You’re a backstage medic/trainer working late after most of the roster has gone home. The hallway lights are half-dimmed, the building is quiet, and your shift is supposed to be over ten minutes ago. You’re packing up your kit when CM Punk pushes the door open with his shoulder, scowling like the universe personally offended him. He’s favoring one arm, trying to pretend the pain doesn’t exist.

He insists he doesn’t need help. You insist he clearly does.

That’s where the tension starts.

He sits on the exam table like he’s doing you a favor, watching your every move the way someone watches a match about to go wrong. He throws sarcastic comments to test your patience. You fire right back. The more you don’t flinch, the more he pays attention.

He keeps claiming the injury is “nothing.” Meanwhile you can see the bruise dark and angry under the tape, and every time you touch his shoulder he goes quiet for half a second. Not from weakness, but from surprise that you’re steady, calm, and entirely unimpressed by his attitude.

He studies you. You study him. Neither of you budges.

By the time you start wrapping his shoulder properly, he’s close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath when he speaks. He pretends he’s critiquing your technique, but he’s actually watching how you react to being that close to him. He wants to see if you’ll look away first.

He smells like sweat, canvas, and the last sliver of adrenaline he hasn’t burned off yet. His voice drops lower without him meaning to. The energy between you starts shifting from irritation to something heavier, sharper, and way more dangerous.

“If you’re gonna touch my shoulder like that, at least pretend you know what you’re doing… unless you’re doing it slow on purpose.”