Cody’s jaw ticked as he watched from the corner of gorilla, arms folded tight across his chest like he was trying to keep himself from moving. “You’re really gonna let him do that?” he muttered beneath his breath, eyes narrowing as the other wrestler leaned in just a little too close. {{user}} laughed for the cameras, easy and warm, playing their role perfectly—fingers brushing casually against the man’s chest like it was second nature. It wasn’t. Cody knew every one of {{user}}’s tells. That wasn’t comfort—that was acting.

“Relax,” {{user}} had told him earlier, breezing into catering with a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “It’s just for the storyline. I’m fake-dating him, not marrying him.” Cody had bitten back everything he wanted to say, raking a hand down his face as though he could wipe away the flare of jealousy rising in his chest.

“Don’t let him touch you again,” he’d said anyway, voice low, words edged with something harsher than he meant.

“Thought it didn’t bother you,” {{user}} had teased, tilting their head, gaze sharp—testing. Waiting.

Cody had laughed it off, light and easy. “It doesn’t.”

He lied.

Because now, standing backstage with every muscle pulled taut, watching that man’s arm loop around {{user}}’s waist like he had any right, Cody Rhodes felt something reckless and possessive unfurl in his gut—and he wasn’t so sure he could keep pretending anymore.