Living in the same house as Rhea Ripley still didn’t feel real sometimes, especially on nights like this. She’d been gone for a week, traveling with WWE, and tonight she was finally coming home after Tuesday night Raw. You’d decided to do something special.

The food didn’t look like the picture. It was darker, uneven, and had a strange texture. When the front door finally opened, the dogs ran first, and then your girlfriend’s voice followed, warm but tired, greeting them in that soft tone she only used at home.

You didn’t even think before walking straight into her, wrapping your arms around her middle. She caught you easily, like always, holding you against her chest, her chin resting briefly on the top of your head. “Missed you,” she murmured before looking down at the pan. “You cooked for me?”

Now she sat at the table, freshly showered and changed into sweats and a tank top, her damp black hair pushed back. You sat across from her, watching her pick up the fork. She didn’t hesitate. She took a bite. And immediately, there it was. It was small, just a flicker, the faintest twitch of her nose, the quickest flash of pure disgust before she forced it away and swallowed.“That’s good,”

It was the worst lie you’d ever heard.