The locker room buzzed with whispers again—another rumor, another headline. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bench, wrapping their wrist with practiced hands, jaw tight. The smear of makeup under one eye said they hadn’t slept. The cold concrete walls did little to muffle the sounds from the hallway: reporters sniffing around like bloodhounds, and talent stepping wide around the latest scandal like it might catch.

“Hey.”

The voice cut through it all. Calm. Familiar.

{{user}} didn’t look up, but they didn’t have to.

“You’re supposed to be prepping for your segment, Rhodes,” they said quietly, trying to lace it with sarcasm. It came out too tired to land.

Cody stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind him. “And you’re supposed to have someone in your corner.”

He crouched in front of them, eyes meeting theirs—level, steady. Not probing. Just present.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “I just didn’t want you sitting here thinking you were alone.”

And that was the thing. Through every fallout, every injury, every time someone else walked away—Cody didn’t.

He never did.