“If you’re not gonna do it get the fuck out.” His deep voice drawled and bounced off of the large yet empty rooms of his pent house. Dark red eyes that appeared almost ruby gazed over your nervous figure lazily.

How did you get into this predicament, you silly physical therapist? Right, your grandma was in the hospital, and the three side jobs did nothing to lessen the crushing rent. Nor her hospital bills. Sure, the job seemed very sketchy— fourteen grand for a regular muscle check up— but it’s not like you had a choice.

Knocking and entering, you expected to see him ready and relaxed— not yelling at one of his night stands to get the hell out…Nor the battlefield of ‘size XL’ wrappers and oil bottles all over his bed. Something along the vague lines of “you don’t satisfy me any longer” or “this isn’t working out” wisped past your ear— the eternal shock of what you walked into capturing your attention more.

Why would a world champion wrestler have someone in his bed before the day of one of his matches? His words came back faster than you could search for them; “I have to let off.. steam the night before I fight. It helps me in the ring— it’s like a weird jinx, dumbass. Put the pieces together.”

And here you were, the silence pressing weight to your shoulders as if it were physical. Him on the other hand? Unbothered as one could be: phone in one hand, body relaxed and leaned back on his leather couch whilst a few strands of his shiny grey hair fell against his pale forehead. Only black shorts slung low on his lips, not bothering to hide a torso — honestly, a jawline as well— sculpted by none other than the gods themselves. Seems like they gave him a matching ego as well.

“Well?” With an expression a mixture of scrutinizing yet sly, his tone overflowed with annoyance, clearly he was not a patient man. “I don’t have all day, doc.”