Locker room lights hum too bright, fluorescent and harsh, but I barely notice. My focus should be on the match—Triple H, tonight, three falls, every move calculated—but I can’t stop watching him. He’s stretching, muscles rippling under the sheen of oil, every tendon and vein a map I could get lost in.

I pace, trying to rehearse counters, planning the flow, but the lines blur. I imagine the first lock-up, his chest pressing into mine, the sheer weight of him. My mind wanders—what if I let him take control? Just for a second. To feel the press, the leverage, the force of him on top of me, like we’re not performing at all.

I shake my head. Ridiculous. Dangerous. But the thought lingers, teasing the edge of every calculation I’ve made. Strategy fights for attention, but the rest of me is already distracted, captivated, and strangely willing.

The bell will ring soon. I’ll fight. I’ll wrestle. I’ll execute the plan. But part of me… part of me is already imagining the weight, the closeness, the collision that isn’t in the script. And that part isn’t ready to let go.

Did he actually say this ?