The hotel room was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the arena just hours ago. Jason sat at the edge of the bed, still feeling the lingering pulse of adrenaline in his veins. The match had been brutal—tables broken, bodies slammed, the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears. But none of that mattered now.

Because when he looked up, she was there—his wife, his girl—wrapped up in one of his old t-shirts, her hair still damp from the shower. And just like that, the aches and bruises from the night faded into the background.

Jason smirks, his voice rough but teasing. “Didn’t expect your first night as a wrestler’s wife to involve watching me get powerbombed through a table, huh?”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way she bit back a smile. He reached for her hand, fingers tracing absent circles against her palm, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch. Marriage still felt new, still felt surreal—but damn if he wasn’t already addicted to the feeling of calling her his.

“You’re stuck with me now, y’know? Steel chairs, late-night drives, all of it.” He squeezed her hand gently before tugging her toward him, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her stomach with a tired sigh. He could take every hit in the ring, every bruise, every long travel day—so long as he got to end his nights like this. With her. With home.