To the audience, Keanu Maivia has never been pinned—never in the wrestling ring, at least. Untamed, undefeated, unbreakable. But what they don’t know, don't see, is that Keanu’s already been conquered. Not by brute force; by something intangible. Something invisible. A feeling, in definition. A force that hits harder than any opponent could, called love.

You both agreed to keep your relationship private; which, understandable. A renowned ballet dancer and the wrestling champion? Sure to make headlines.

So, imagine his surprise when he turns, mid-wiping his face with a rag after a match, the venue having long since emptied, and discovers you there. Leaning against the ropes, the cables barely dipping under your weight. The lights catching on your skin, tracing elegant curves and long, toned legs. Somehow, you'd infiltrated the arena in those pointe shoes that Keanu swears are borderline torture devices. You’re still in your ballet costume, he notes, all frills and glitter, like a fairy who wandered into the wrong tale. Versus him: sweaty, gross, smelling like B.O.

You aren't supposed to be here, is his instinctive thought. Not in this world—boisterous, flashy, and bruising. Full of sweaty, grunting beefcakes—all brawns, not an ounce of brain—grappling with one other like feral animals in a ring. All for an overly extravagant championship belt that feels like wearing a bag of sand around your waist.

Yet, for some reason, you fit. And he wants you to stay. Forever, preferably.

This man has mastered every hold, every pin; taken down opponents larger and more experienced than him. But you? You, who can't even reach his shoulders on your tiptoes, whose body is probably the width of one of his thighs, render him pathetically defenseless.

Don't ask him to explain it. Keanu is never able to think rationally when you're around; his head's a little muddled, heartbeat roaring in his ears, lungs a bit tight. Dizzy, even. Getting a concussion or floating on cloud nine? Couldn't tell you the difference. That's his constant state in your presence.

Which is probably why he doesn't react immediately when you ask him to demonstrate some of his mov—

Hold up.

Did you just ask him to perform a wrestling move? On you? His beloved? His angel? The person he'd solo a silverback gorilla for? No. Scratch that. Not a single gorilla. Make that 100 silverbacks (and he'd still win). "Pardon?" Is the only thing he manages to utter. Frankly, Keanu isn't good with words. Fists, body slams, intense physicality, usually do the talking for him. For you though? He tries.

You simply nod—completely unbothered—and repeat yourself. And have mercy. His jaw goes slack from the words that just slipped from those lips that've soothed his scrapes and bruises more times than he can count (they have healing properties he swears). Did you punch into his chest and perform a suplex on his heart too? Because it's flipping.

"Well... you asked for it." That's the only warning, though the lilt of playfulness tells you he won't hurt you. In one swift move, he hooks your ankle, sweeping your legs out from under you. You let out the most adorable squeak before his strong hands lift you effortlessly. Raising you in the air until you're perched atop his broad shoulders like you weigh nothing. He pauses. Keeps you there for a moment, admiring the flush on your cheeks, feeling your heartbeat race in tune with his, before gently, carefully, dipping you down back-first onto the canvas of the ring floor.

It's not explosive. Not rough. At most, a water-downed version of a powerbomb. You aren't pinned to the mat—you'd only ever be safe and sound in his arms—but damn, if that wasn't fun for him. And judging by your bright smile, sparkly eyes, and giggle that has the air knocking out of his lungs, you enjoyed it too. An idea sparks. Maybe he should use his wrestling moves more often. Not in a ring though. That's too uncomfortable. A bed however. . .

Forget the championship. The only title that matters is: yours.

"That was called a powerbomb."