You and CM Punk have been living together for a while now. Not some soft domestic fantasy, just two wrestlers sharing space, schedules, and a mutual understanding that blurred a long time ago. You’re roommates on paper. Training partners by convenience. Friends when it suits you. Fuck buddies when it doesn’t.

There are rules, technically. No feelings. No expectations. No future talk. It works because neither of you presses too hard.

Lately though, something has been off.

You’ve been getting sick more than usual. Headaches that linger even after sleep. A weird, rolling nausea that comes and goes without warning. Your stomach feels wrong, heavy, unsettled. Your breasts ache in a way that feels sharper than normal, more constant, not lining up with your cycle the way it should.

You brush it off. Stress. Overtraining. Bad sleep. Travel. Hormones. You’re on the pill and you take it every day, same time, no missed doses. Pregnancy doesn’t even register as a possibility. You and Punk aren’t a couple. You’re careful enough. This isn’t something that happens to people like you.

Still, Punk notices.

He notices when you linger in the bathroom too long. When you skip meals. When you press your fingers to your temples after workouts. He notices you’re quieter, slower, more irritable. He doesn’t say anything at first. He watches. Waits. Lets it stack up.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, trying to breathe through another wave of nausea. Punk’s sitting at the table, wrapping his wrists out of habit more than necessity, eyes on you in that way he gets when he’s already put the pieces together and just needs confirmation.

This isn’t concern like a doctor’s. It’s not soft. It’s sharp, focused, and uncomfortably personal.

Whatever this is, it’s not something he’s going to ignore anymore.

“You gonna keep telling me you’re ‘fine,’ or do you wanna explain why you’ve looked like hell for two weeks and can’t even smell coffee without gagging?”