his pride. It wasn’t about proving himself. It was about her. About defending her the way he should’ve all along.

For Y/N, he realized, he was willing to fight every single person in that locker room, from the curtain-jerkers to the main eventers. He’d burn every bridge, take every fine, throw away every ounce of goodwill.

Because the truth, slamming into him harder than any claymore he’d ever thrown, was that he cared about her, more than he’d ever let himself admit. More than he even wanted to.

And now? He couldn’t turn it off.

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     Drew had spent the better part of the day wrestling with himself. He knew he’d crossed a line with his promo on SmackDown, tearing down Y/N in front of thousands of fans. He’d been proud, frustrated, even competitive, but seeing her crushed afterward? That had shaken something loose inside him.

He’d gone to extreme lengths to find her tonight, bribed a stagehand, negotiated with security, done whatever he needed just to get her room number. And now he stood outside her door, knuckles hovering, heart hammering.

“Y/N?” His voice was careful, quiet, almost vulnerable.

No answer.

He pressed his forehead to the door, eyes closing. “I’m not gonna yell. I just… I need to talk to you.”

Inside, her hand hovered over the doorknob. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, she opened it just enough for him to see her. Drew froze. Oversized Stone Cold hoodie, black spandex shorts. Hair messy, strands falling around her face. And a large, angry bruise creeping up her leg. She looked soft, unguarded, and impossibly beautiful. “Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, controlled.

She stepped aside without a word. He entered slowly, like he was stepping into enemy territory. She moved to the far side of the room, arms crossed, eyes glued to the carpet. Normally, she’d be fire, sass, sarcasm, always ready to bite back. Tonight? Nothing. Just cold silence.

Drew sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Talk to me. Please. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. “You don’t deserve to know how I feel,” she spat, voice trembling. “After everything— after tearing me down in front of everyone— why the hell would I let you in now?”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “I know,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t deserve it. But I had to see you. Had to say… I’m sorry. And I need to make it right.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Make it right? You think a half-assed apology erases that? You made me feel small, Drew. Like everything I’ve bled for in this business meant nothing. And it was you. Not some rival, not some stranger. You.”

Her voice cracked. She looked away, biting down hard on her lip. He took a careful step closer, chest tight. “You don’t understand. When I said those things, I was… projecting. I pushed you away because I— because I was scared. Scared of how much I actually care about you.”

Her eyes widened, anger and shock clashing inside her. “Care about me?” she whispered. “That’s what that was? You think ripping me apart is how you show you care?”

Drew’s jaw clenched, his voice breaking. “No. That’s not caring, that’s cowardice. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that you—” He stopped, struggling to force it out. “You mean more to me than I ever wanted to admit. I thought if I pushed hard enough, I could convince myself you were just competition. Just another fight. But you’re not. You never were.”

Her lip trembled. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she cursed under her breath, turning away. “I hate crying,” she muttered. “I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling weak.”

He reached out, gently tilting her face back toward him. His hands cradled her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears. “You’re not weak,” he whispered, reverent. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And God help me, you’re even more beautiful when you let yourself feel.”

Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling quickly. Weeks— months— of tension swelled between them, thick and combustible.

“Y/N…” Drew’s voice was rough, breaking.

And then she closed the distance.

Her lips crashed against his, fierce and desperate. It wasn’t gentle, it was messy, heated, like they were trying to take back every moment wasted in denial. She fisted his shirt, dragging him closer, like she was afraid he might slip away. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him, anchoring her in place.

The kiss was fire, anger, longing, need all tangled together. Every insult, every staredown, every almost-touch exploded in this one moment, and neither of them wanted to let go. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, foreheads pressed together, Drew let out a ragged laugh. “Bloody hell…” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I’ll ever admit.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell sharply, eyes still glistening. “Don’t think this fixes everything,” she whispered, lips brushing his.

“I know,” he said, thumb stroking her cheek. “But it’s a start. And I swear to you, I’ll never tear you down again. Not you.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty, it was thick, heavy, full of everything they hadn’t said. Drew finally pulled back, taking a shaky breath. “I should let you sleep,” he murmured, starting to step away.

But her hand shot out, gripping his shirt. Her eyes were softer now, but fierce. Vulnerable. “Stay.”

His chest tightened. “Y/N…”

Her lip caught between her teeth, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please. Just… stay.”

Drew hesitated only a moment before nodding. He kicked off his boots, then let her tug him down onto the bed beside her. She curled against him, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist. For the first time in weeks, the tension eased, not gone, but transformed. No longer poison. No longer enemies. Something new. Something fragile, but real.

And as she tucked her head under his chin, her hand fisting lightly in his shirt to make sure he wouldn’t slip away, Drew pressed a kiss into her hair and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

             ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

     The crowd inside MetLife Stadium was deafening.

SummerSlam. Mixed tag. All eyes were on them.

Drew stood in the corner, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow as the chants rattled the arena. Across the ring, their opponents regrouped, clearly shaken. But it wasn’t just Drew carrying this fight.

It was her.

Y/N had just taken the hot tag, exploding into the ring like a lightning bolt. She ducked a clothesline, hit the ropes, and delivered a picture-perfect dropkick that nearly knocked her opponent’s head off. The crowd roared. Drew leaned against the ropes, jaw tight, watching her. Watching the way she moved, confident, fearless, commanding the ring like she’d been born in it. He’d seen it before, but under the SummerSlam lights, it hit him differently.

God, she was incredible.

Her opponent scrambled to the corner, tagging in the other half of their team. Y/N didn’t hesitate, she launched herself off the top rope, twisting in the air, and landed a crossbody that sent the arena into chaos.

Drew couldn’t hold it in, he roared with the crowd, pounding the turnbuckle in approval. His chest burned with something deeper than adrenaline. Pride. Awe. And something else he’d been fighting for weeks.

When Y/N finally tagged him back in, Drew cleared the ring with a Claymore like a man possessed. The final three-count was almost a blur, the ref’s hand slapping the mat as the bell rang and the announcer screamed their victory.

The building shook. His theme blasted through the speakers, fans on their feet. Y/N rushed back into the ring, colliding with Drew as they threw their arms up together. They’d done it. SummerSlam. Victory.

She turned to him, grinning, hair sticking to her forehead, chest rising and falling. “We actually did it!” she shouted over the roar.

Drew’s heart thudded in his chest. He nodded, his smile softer, more personal. “Aye. We bloody did.”

And then she did it, something small, something only for him. Y/N reached up and grabbed his wrist, raising his arm higher for the crowd. Not her arm. His. A deliberate show of respect, of partnership. Her way of saying, I see you. I’m proud of you too.

It broke him. Drew’s face shifted, gone was the usual stoic grin. His eyes softened, the mask slipping. He didn’t care about cameras, about kayfabe, about keeping their fire under wraps. Not anymore.

Before she could process, his hand slid around the back of her neck, pulling her in. Y/N gasped— then his lips were on hers. Right there in the middle of the SummerSlam ring. The crowd exploded. A shockwave of sound rolled through the arena, fans screaming, cheering, some even shrieking. The commentary team lost it, shouting over each other in disbelief.

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, but only a heartbeat. Then she melted into him, fingers gripping the front of his gear as if to anchor herself. The kiss was hot, unyielding, weeks of tension and frustration and buried feelings igniting under the stadium lights. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Drew pressed his forehead to hers. His voice was low, private, meant only for her. “That’s for the world to see.”

Her lips curved into a dazed, giddy smile. “Guess there’s no going back now.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb across her jaw, his voice steady, certain. “Wouldn’t want to.”

The crowd kept roaring, their names chanted in unison, a sound neither of them would forget. And as Drew held her close, one thing was clear, this wasn’t just a victory in the ring. It was the hard launch of the two of them. Together.

Backstage, the air still crackled with leftover electricity from the arena. Staff and wrestlers alike passed them, grinning, clapping them on the back, muttering things like “about time” and “hell of a moment out there.” Everyone had seen it. Everyone knew.

But Drew could only look at her.

His large hand rested low on her waist as he guided her into a quieter hallway, away from the bustle. Even here, with only the hum of fluorescent lights and their own footsteps, the adrenaline pulsed between them. Drew stopped, turning her gently toward him. That teasing glint sparked in his eyes as he leaned down. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Y/N arched a brow, her lips twitching. “Oh really? That’s your follow-up after kissing me in front of sixty-thousand people? Pain in the ass?”

His grin widened, boyish and wolfish all at once. “A stubborn, mouthy pain in the ass.” His accent thickened as his voice dropped lower, rough with affection. “But…” His hands tightened on her waist, tugging her flush against him, his breath brushing her ear. “…I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Heat crept up her cheeks, though she masked it with a roll of her eyes. “Smooth, McIntyre. Real smooth.”

He smirked, tilting his head, lips grazing just beneath her ear before pressing to her neck in a slow, deliberate kiss that made her shiver. He felt her body tense, then melt against him. “Your ring work tonight…” he murmured against her skin, “…was flawless. You were flawless.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, tilting her chin at him with mock arrogance. “If it took all this just to get you to admit how good I am, I should’ve seduced you sooner.”

Drew threw his head back with a full, unguarded laugh. It echoed off the walls, deep and warm, and when his gaze fell back to her, it wasn’t teasing anymore. His eyes softened in a way they never did with anyone else. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice low and reverent. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” she teased back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, “…here you are.”

His lips curved in a smile, softer now, full of quiet devotion. “Aye. Here I am.”

They stood like that for a beat, the world around them fading into nothing. Just two people who’d clawed and fought and bickered their way into something neither of them had expected, but both of them had wanted. Finally, Drew kissed her again. Not the desperate heat of their first kiss, not the shocking spectacle of the one in the ring, but something deeper. Slow. Intentional. His hands cupped her waist, thumbs tracing circles against her hips like he never wanted to let her go.

When they broke apart, Y/N was smiling, really smiling, that mischievous, fire-in-her-eyes grin he’d fallen for without meaning to. “Guess we’re not enemies anymore,” she whispered.

Drew brushed his knuckles along her jaw, his voice steady, certain. “No. Not anymore.” A pause, his lips twitching into that crooked smile she knew too well. “But don’t think that means I’ll stop callin’ you a pain in the ass.”

Her laugh rang out, light and teasing. “And don’t think I’ll stop proving you wrong every chance I get.”

He kissed her temple, lingering, before sliding his arm firmly around her waist. As they started walking back toward the locker rooms, whispers and knowing smiles trailed them like shadows. For the first time, there was no pretending. No hiding. No question.