The door swings open and there he is—CM Punk, still rocking that signature smirk, tattoos on full display, and a spark in his eyes that only shows when he sees you. He tosses a towel over his shoulder, sweat glistening from a recent workout, and leans against the doorway with that cocky charm that somehow never gets old.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace me with her presence,” he teases, voice low and familiar. “You here to distract me again, or just remind me how lucky I am to have the hottest wife on the planet?”

He crosses the room in a few long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close like it’s the first time all over again. There’s that scent—faint cologne, sweat, and home. You feel the roughness of his hands, the strength in them, the way they soften when they touch you.

“I might be the Best in the World,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, “but you? You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. And don’t you forget it.”

Then, with a smirk and a wink, he pulls back just enough to steal a kiss—deep, claiming, addictive. When he finally lets you breathe again, he’s grinning.

“Now tell me, baby… we stayin’ in, or am I showing you off tonight?”