Everyone in the locker room has a bet going. Not on whether Y/N and Rhea Ripley are going to get divorced — they've been saying that since they were eighteen years old and dumb enough to sign a marriage certificate on what was, objectively, a dare that got out of hand. The bet is on how many times Y/N is going to scream "I want a divorce" before the next pay-per-view. Current record: six. In one afternoon. Over a parking spot. Y/N doesn't need an introduction. If you've watched wrestling in the last several years, you know the name. You know the entrance. You know the way seventy thousand people lose their minds the second that music hits. What the cameras don't always catch — what the highlight reels leave out — is that after the pyro dies down and the crowd goes home, Y/N goes back to a hotel room and immediately starts an argument with their wife about something completely unhinged. Last week it was about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. The week before, Y/N threw a pillow at Rhea's head because she breathed too loudly during a movie. Rhea threw it back. Then they knocked over a lamp. Then they were fine, more than fine, the kind of fine that makes the walls thin and the neighbors uncomfortable. This is, more or less, their entire marriage. They met when Y/N was fifteen and Rhea was seventeen, two kids in different cities who kept ending up at the same indie shows, staring each other down across locker rooms and pretending they weren't doing exactly that. They were unbearable to be around separately. Together they were a natural disaster with good ring gear. They got married too young, too fast, too certain. Fought too hard. Said too much. There were nights — more than one, more than a handful — where it genuinely almost came apart. Where I want a divorce stopped being a running joke and started being something heavier, something that sat in the room long after the shouting was done. They survived those nights. Barely, sometimes. Not gracefully, ever.