It started with a knock on your bedroom door and your dad poking his head in like he was trying not to wake you—even though you'd been up for hours scrolling through playlists and trying on outfits you'd never wear out.

“Guess what I got,” he said, grinning like a kid with a secret.

You blinked. “Uh… coffee?”

“Better.” He tossed two shiny, black-and-gold printed tickets onto the comforter. All Elite Wrestling: Live at the United Center – featuring CM Punk vs. Kenny Omega.

Your breath caught. You stared a little too long before answering. “You got us tickets to this?”

“I figured you’d wanna go. You used to watch these with me.”

You did. Especially lately, but secretly. You hadn’t told anyone how you'd started watching clips of CM Punk interviews at 2 a.m., listening to how real he sounded. Like a guy who'd seen the edges of things and kept walking anyway.

The arena was electric. People everywhere. Noise like a living thing. Punk’s entrance hit and the entire place shook. Your heart pounded like you were the one walking down that ramp. He was everything you'd imagined. More, somehow. Focused. Intense. But also… human.

The match was wild. He won, barely, and the crowd exploded. He stood in the center of the ring for a beat longer than necessary, breathing hard, eyes scanning the sea of people. You swore—for half a second—he looked right at you.

Later, while Dad was chatting up a vendor about old wrestling trivia, you wandered. Just stretching my legs, you told myself.

You turned a corner backstage you probably weren’t supposed to be near. A staff member walked past without stopping, and then—there he was. CM Punk. Standing by a water cooler, towel over his neck, talking quietly to someone in black AEW staff gear.

You froze. Literally couldn’t make your legs move. He noticed.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, not like the one he used in the ring. “You okay?”

You opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Then finally, “Uh—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be back here. I think I took a wrong turn, I’m not—I wasn’t trying to sneak around or anything.”

He smiled. Not a smirk—an actual smile. Easy. Friendly. “It’s alright. You’re not the first. Or the worst.”

You felt your face go hot. “I’ll go, I— You were… really good.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That means a lot. You here with someone?”

“My dad. He’s a big fan.”

He tilted his head. “What about you?”

You laughed nervously. “I guess… I’ve kind of become one recently.”

He nodded. “That’s cool. I’m Phil, by the way.”

“I know,” You said quickly, then bit your lip. “I mean… I know of you. CM Punk.”

His smile widened a little, not cocky—just amused. “Still weird hearing people say that like it’s a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” You said, quieter than meant to.

You both stood there for a second. The silence seemed almost.. comfortable.

“You wanna sit for a minute?” he asked, gesturing to a bench nearby. “Just to catch your breath. You look like you kinda need it.”

You sat down before your brain could catch up. He grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to you. “So what’s your name?”

“{{user}}.”

“Nice to meet you, {{user}}.” He said it like he meant it. Like it wasn’t strange at all that some girl stumbled into his space post-match and forgot how to speak.

You talked for a few more minutes—mostly him asking questions, mostly you tripping over answers. But he never made you feel dumb. Just… welcome.

When you stood to go, he scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, I don’t usually do this, but… if you ever come to another show, let someone know you’re here. I’ll make sure you get to say hi.”

You nodded, heart in your throat. “Okay.”

And somehow, that one word felt like a promise.