The locker room was loud in that raw, post-match way—boots thudding against benches, showers hissing in the background, med staff murmuring over ice packs and bruises. The air was heavy with sweat, leather, and the faint sting of antiseptic. Punk moved through it like he had a hundred times before, stripped of tape and gloves, his ribs aching from Drew McIntyre’s Claymore, his hands raw from the steel of the Hell in a Cell. Cameras crowded close, lights catching the sheen of sweat along his shoulders, microphones shoved forward like weapons.

He gave the reporters what they wanted. A dry jab here, a curt answer there, the same routine he’d perfected years ago. His PR rep hovered at his side, rattling off the schedule. “Fox next, then CBS, then ESPN.” It was all noise he half-listened to, muscle memory carrying him through.

Then something cut through the blur.

You weren’t pressing forward, weren’t trying to elbow your way into the first row. You stood just off to the side, almost as if you were waiting for the tide of bodies to part. Your badge was slightly askew on its lanyard, your notepad tucked neatly under one arm. But it wasn’t any of that that stopped him—it was what you held.

A bracelet.

Small, handmade, the elastic just slightly stretched from the beads. Each one was different—some glossy, some matte—but the crooked white letter blocks spelled it out clear as day: P U N K. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t merch. It was personal.

Punk slowed mid-answer, his attention narrowing until the noise around him faded. His head tilted slightly toward his PR rep, his voice lower now. “What channel’s she with?” The rep flicked a glance at you, flipping through her clipboard. “Local sports affiliate. First time I’ve seen her.” He didn’t wait for more. Breaking from the circle of reporters, he stepped toward you, ignoring the calls of his name from behind. Close up, the beads looked even more worn, like they’d been handled more than once. He let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“That’s not something you pick up in a merch tent,” he said, almost to himself. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, sharp but searching. For a flicker of a second, his mind was elsewhere, the feud with Drew McIntyre, the scattered beads, the start of the bracelet trend.

The PR rep reminded him they were already late, but Punk didn’t move. He reached out, the pads of his fingers brushing over the beads, slow, careful, like they might snap under pressure. A rare smile ghosted across his face, faint but there, as his gaze held yours. “Did you make this?”