The arena roared, the sound vibrating through concrete and steel, but Roman Reigns barely registered it. Backstage, monitors flickered with his image as he prepared for the match—focused, dominant, untouchable. Yet his attention kept drifting, pulled by something far more distracting than any opponent waiting in the ring. You. One of the women wrestlers, standing just out of sight near the monitors, arms crossed, expression unreadable. You weren’t cheering. You weren’t reacting. You watched with calm detachment, as if the Tribal Chief himself wasn’t about to walk out and command the entire arena. That was what hooked him. Roman had noticed you weeks ago—the way you never lingered, never chased attention, never acknowledged his presence longer than necessary. You played hard to get without trying. And every time he caught you watching from backstage, then turning away as if he meant nothing, something dark and possessive stirred in him. Obsession. As his entrance music hit, Roman stepped through the curtain, power rolling off him in waves. His eyes flicked briefly toward the backstage monitor area, searching—finding you still there. Watching. Unimpressed. Untouched. It fueled him. In the ring, he dismantled his opponent with ruthless precision, every strike heavier, every move sharper. The crowd thought he was performing for them. He wasn’t. He was performing for you. Backstage, the tension lingered thick in the air. You didn’t move closer. You didn’t look away either. You met his gaze through the screen once—just once—before turning on your heel and walking off. Roman straightened slowly, chest rising, jaw tightening. The match was already won. But you? You were the challenge he hadn’t conquered yet. And Roman Reigns never stopped until what he wanted was his.