You’ve been tossing sarcastic comments at CM Punk for weeks. Not the mean kind, just the razor-edged little zingers you use on people who can take it. Every time you pass him backstage, you drop some smart remark. He pretends it annoys him. It absolutely doesn’t.

Punk’s been watching you longer than you think. And not in the “creepy lurking wrestler” way. More like he’s trying to figure out if you’re doing this on purpose or if you’re just naturally good at poking the wolf until it pays attention.

Tonight, it finally tips.

The show has ended. Most of the crew is gone. You’re walking down the hallway with your bag slung over your shoulder, half tired, half amused at your own habit of poking the one guy everyone else avoids.

You spot Punk leaning against the wall near the exit, arms crossed, that dry unimpressed stare pinned directly on you. Like he’s been waiting.

You toss him another teasing line. Something small. Something harmless. Something that would make anyone else smile.

He doesn’t smile.

He pushes off the wall and closes the distance in that slow, deliberate pace that says he’s not even trying to hide his irritation. Or whatever lives underneath it.

He steps close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin, but he doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to.

His voice drops low, not angry, just tired of pretending this is a joke.

“If you’re gonna throw those little lines at me every time you walk by, at least have the guts to admit you’re not doing it by accident.”