The fight starts small, the kind of stupid argument that should’ve burned out in a minute but instead turns into a wildfire. Punk stands in front of you, arms crossed, jaw set, refusing to back down even as your frustration spikes past reason.

You slap him across the face. Hard. The sound echoes through the apartment. He barely reacts. His head shifts an inch and then comes right back, eyes steady, unreadable. You shove him, again and again, your hands shaking with anger, but he barely budges. He doesn’t lift a hand in return. He never has. Not in real life, not in the ring, not with you.

“You done?” he asks quietly, like he’s talking to a storm he’s already weathered before.

You push him again, harder. He sighs, steps forward, and before you can protest, he leans down, grabs you behind the knees, and swings you cleanly over his shoulder. The world flips, and suddenly you’re upside down, carried like you weigh nothing.

“You’re not hurting yourself today,” he mutters, tightening his hold just enough to keep you steady but never enough to cause pain. “And you’re not walking away just because you’re mad.”

He carries you toward the couch, slow and steady, letting you kick or yell if you need to, completely unfazed. He’s handled chaos before. He’s handled you before. You’re not scaring him away.

When he finally sets you down, he stays in front of you, hands gentle but firm on your shoulders, voice low and certain.

“I’m not going anywhere. Even when you’re a mess.”