“AJ LEE X CM PUNK “MY FOREVER.”
In the quiet after the spotlight, AJ Lee and CM Punk navigate love through everyday moments—burnt popcorn, teasing banter, and soft, unspoken devotion. Calling My Forever is a warm, first-person glimpse into a marriage built not on perfection, but on choosing each other, again and again.
The kitchen was warm, golden under the soft overhead lights, the kind of glow that made everything feel intentional—even my chaos. I stood at the counter, one hip leaning into the marble like I owned the place, controller in hand, utterly consumed by my current obsession on my Nintendo. The world inside that tiny screen felt conquerable. Predictable. Unlike popcorn.
Behind me, the microwave hummed with the low, steady confidence of a machine that believed in me far more than it should have. I had pressed “Popcorn” with the kind of blind faith usually reserved for fairy tales and championship comebacks.
Mistake.
Because somewhere between defeating a boss level and celebrating my imaginary victory, the smell hit me—sharp, smoky, tragically familiar.
Burned.
“Oh—shoot…” I muttered under my breath, my voice carrying that quiet note of defeat, like I had personally let down every kernel in existence.
I turned slowly, as if moving too fast might undo what had already been done. The microwave beeped—cheerful, almost smug. I opened it with caution, like it might apologize.
It did not.
A cloud of burnt, bitter air greeted me like an insult. I stared at the bag in silence for a moment, contemplating my life choices, before quickly grabbing it and attempting what can only be described as a cover-up operation. I shoved the bag behind my back, standing up straighter, as if posture alone could erase evidence.
And that’s when the front door opened. Of course it did. Because timing, like karma, has a sense of humor. I froze.
Footsteps—steady, familiar, grounded—echoed through the house. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. I could always tell. There was something about the way he moved, like he carried the weight of the world and still refused to let it bend him. He stepped into the doorway, framed perfectly like some dramatic entrance he would absolutely pretend wasn’t intentional.
Sweat-damp hair, a light flush on his face from jogging, a gray hoodie clinging just enough to remind me that yes, this man had once dominated rings and crowds and still somehow managed to come home and judge my popcorn.
He paused. And then—he inhaled. Not subtly. Not politely. No. It was a deliberate, slow inhale, the kind that said everything before a single word was spoken.
I smiled. Weakly. There was a silence that followed, thick and suspicious. Then his eyes flicked to mine, narrowing just enough to make it theatrical.
“You burned the popcorn, didn’t you?”
I blinked. Once. Twice. Considering my options—denial, deflection, dramatic escape.
“I—” I started, then stopped, because unfortunately, the scent of my failure had already testified against me. With the grace of someone caught mid-crime, I shifted slightly, attempting to conceal the bag further behind me, as if I could outmaneuver a man who had built a career reading people under bright lights and louder pressure.
“What makes you say that?” I asked, my tone light, innocent—Oscar-worthy, really.
He didn’t move immediately. He just stood there, arms crossing slowly over his chest, one brow lifting in a way that felt deeply personal.
“April,” he said, voice calm but threaded with amusement, “I walked in and it smells like a campfire had a midlife crisis.”
“That’s… poetic,” I admitted.
“It’s accurate,” he shot back, taking a few steps into the kitchen now, each one unhurried, deliberate. “And also concerning.”
I sighed dramatically, shoulders dropping as I finally brought the bag out from behind my back like a defeated offering.
“In my defense,” I began, holding it up slightly, “I was multitasking. And thriving—briefly.”
He looked at the bag. Then at me. Then back at the bag, like he was assessing whether it could be salvaged or if it needed a proper burial.
“You had one job,” he said.
“I had two jobs,” I corrected, lifting my Nintendo slightly. “And I chose greatness.”
He huffed out a laugh—quiet, reluctant, but real. The kind that softened everything about him in an instant.
“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer, “and somehow both lost.”
I gasped softly, placing a hand over my chest in mock offense. “Wow. Betrayed in my own kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” he corrected automatically.
I smiled at that. Of course he did.
He reached past me, opening a cabinet with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything was—because he did. Because this was ours. Every inch of it. Every burnt snack and shared laugh.
He pulled out another bag of popcorn, holding it up between us.
“Round two?” he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. I narrowed my eyes slightly, considering him.
“You’re going to supervise, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I don’t trust you.”
“That feels aggressive.”
“That feels necessary.”
I laughed then, stepping aside to give him room, but not before bumping my shoulder lightly against his as he moved past me. He smelled like fresh air and effort, like the world outside hadn’t managed to stick to him.
Simple. Familiar. Ours.
I leaned back against the counter, watching him as he placed the new bag into the microwave with an almost ceremonial level of precision.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “for someone who claims not to trust me, you did marry me.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softer now, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing the button, “forever’s a long time. Figured I’d keep things interesting.”
The microwave started again, its low hum filling the space between us. And this time, I paid attention.
Mostly.
