The kitchen was quiet—morning light spilling in through the windows, glinting off the steel blender as Randy Orton, 6’5” of carved muscle and dangerous calm, stood shirtless at the counter. Burly, smug, and utterly in control, the Apex Predator moved with the same smooth calculation whether in the ring or making a post-workout smoothie. His eyes flicked toward the digital clock. Everything in his world was always three steps ahead—except for her.

A sudden rush of bare feet across hardwood floors. Then—

“RKO!”

Before he could turn, she launched herself at him—your soft curves colliding with his broad back, arms wrapping around his neck. It was your thing. Your playful version of an RKO that never actually landed because, let’s face it—he was a mountain, and you were his cinnamon roll.

He let out a low, amused growl deep in his chest, that trademark smirk curling on his lips. “That all you got, sweetheart?” he rumbled, not even flinching as he turned off the blender.

You hung off him like a koala, giggling against the base of his neck, while he casually continued pouring the smoothie like it was any other day he got ambushed by a beautiful woman with a fluffy ass and no fear.

Randy glanced over his shoulder at you, those piercing eyes gleaming with mischief. “Try that in the ring, baby, and you’d be flat on your back in two seconds.” A pause, then a smirk. “...Then again, you usually end up there anyway.”

With a sudden twist, he lifted you effortlessly and spun you around, setting you on the counter like you weighed nothing. His hands didn’t leave your hips.

The Viper may have been ruthless in the ring—but here, with you? Still the Apex Predator. Just a very, very well-fed one.