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tour buddy. chelsea green. language of love series
chelsea green x girlfriend!reader
quality time
The alarm went off at an hour that should have been illegal. You didn't even bother opening your eyes before reaching blindly across the hotel bedside table in search of your phone.
5:03 a.m.
You let out a long, dramatic groan before dropping your head back onto the pillow. "No."
Beside you, Chelsea hummed sleepily. "No what?"
"It's still night."
"It objectively isn't."
"It feels like it."
She smiled without opening her eyes. "I know."
You buried your face further beneath the duvet. "We should boycott morning flights."
"We don't really get a vote."
"We should."
"We'd lose."
"We don't know that."
Chelsea finally cracked one eye open, grinning before she'd even looked at the time. "We definitely know that."
You sighed so dramatically it earned a quiet laugh from her. Tour had taught you many things. How to fall asleep almost anywhere, how to unpack a suitcase in under five minutes, how to survive on airport coffee far more often than anyone should.
Most importantly how to function on an alarming amount of very little sleep.
Neither of you particularly enjoyed the early mornings. You'd simply become professionals at complaining about them.
Chelsea stretched lazily beside you before throwing the duvet back with considerably more enthusiasm than you'd managed. "Come on."
"I refuse."
"You have a flight."
"I know."
"You have to get up."
"I know."
"So?"
You reached an arm towards her without moving anything else. "I'd rather stay here."
She laughed softly before taking your hand anyway. "I know."
For a few seconds neither of you moved. You simply sat there, still half asleep, hands loosely intertwined in the middle of a hotel bed that looked almost identical to the one you'd slept in three nights before and the one before that. Sometimes you genuinely forgot which city you were waking up in. "Chelsea?"
"Hm?"
"...Where are we?"
She frowned thoughtfully. A beat passed. "...Honestly?"
"Mhm?"
"I was hoping you knew."
You burst into laughter. "No."
"I think..." She looked around the room as though the beige curtains might provide the answer. "...Detroit?"
You reached for your phone. "Cleveland."
"So close."
"They're not."
"They both start with the same letter."
"They don't."
She blinked. "...Right."
"You've been awake for thirty seconds."
"I told you it was too early."
You climbed out of bed with considerably more effort than dignity, shuffling across the room towards your suitcase.
Behind you, Chelsea had already wandered into the bathroom, cheerfully singing something that sounded vaguely like the entrance music of three different wrestlers mashed together.
You smiled to yourself. There wasn't a morning on tour where she wasn't making some sort of noise. Humming, talking, singing. Narrating what she was doing as though invisible cameras followed her twenty-four hours a day.
The silence never lasted long once Chelsea Green was awake.
"I've got a very important question." Her voice drifted through the open bathroom door.
"Oh?"
"What are we wearing today?"
You laughed. "...Gear?"
"No." She reappeared, toothbrush balanced dramatically between her fingers. "Airport outfits."
"I don't think airport outfits are a thing."
"They are absolutely a thing."
"I think they're just clothes."
"They're a statement."
"They're joggers."
"They're fashionable joggers."
You pulled one of your hoodies over your head. "They're grey."
"They're elevated."
"They're cotton."
"They're couture."
You raised an eyebrow. "Couture?"
She nodded confidently. "Couture."
"...You've completely made that up."
"I absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
She gasped dramatically, one hand resting over her heart. "My own girlfriend questioning my fashion expertise."
"I've seen what you packed."
"You loved what I packed."
"I loved about eighty percent."
"Eighty-five."
"Eighty."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Eighty-three."
You pretended to consider it. "...Deal."
Less than an hour later, the hotel lobby buzzed with familiar faces. Suitcases rolled across polished floors, someone yawned loudly near reception, a production assistant balanced three takeaway coffees while trying not to drop their phone, the entire roster somehow managed to look simultaneously exhausted and ready for television.
Chelsea slipped her fingers through yours as the two of you followed the group towards the waiting shuttle. "You hungry?"
"Starving."
"Airport breakfast?"
"You know airport breakfast is ridiculously overpriced."
"I know."
"So?"
She looked at you as though you'd asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. "We're making memories."
"By spending twelve dollars on a croissant?"
"Exactly."
You laughed. "I admire your optimism."
"It's one of my best qualities."
"So I've heard."
The shuttle ride passed in a blur of half-finished conversations and sleepy complaints. By the time you reached the airport, the sun had only just begun creeping over the horizon. The terminal felt strangely peaceful, not empty, just quieter than usual.
Business travellers hurried between gates with coffees clutched in one hand, families tried to keep sleepy children awake, the smell of fresh pastries drifted from a café near security.
Chelsea stopped walking immediately. "There."
You followed her gaze. "It's six in the morning."
"I know."
"We literally had breakfast at the hotel."
"We had toast."
"So?"
"This..." She pointed dramatically towards the display cabinet. "...is breakfast."
You looked at the price of a bacon roll. You looked back at Chelsea. "You cannot be serious."
"I've never been more serious."
"It's nearly fifteen dollars."
"It's an investment."
"In cholesterol?"
"In happiness."
You shook your head, already laughing. "You are impossible."
"I've also been told that's one of my best qualities."
"You've mostly been told that by yourself."
"Positive reinforcement."
Somehow, despite complaining the entire time, the two of you ended up carrying one breakfast between you anyway. One bacon roll. One hash brown. Two coffees. Chelsea insisted it was "financially responsible."
You suspected she simply wanted an excuse to steal half of everything you ate. The gate area was still relatively quiet, so instead of sitting in the rows of uncomfortable airport chairs, you found an empty stretch of carpet beside the window overlooking the runway.
Chelsea kicked her trainers off immediately before sitting cross-legged.
"You know there are seats."
"I know."
"So?"
"The floor has better vibes."
"The floor has... vibes?"
"It does."
You lowered yourself beside her, still shaking your head. "I think touring has finally broken you."
"It set me free."
You handed her the breakfast bag. "I'll let you have the first bite."
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"That's true love."
She took an enormous bite. Far larger than necessary. Then looked back at you innocently. "What?"
"You've just eaten half of it."
"I was checking."
"Checking what?"
"Quality."
You stared at her. "...The quality." You laughed "And?"
She nodded thoughtfully while chewing. "It's excellent."
You laughed so hard you almost spilled your coffee. "You're unbelievable."
"I've never claimed otherwise."
She tore off a much more reasonably sized piece this time before holding it out towards you. You accepted it with an exaggerated sigh. "I can't believe I let you get away with this every single trip."
"You love me."
"I do."
"So..." She shrugged. "...you'll keep sharing your breakfast."
You smiled despite yourself. "Probably."
"I knew it."
For a little while, the two of you simply sat there, sharing a breakfast sandwich, passing coffees back and forth, and watching planes taxi slowly across the runway. Neither of you felt any rush to fill the silence. Chelsea rested her shoulder lightly against yours. You leaned into it without thinking. There would be another airport next week, another hotel, another rental car, another city that blurred into the next. But somehow no matter where tour took you, Chelsea always found a way to make even the most ordinary Tuesday morning at Gate 17 feel like the start of a little adventure.
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The rental car smelled faintly of fresh upholstery and airport coffee. You dropped your backpack onto the back seat before sliding into the passenger side with a sigh of relief, stretching your legs out in front of you as Chelsea climbed into the driver's seat.
She looked far too excited for someone who'd been awake since five. "Ready?"
You looked around the empty car. "For what?"
She plugged her phone into the dashboard. "The concert."
"We're driving to the hotel."
"Exactly."
She tapped the screen with all the confidence of someone who had spent the last ten minutes planning this very moment. The speakers crackled to life. For approximately three seconds, peaceful instrumental music played.
Then, "IT'S GONNA BE ME—"
You physically jumped.
Chelsea, meanwhile, slapped the steering wheel in delight. "Excellent choice."
"It wasn't a choice."
"It absolutely was."
"You've just assaulted me with NSYNC."
She grinned. "I eased us in."
"Eased us in?"
"This is the warm-up."
"I'm scared to ask what comes next."
"You should be." She pulled out of the airport, sunglasses perched on top of her head despite the fact the sun was still hiding behind thick clouds. "I've spent years perfecting this playlist."
"I don't think 'perfecting' is the word I'd use."
"You haven't even heard it yet."
"I've heard enough."
"You've heard one song."
"I know enough about your music taste."
She gasped dramatically. "My music taste is elite."
"You have three different versions of the same Taylor Swift song."
"They're different recordings."
"They sound identical."
"They absolutely do not."
You smiled to yourself, resting your elbow against the window as the airport slowly disappeared behind you. This happened every week. Different airport. Different rental car. The same conversation. Chelsea always insisted on driving if she could. You always pretended to complain about her playlist. Neither of you ever actually wanted it any other way.
The song changed.
Then changed again.
Then, "...Chelsea."
"What?"
"Is this..." You frowned at the speakers. "...the soundtrack from High School Musical?"
She didn't even glance away from the road. "Mhm."
"You skipped from Fleetwood Mac to High School Musical."
"I believe in variety."
"I think you believe in emotional whiplash."
She laughed. "You'll thank me in about thirty seconds."
"I really won't."
The chorus arrived and Chelsea looked at you expectantly.
You folded your arms. "No."
"What?"
"I'm not doing it."
"You know every word."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I've never heard this song in my life."
She raised one eyebrow. "You performed the entire dance at a house show in Glasgow because the music accidentally came on."
Your cheeks warmed. "That was different."
"How?"
"I was committed to the bit."
"And now?"
"I'm retired."
Chelsea reached over and turned the volume up another notch. "I don't believe you."
"I've matured."
"You've become boring."
"I've become twenty-seven."
"Same thing."
You held out for nearly a full minute. Then the second chorus started. Without thinking, you quietly sang one line.
Chelsea's head whipped towards you so quickly you worried she might pull a muscle. "I knew it!"
"I only sang one bit."
"You're singing."
"I'm humming."
"You are absolutely singing."
"I'm supporting you."
She laughed so hard she nearly missed the turnoff.
Within another song, the two of you were no longer pretending. The windows stayed firmly shut, sparing everyone else on the motorway, but inside the car it might as well have been a sold-out arena. Chelsea used her water bottle as a microphone. You pointed dramatically at invisible audience members every time a chorus hit.
When an old pop anthem came on, Chelsea reached over and grabbed your hand during the key change as if the moment demanded emotional support. "We're absolutely winning a Grammy."
"We're not even recording."
"Minor detail."
Traffic slowed at a set of lights. A family in the car beside you glanced over. Chelsea happened to be in the middle of an unnecessarily passionate performance, complete with exaggerated facial expressions and one hand conducting the imaginary band. The little girl in the back seat burst into giggles and Chelsea noticed immediately. Without missing a beat, she gave the child an exaggerated bow from behind the steering wheel. The girl clapped.
Her mum laughed, shaking her head.
The lights turned green.
Chelsea waved dramatically as you pulled away. "I've still got it."
"You've got something."
"I made her day."
"You probably did."
"I think I should start charging for appearances."
"You've just performed Dancing Queen in a Nissan."
"Art comes in many forms."
You leaned back in your seat, laughing so hard your stomach ached. This. This was why you loved touring with her. Most people would remember the flights, the early mornings, the delays, the endless miles of motorway stretching between airports and arenas. You remembered Chelsea convincing you to sing at the top of your lungs before nine in the morning. You remembered laughing at traffic lights with complete strangers. You remembered her turning an ordinary drive to the hotel into something you'd still be talking about months later. The playlist settled into something calmer for a while. Chelsea rested one hand lightly on the steering wheel, the other tapping absent-mindedly against the centre console in time with the music. You looked out of the window, watching a new city slowly unfold around you.
"Hey."
You turned back towards her. "Hm?"
"I'm glad you always say yes."
"To what?"
She smiled, eyes still fixed on the road. "All the silly little things."
You blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The playlists, the random cafés, the tourist traps, the walks, the stopping because I saw a cute bookshop." She shrugged. "You never make me feel silly for wanting to do them."
You smiled softly. "I don't think they're silly."
"No?"
"They're my favourite part."
She looked over at you for just a second. "The city?"
"You." Her smile was immediate. "No matter where we are..." You reached across the centre console until your fingers found hers, letting your hands rest together between the seats. "...I know we're going to have fun."
Chelsea squeezed your hand gently. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"You didn't need to hope."
"I know." She brought your joined hands briefly to her lips while the car waited at another red light, pressing a quick kiss across your knuckles before letting them settle back onto the console.
Outside, the sat nav announced another turn, another hotel, another arena waiting somewhere ahead. Inside the car, though, it didn't really matter where the road ended. As long as Chelsea was behind the wheel, singing far too loudly and getting distracted by every song that came on the radio the journey always ended up being your favourite part.
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By the time you'd both checked into the hotel, unpacked just enough to stop yourselves living entirely out of suitcases, and changed into something a little more comfortable, the afternoon sun had settled warmly over the city. Call time wasn't for another few hours.
Which, according to Chelsea, meant there was an important decision to make. She stood in the middle of the hotel room with one hand on her hip. "So."
You looked up from tying your trainers. "So?"
"What are we doing?"
You blinked. "I thought we were going to the arena later."
"We are."
"I thought that was the plan."
"It is."
You waited. She smiled expectantly. "...You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The one where you already know what you want to do."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Chelsea."
"What?"
"You've got the face."
"What face?"
"The 'I've secretly planned an entire afternoon' face."
She gasped dramatically. "I don't have a face."
"You absolutely do."
She lasted all of three seconds before breaking into a grin. "...I found a bookstore."
You laughed. "Of course you did."
"It has three floors."
"You looked this up before we landed, didn't you?"
"...Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"I believe in preparation."
"You believe in shopping."
"They're basically the same thing."
You shook your head fondly, grabbing your room key from the bedside table. "So we're going to the bookstore."
"We're starting at the bookstore." You narrowed your eyes. "Starting?"
She linked your arm through hers as you headed for the door. "I've also got a bakery."
"Oh?"
"And a record shop."
"Chelsea..."
"And this tiny little vintage store that everyone says is amazing."
"You've planned a route."
"I made a map."
"You made a map?"
"It has colour coding."
You stared at her. "...You made a colour-coded map."
She looked impossibly proud of herself. "I did."
"I love you."
"I know."
The city buzzed with the lazy energy of a warm afternoon. People sat outside cafés with iced coffees balanced on tiny tables. Street musicians played on busy corners. Cyclists weaved effortlessly through traffic while tourists stopped every few feet to take photos.
Chelsea took approximately twelve steps before stopping. "Oh my God."
You smiled knowingly. "What?"
She pointed excitedly across the street. "Look."
You followed her finger. A little independent florist had spilled buckets of colourful flowers onto the pavement outside. "They're pretty."
"They're gorgeous."
Before you'd even finished your sentence, she'd already tugged you across the crossing. "You don't even want flowers."
"I know."
"So?"
"I want to look at them."
You laughed, allowing yourself to be pulled along. This happened every single city. Chelsea never rushed anywhere she wanted to see everything. Not the famous landmarks, the little things. The bakery tucked down a side street. The mural painted on the side of an old brick building. The coffee shop with handwritten menus. She noticed everything and somehow you'd started noticing them too.
The florist smiled as Chelsea admired every arrangement like she was judging an international competition.
"They're beautiful," Chelsea said.
"They really are."
The woman behind the display beamed. "Thank you."
After another minute spent deciding which bouquet was her favourite despite having absolutely no intention of buying one, Chelsea finally wandered away. "I liked her."
"The florist?"
"She seemed lovely."
"You spoke to her for about forty seconds."
"I know."
"You've decided she's lovely."
"I trust my instincts."
"You do."
She slipped her hand into yours as you continued walking. "So..."
"What next?"
"The bookstore."
"I had a feeling."
It took exactly six minutes inside the bookstore for Chelsea to disappear. One moment she'd been beside you. The next she was gone. You wandered slowly through the shelves until you spotted her sitting cross-legged on the floor of the travel section, completely absorbed in a book she'd picked up. "There you are."
She looked up with a guilty smile. "I got distracted."
"I can see that."
"You have to look at this."
You crouched beside her. "What is it?" She turned the book around. It was a collection of photographs from old wrestling territories across North America. Your eyebrows lifted. "You found that quickly."
"I manifested it."
"I don't think that's how bookstores work."
"It worked, didn't it?"
You smiled, leaning your shoulder gently against hers as the two of you flicked through the pages together. Neither of you said much. You didn't need to. Every now and then Chelsea would point at an old arena. Or a particularly ridiculous ring outfit from decades ago. Or a photograph that reminded her of someone backstage.
Mostly you just sat there, on the floor. In the middle of a quiet bookstore. Perfectly content.
Eventually, Chelsea closed the book with a soft sigh. "I love places like this."
"You do."
"They're quiet."
You looked at her, amused. "You?"
"I know."
"You've voluntarily stopped talking for nearly five whole minutes."
"I can be peaceful."
"You can. occasionally."
She nudged your shoulder. "I heard that."
"I wanted you to."
She smiled before standing, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans. "Come on."
"What now?"
"Ice cream."
You laughed. "It was a bookstore five seconds ago."
"I've evolved."
"You change your mind every ten minutes."
"I contain multitudes."
"You contain distractions."
"They're more fun."
You stepped back out into the sunshine together. The afternoon stretched ahead of you with no real plan beyond following whatever caught Chelsea's attention next. A bakery became coffee, coffee became a walk through a little park, the park became sitting on a bench sharing a cinnamon roll because Chelsea insisted it "looked too good for one person."
At one point she stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. "What?"
She pointed excitedly at a tiny souvenir shop. "They've got magnets."
You laughed. "We don't even collect magnets."
"We do now."
Twenty minutes later, you walked back out carrying the most ridiculously oversized magnet shaped like the city's skyline. "It doesn't even fit on a normal fridge."
"Exactly."
"You only bought it because it made you laugh."
She looked at you like that was the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course I did."
You shook your head, smiling to yourself as she happily tucked the bag under her arm.
The funny thing was, if someone asked you what you'd done that afternoon, the answer wouldn't sound particularly exciting. You'd wandered through a bookstore, shared a cinnamon roll, bought an impractically large fridge magnet, looked at flowers neither of you intended to buy.
Objectively it was an incredibly ordinary afternoon.
But as Chelsea reached for your hand again while excitedly pointing out another little shop further down the street, you realised something.
You couldn't remember the last time an ordinary afternoon had felt quite so extraordinary.
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Backstage always felt louder than the crowd ever did. People hurried through the corridors carrying equipment cases almost as tall as they were. Production assistants darted between dressing rooms with headsets pressed against one ear. Music from someone's entrance echoed faintly through the concrete hallways before disappearing beneath overlapping conversations and the distant thud of bodies hitting the ring during rehearsals.
It should have felt chaotic. Instead it had become strangely familiar. You adjusted the strap of your gear bag as you stepped out of your locker room, glancing instinctively down the corridor.
You didn't even have to think about where your feet were taking you.
There were half a dozen directions you could have gone. Hair and makeup, gorilla, catering, medical.
Instead you turned left.
Chelsea's dressing room sat three doors down. The door was already open. You knocked lightly against the frame anyway.
She looked up from the makeup chair, her face immediately brightening. "There you are. I've been looking for you."
You looked pointedly at the corridor between your rooms. "...We're about twenty feet apart."
"I know. it was a very difficult search."
You laughed as you stepped inside.
The room looked exactly like every shared women's locker room eventually did before a show. Gear hung from hooks along the wall. Open makeup bags covered every available surface. Someone's curling iron rested dangerously close to a pile of jackets. Chelsea sat in front of the mirror while one of the makeup artists carefully blended the final touches around her eyes.
"You busy?" you asked.
She glanced towards the artist. "Am I busy?"
The artist smiled without looking up. "You've got about... six minutes before wardrobe steals you."
Chelsea grinned triumphantly. "You heard her."
"So?"
"So..."
She patted the empty chair beside her. "...sit."
You did. Without question, without asking why, six minutes was six minutes. She reached for your hand almost immediately, absent-mindedly intertwining your fingers while the makeup artist continued working as though this happened every single week.
Which, it did.
"You eaten?" Chelsea asked.
"Mhm."
"What did you have?"
"Pasta."
"Catering pasta?" You nodded. She winced dramatically. "My condolences."
"It wasn't that bad."
"It was."
"You haven't even tried it."
"I don't have to."
You smiled. "You are unbelievably dramatic."
"I've built a career on it."
The makeup artist laughed quietly. "I can confirm that's true."
Chelsea pointed at her reflection. "See? You've got witnesses now."
"I've always had witnesses." You squeezed her hand gently. "I still like you."
"I knew you would."
The artist stepped back after another minute. "Done."
Chelsea studied herself in the mirror before smiling. "I look expensive."
You looked at her. "You do."
She turned towards you expectantly. "Just expensive?"
You pretended to think. "Mmm..."
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm waiting."
"You look..." You smiled. "...like you're about to complain to at least three members of management."
Her laugh filled the room. "Now that is a compliment."
"It suits you."
The makeup artist packed away her brushes. "I'll leave you two to it before someone comes looking."
"Thank you!" Chelsea called after her.
The door clicked shut.
The room immediately became quieter. Chelsea stood, smoothing down her ring gear before walking over to where you sat. Without saying anything, she rested her forehead gently against yours. You smiled. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Chelsea."
"I just missed you."
You blinked. "...We've literally been in the same building all day."
"I know."
"But not together."
You couldn't really argue with that. Since arriving, you'd crossed paths countless times, passing each other in corridors, sharing coffee in catering, walking to production meetings. Each interaction lasted a minute or two before someone needed one of you somewhere else. Now for the first time all day nobody was asking for anything.
"You've got your match soon."
"So do you."
"You nervous?"
She shook her head. "Not really."
"You?"
"A little."
Chelsea reached up, adjusting the zip on your jacket that had folded awkwardly beneath your chin. "There."
"Thank you."
"I've also noticed..." She frowned thoughtfully. "...your necklace is backwards."
You looked down. Sure enough it was. "You've got a talent for spotting things."
"I know."
She turned it around before smoothing it back into place. "There."
"You've fixed me."
"I always do."
You smiled softly. "I appreciate it."
"I know."
A knock sounded at the open door. One of the producers leaned inside. "Chelsea, five minutes."
She gave them a thumbs up. "Got it!"
As soon as they disappeared, she looked back at you. "I've still got four minutes."
You laughed. "You timed him."
"I always do."
"You are unbelievable."
"I prefer efficient."
She reached for both your hands this time. "So."
"So?"
"What are we doing for dinner after?"
"I thought we'd order room service."
"Ooh." She nodded enthusiastically. "I like that plan."
"Pizza?"
"Definitely."
"Dessert?"
"Obviously." You smiled. "I don't think we've ever had a serious conversation about food."
"We don't need one."
"No?"
"We always agree."
"You've got me there."
Another voice echoed down the corridor. "Chelsea!"
She sighed dramatically. "They're ruining my quality time."
You laughed. "I think they're expecting you to wrestle."
"Very inconsiderate."
"You should probably go."
"I know."
Neither of you moved. Chelsea looked at you for another second before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around your waist. You hugged her back automatically. The embrace wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic, just familiar, comfortable. The sort of hug that happened dozens of times a week simply because it could.
When she finally stepped back, she smiled up at you. "Right."
"Right."
"You go have an amazing match."
"You too."
"I'll meet you straight afterwards."
"You always do."
She leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another. "For luck."
"You've already given me luck."
"I'm giving you extra."
You laughed. "I'll take it."
One last call came from somewhere down the corridor. "Chelsea!"
She groaned dramatically. "I'm coming!"
She looked back at you one final time. "Race you to the hotel?"
"You know you'll spend twenty minutes talking to everyone after the show."
"I will."
"So I'll definitely win."
She pointed a finger at you. "Don't get cocky."
You smiled as she finally disappeared into the corridor, already greeting people she passed with the same infectious energy she carried everywhere.
You watched her go for a moment before turning towards Gorilla yourself. There were thousands of people waiting on the other side of the curtain. Matches to wrestle. Interviews to film. Photos to take. A whole evening still ahead. But somehow, your favourite part of every show had already happened. It wasn't the entrance or the crowd or even stepping into the ring.
It was those six quiet minutes in a dressing room, sitting hand in hand with the person you loved, simply because neither of you could think of anywhere else you'd rather spend them.
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By the time you finally made it back to the hotel, it was well past eleven. The adrenaline from the show had begun to wear off somewhere between leaving the arena and climbing into the rental car, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that settled pleasantly into your bones after a good night's work.
Chelsea unlocked the hotel room with a dramatic sigh. "I'm home."
You laughed behind her. "This isn't home."
"It is for tonight." She pushed the door open before immediately kicking her trainers off into opposite corners of the room. One landed neatly by the wardrobe. The other bounced off the suitcase rack.
You looked at her. "...Really?"
"I'll find it tomorrow."
"You absolutely won't."
"I absolutely won't." You bent down to pick it up anyway, placing it beside the other one. "I appreciate you."
"I know."
She smiled as she shrugged off her jacket. "I was hoping you'd do that."
"I know you were."
Tour had a funny way of making even the nicest hotel rooms blur together. Different city, different carpet, different artwork on the walls. The same crisp white bedding, the same tiny kettle, the same armchair that looked comfortable but somehow never was. You'd stopped paying much attention to the rooms months ago. The person you shared them with mattered far more than the wallpaper.
Chelsea disappeared into the bathroom to wash off her makeup while you changed into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts, happily abandoning any attempt at looking presentable. A few minutes later, she emerged with damp hair tucked behind her ears and one of your hoodies pulled over her ring gear shorts.
You smiled immediately. "That's mine."
She looked down innocently. "Is it?"
"You know it is."
"I thought it looked familiar."
"It literally has my initials on the sleeve."
She examined the embroidered letters. "...That does explain it."
"You are impossible."
"I've been told."
"Mostly by me."
"Mhm."She wandered over before stealing the hairbrush from your hand. “My turn."
You turned around without even thinking. She'd done this hundreds of times before. Travelling meant constantly helping each other with the little things. Undoing stubborn boot laces, fixing zips, straightening gear, brushing out hairspray after a match. You stood quietly while she worked the brush gently through your hair, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft strokes of the brush and the distant hum of traffic outside the hotel window. It was strangely peaceful. "There." She gave your shoulder a gentle pat. "All done."
You looked over your shoulder. "Thank you."
"Always."
Your fingers found hers for just a second before she wandered towards the bed. "So..." She flopped backwards onto the mattress with absolutely no elegance whatsoever. "What now?"
You glanced at the television. "We could go downstairs."
"No."
"Find somewhere for dessert?"
"No."
"Watch a film?"
"Mmm..." She considered it for a moment. "...Also no."
You smiled. "What do you want to do?"
She held one hand out towards you. "This." You slipped your hand into hers, allowing her to tug you down onto the bed beside her. The mattress bounced gently beneath your weight. Within seconds, Chelsea had shuffled closer until your shoulders touched, then your knees, then, apparently deciding that still wasn't close enough, she rested her head lightly against yours. "There."
"There?"
"Perfect."
You laughed quietly. "We're literally just lying here."
"I know."
"In silence."
"I know."
"You've chosen silence."
She smiled with her eyes closed. "I chose you."
Your heart softened immediately.
For a while that was all you did. The television stayed off, neither of you looked at your phones. Outside, the city carried on without you, headlights drifting past the window in soft streaks of light. Inside the room, time seemed to slow. Chelsea traced lazy patterns across the back of your hand with her thumb. You watched the ceiling. Every now and then one of you would point something out.
"That crack looks like Florida."
"It absolutely doesn't."
"It does if you squint."
"I'm not squinting."
"You lack imagination."
"I have excellent eyesight."
"Debatable."
Then it would fall quiet again. Not because the conversation had run out. Because neither of you felt the need to keep it going. Eventually, Chelsea rolled onto her side so she could look at you properly. "You know what my favourite part of touring is?"
You pretended to think. "The airports?"
"No."
"The rental cars?"
"They're in the top ten."
"The giant fridge magnet?"
"Current number one purchase."
You smiled. "What then?"
She reached over, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "This."
You frowned slightly. "This?"
She nodded. "The bit after."
"After what?" "The show."
Her smile was small, but impossibly fond. "Everyone always talks about the crowds, the entrances, the matches, the titles."
"They're amazing."
"They are but..." She looked around the hotel room. "...this is the bit I look forward to."
You followed her gaze. The room was nothing special. Half-open suitcases lay on the luggage rack. Your gear bags were still dumped by the door. The room service menu sat folded on the bedside table.
It was just another anonymous hotel room. "I don't get it."
"You don't?" She shook her head gently. "I don't care where we are." She squeezed your hand. "It could be the fanciest hotel in the world." "Or somewhere with questionable wallpaper and tiny towels."
You laughed. "So... every hotel."
"Exactly." She grinned. "It all feels the same. What makes it different..." Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. "...is that I get to end every day with my favourite person."
Your chest tightened. "You really mean that?"
She looked genuinely confused. "Of course I do."
"I just..." You smiled shyly. "I didn't realise you'd been thinking about it."
"I think about it every trip." She shrugged. "We spend all day making memories. Then we come back here and I get to hear about your match. You hear about mine. We steal each other's hoodies. You complain about my alarm for tomorrow. I'll complain about yours. It just..." She smiled. "...makes every city feel a little bit like home."
You reached across the space between you, cupping her cheek. "I think that's my favourite thing you've said today."
She leaned into your hand instinctively. "Really?"
"Mhm."
"I've said a lot today."
"You always do and somehow..." You smiled, brushing your thumb softly across her cheek. "...I still never get tired of listening."
Chelsea's grin was immediate. "So..."
"So?"
"I can keep talking?"
You laughed, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "I don't think I'd know what to do if you ever stopped."
She gasped dramatically. "Well, that's good."
"Why?"
"Because I've already got tomorrow's conversation planned."
You rolled your eyes affectionately. "Somehow I knew you were going to say that."
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The airport looked exactly like every other airport you'd passed through that year. Bright departure boards, the smell of coffee drifting through the terminal, rolling suitcases rattling over polished floors, sleepy travellers queuing for breakfast despite it barely being seven in the morning. If someone had asked you whether you were in Texas, Illinois or Arizona...
You probably wouldn't have been able to answer immediately. The cities had started blending together somewhere around month three, the memories hadn't.
Chelsea walked beside you, one hand hooked around the handle of her suitcase while the other stayed comfortably wrapped around yours. She yawned dramatically. "I'm tired."
"You said that before we even left the hotel."
"I've remained consistent."
"I'll give you that."
She rested her head briefly against your shoulder as the queue for security slowed to a stop. "You know what we need?"
"What?"
"A holiday."
You looked at her. "We're literally travelling."
"I know but this is work travelling."
"So?"
"I want holiday travelling."
"What's the difference?"
She thought for a moment. "Less ring gear."
"Fair."
"More beaches."
"I can get behind that."
"And absolutely no five a.m. alarms."
You laughed. "Now that sounds impossible."
"I choose optimism."
"You always do."
"I have to." She smiled up at you. "I've got you to convince."
Nearly an hour later, you found yourselves sitting by the gate with two coffees balanced between you. Your bags rested against your legs. Chelsea had slipped one earbud into your ear, keeping the other for herself while some random playlist drifted quietly between the two of you. Neither of you paid much attention to it. You were too busy watching the world go by. A little boy hurried past, proudly dragging a suitcase almost as big as he was, an older couple shared a newspaper, a group of wrestlers walked through the terminal, laughing loudly about something that had clearly happened before either of you had arrived. It all felt strangely peaceful.
Chelsea nudged your arm. "Look." You followed her gaze. A woman sat cross-legged on the floor near the window, reading a book while her husband slept against his backpack beside her.
You smiled. "That's us in thirty years."
Chelsea laughed. "No."
"No?"
"We'll still be talking."
"You think?"
"I know."
You smiled.
"I think you'll still be getting distracted."
"I definitely will."
"And you'll still pretend every airport café serves the world's best breakfast."
"They do."
"They objectively don't."
"You can't prove that."
"I've eaten them."
"So have I."
"And?"
"I remain optimistic."
You shook your head fondly. Some things, you suspected, would never change.
Your flight was delayed by fifteen minutes. Nobody around you seemed particularly pleased. Chelsea, on the other hand, leaned back in her chair with a satisfied smile. "Extra coffee time."
"You'd find a silver lining in anything."
"I would."
"I know."
She looked over at you. "What?"
You glanced down at the paper coffee cup in your hands. "I was just trying to remember..."
"What?"
"...what my favourite part of this week was."
Chelsea smiled. "The giant fridge magnet?"
"It was impressive."
"The cinnamon roll?"
"Also excellent."
"The bookstore?"
"I loved the bookstore." She waited. "But?" You looked at her. "My favourite part..." A smile spread across your face almost without your permission. "...was sitting on the airport floor sharing breakfast with you."
She blinked. "Really?"
"Mhm."
"Not the city?"
"The city was lovely."
"The show?"
"The show was great."
"The shopping?"
"You bought a magnet the size of a dinner plate."
"It was iconic."
"It was." You laughed. "But none of that's what I'll remember first."
"What will you remember?"
"You stealing half my breakfast."
"I stand by that decision."
"You singing High School Musical in the rental car."
"You joined in."
"I did."
"You brushing my hair after the show."
"You looked after me too."
You shrugged gently. "It was all just..." You searched for the right word. "...us."
Chelsea's smile softened into something quieter. "I think that's why I love touring."
"You do?"
She nodded.
"I get to see all these amazing places." She gestured vaguely towards the terminal around you. "But if I'm honest..." Her fingers found yours between the armrests. "...I don't think the places are actually the point."
You intertwined your fingers with hers. "No?"
She shook her head. "I could be anywhere." She smiled. "As long as you're there too."
The boarding announcement echoed through the gate. Passengers immediately began standing despite the airline clearly calling rows one through five first. Chelsea watched the chaos unfold with amusement. "They're never going to get on any faster."
"They never do."
She stayed exactly where she was, making no attempt to join the queue. "We've got ages."
"We do."
She looked at you. "So..."
"So?"
"What city is next?"
You frowned thoughtfully. "I honestly can't remember."
She burst into laughter. "Me neither."
For a second, the two of you simply looked at each other before laughing even harder. A nearby businessman glanced over, smiling despite himself.
You wiped at the corner of your eye. "We're hopeless."
"We really are."
"But we'll figure it out."
"We always do."
Eventually your boarding group was called. You stood together, adjusting your backpack onto your shoulder before reaching automatically for Chelsea's hand. She squeezed it once. "Ready?"
You looked out through the huge windows lining the terminal. Another plane, another flight, another city waiting somewhere beyond the cloud, another week of arenas, hotels, rental cars, early alarms, airport breakfasts, bookshops, late-night room service, tiny adventures that would probably sound completely ordinary to everyone else.
You smiled. "Yeah."
Chelsea tilted her head. "For the flight?"
You shook your head. "For another week with you."
She grinned, slipping her fingers more firmly through yours as the two of you joined the queue. The destination would fade eventually. The airport would blur into the next one. The hotel keycards would end up forgotten in the bottom of a suitcase. But years from now, when neither of you could remember what city you'd flown into on a random Tuesday in the middle of tour you knew you'd still remember sharing one breakfast, singing far too loudly in a rental car, browsing a quiet bookstore, lying in a hotel room doing absolutely nothing.
Because the places had never been what made those trips unforgettable.
It had always been the person you were lucky enough to experience them with.
the text. tiffany stratton. language of love series.
tiffany stratton x girlfriend!reader
words of affirmation
The suitcase sat open on the bed, somehow looking twice as full as it had an hour earlier. You leaned against the bedroom door with your arms folded, watching Tiffany zip another jacket into the already overstuffed case before immediately unzipping it again. "I don't think that's going to fit," you said.
"It literally will."
"It literally won't."
She shot you an offended look over her shoulder. "You have absolutely no faith in me."
"I have faith in you," you corrected with a grin. "I don't have faith in the laws of physics."
"They're more like... suggestions."
You laughed quietly as she attempted to sit on top of the suitcase to force it closed. It worked for approximately three seconds before the zip protested and split back open just enough to undo all her hard work.
"There." She pointed triumphantly at it. "It closed."
"It reopened."
"It was closed."
"For a moment."
"Still counts."
You shook your head, crossing the room to help before she declared war on the poor suitcase. "Move."
She narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"
"I've watched you fight this thing for fifteen minutes."
"I was winning."
"You were absolutely not."
"You don't know that."
You gently pushed her aside, ignoring the dramatic gasp she let out as though you'd committed the greatest betrayal imaginable. Folding one hoodie slightly differently and shifting a pair of trainers to the opposite side was all it took before the zip slid effortlessly around the case. You looked up. "There."
Tiffany stared. "...I hate that."
"You should."
"I was literally about to do that."
"Mhm."
"I was."
"You definitely were."
She stepped forward anyway, wrapping both arms around your waist from behind before resting her chin against your shoulder. "I would've figured it out."
“Eventually”
"I don't like your attitude."
"I know."
"You should apologise."
"For what?"
"For doubting me."
You turned your head just enough to catch the exaggerated pout she was wearing. "I'm not apologising."
She sighed dramatically. "This relationship is so toxic for me."
"Oh, is it?"
"Mhm."
"You seem alright."
"I've suffered immensely."
You laughed again, reaching up to smooth a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear. "You're going to survive five days."
She wrinkled her nose. "I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
Neither of you did. Tour weeks weren't exactly rare anymore. They'd figured out how to make the constant travel work months ago, settling into a rhythm of airports, FaceTimes, hotel rooms and hurried reunions whenever your schedules finally lined up again. It wasn't ideal. But it was yours. You stepped out of her hold so she could finally close the suitcase properly, and she immediately wandered over to your wardrobe instead. "...Tiffany."
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she pulled one of your oversized hoodies from its hanger with suspicious confidence.
"Tiff."
"What?"
"That's mine."
"I know."
"So..."
"So..."
You watched as she folded it with absolutely no intention of putting it back.
"You already packed."
"I found room."
"You absolutely did not."
"I'll make room."
"You own hoodies."
"I own hoodies," she agreed. "I don't own your hoodie."
You laughed through your nose. "You stole my grey one last month."
"I borrowed it."
"You never gave it back."
"Because you looked so happy letting me keep it."
"I don't remember that."
"I do."
She tucked it neatly into the suitcase before you could stop her. "There."
"You know that's my favourite one."
"I know."
"You are unbelievable."
"I know." She smiled far too sweetly to feel even slightly guilty. "You smell nice."
"You can't steal my clothes because I smell nice."
"I absolutely can."
"No, you can't."
"I literally just did."
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling despite yourself. "You are the worst."
"And yet..." She walked back over until there was barely any space left between you. "...you adore me."
"I tolerate you."
"Liar."
Her hands found yours automatically, fingers weaving together so naturally neither of you seemed to think about it anymore.
The apartment had fallen strangely quiet. The suitcase was packed. Her phone buzzed on the bedside table with another reminder that she should already be leaving if she wanted to beat traffic to the airport. Neither of you reached for it. Tiffany looked down at your joined hands before gently swinging them once. "I'll call you tonight."
"I know."
"And tomorrow."
"I know."
"And probably three more times before I actually go to sleep."
"I know."
"You sound thrilled."
"I am."
"You don't look thrilled."
You smiled softly. "I'm just going to miss you." The honesty slipped out before you could dress it up into something lighter.
Her expression softened immediately. "I'll miss you too."
"I know."
She leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting hers against yours. "Five days."
"It'll go quickly."
"It always does."
There was another buzz from her phone. She sighed. "I hate responsible people."
"You are responsible people."
"I know." She groaned. "It's exhausting."
You reached past her to pick up her phone before slipping it into the pocket of her jacket. "Come on."
She made absolutely no effort to move. Instead she wrapped both arms around you again, burying her face into your shoulder. "No."
"Tiff..."
"No."
"You have a flight."
"I've decided not to go."
"Oh?"
"Mhm."
"I'm sure WWE will understand."
"They should."
"They definitely won't."
"They'll survive."
You smiled into her hair. "You are so dramatic."
"I've been told." Eventually she let you go with the kind of exaggerated reluctance only Tiffany could pull off. You followed her downstairs, suitcase wheels clattering over every tiny crack in the pavement until the waiting car came into view. The driver climbed out to load her luggage into the boot while Tiffany lingered beside you instead. She took both of your hands again. "I'll text you when I land."
"You always do."
"I'll FaceTime tonight."
"You always do."
She tilted her head. "You make me sound predictable."
"You are predictable."
"I prefer reliable."
"I'll give you that."
She smiled, satisfied with the compromise. You squeezed her hands once before letting them slip away. "You'll be too busy to miss me anyway." The words left your mouth so casually you barely registered saying them. It was only after they landed that you noticed Tiffany's smile disappear. Not dramatically, just enough.
Her brows pulled together in the smallest frown. "What?"
"You'll be busy," you repeated with a shrug. "Shows, media, travelling..."
She looked at you for another second, almost like she was trying to work out whether you actually believed what you'd just said.
Then she stepped back into your space. "No."
You blinked. "No?"
"No." She reached up, brushing her thumb lightly across your cheek. "I'll be busy." Another gentle stroke of her thumb. "I'll also miss you." She smiled, softer now. "Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
You felt a small warmth spread through your chest despite yourself. "I know."
"I don't think you do."
Before you could answer, she leaned in and kissed you, slow enough to make the airport deadline worth risking, gentle enough to settle every frantic thought that had started bubbling beneath the surface the moment you'd watched her zip that suitcase shut. When she finally pulled away, she rested her forehead against yours one last time. "I'll see you in a couple weeks."
"You'd better."
"I always keep my promises."
The driver cleared his throat politely from beside the car. Tiffany sighed dramatically towards the sky. "He's ruining my moment."
You laughed. "I think he's trying to stop you missing your flight."
"Details." She squeezed your hand one final time before climbing into the back seat. You stood on the pavement until the car disappeared around the corner, lifting a hand when she waved through the window. Only once it had vanished completely did you turn back towards the apartment. The silence greeted you before you even unlocked the door. It was funny how somewhere could feel so much bigger after one person left.
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The apartment stayed quiet in a way you never quite got used to. Not empty. Just missing something. You noticed it most in the evenings, when there was no voice drifting in from another room, no half finished conversation carried through the walls, no blonde whirlwind stealing your blanket before claiming she'd been there first.
The first morning wasn't so bad. You woke up out of habit, reached for the other side of the bed, and smiled to yourself when your hand found nothing but cold sheets. Your phone was already waiting on the bedside table.
Tiff Landed!!
The hotel room is ugly.
Miss you already.
A second message arrived before you'd even opened the first.
Also they gave me weird tiny pillows.
You laughed quietly.
You Your priorities are incredible.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
I know. Call you later?
The first couple of days slipped by in the comfortable rhythm you'd built over months of travelling. Good morning texts, pictures of airport coffees, faceTimes from hotel rooms while Tiffany sat cross-legged on an unmade bed, still wearing half her gear because she'd been too excited to call you before changing. Sometimes she'd ramble about a match, sometimes you'd tell her about your day, sometimes neither of you said much at all.
Just having her there, even through a screen, was enough. It worked. Until it didn't.
Wednesday started with your laptop crashing. Not freezing, crashing, completely. You stared blankly at the black screen before trying the power button again, nothing. "...Seriously?"
After three increasingly desperate attempts, it finally flickered back to life. Only for the document you'd spent all morning working on to announce it couldn't be recovered.
You closed your eyes. It was fine, annoying. But fine, you'd rewrite it.
An hour later you knocked your coffee clean across the kitchen counter while reaching for your phone. The mug somehow missed everything except the notebook you'd been using. Dark liquid soaked through the pages almost immediately. "Oh, come on." You snatched it up far too late. The ink bled into soft grey streaks before your eyes, perfect.
By Thursday afternoon the rewritten work still wasn't finished because another email had landed asking for unexpected revisions. Nothing impossible. Just enough to push everything back. You rubbed your eyes at your desk, blinking away the ache beginning to build behind them. Your stomach growled. You glanced at the clock. Half past three. You'd forgotten lunch, again.
"I'll eat in a minute."
You didn't.
That evening Tiffany called while walking through the corridors of another hotel. The camera bounced with every step. "I swear every hallway looks exactly the same."
You smiled. "I think they buy them in bulk."
"They literally do." She pushed open her room door before dramatically collapsing backwards onto the bed. "I'm exhausted."
"You wrestled."
"I know."
"You travelled."
"I know."
"You've been awake since...?"
"Four."
"You should sleep."
"I wanted to talk to you."
Something warm settled in your chest. "I appreciate the sacrifice."
"I know you do." She propped her phone against a water bottle so both hands were free, immediately beginning the complicated process of removing enough bobby pins to qualify as a construction project. You watched her work and she watched you watching her. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You've got your thinking face."
"I don't have a thinking face."
"You absolutely do."
"I don't."
"You squint."
"I do not."
"You've literally been squinting at me for the last thirty seconds."
You hadn't even realised. Your expression softened into something closer to a smile. "I'm just tired."
"Mhm." She didn't sound convinced. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Just one of those weeks."
"What happened?"
You hesitated. "My laptop died."
She gasped dramatically. "No."
"I lost some work."
She frowned. "That sucks."
"I spilled coffee everywhere."
"Baby."
"And work's been a bit... annoying."
"You've eaten though?"
"...Yeah."
The lie came too quickly. Tiffany tilted her head. "You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You literally did."
"I just had to think."
"You had to think whether you'd eaten lunch?"
You looked away from the screen. "...Maybe."
She sighed. "You forgot."
"Maybe."
"You definitely forgot."
"I got distracted."
"You always get distracted."
"I know."
There wasn't any judgement in her voice. Only concern. "You need to eat."
"I will."
"Now."
"I'll make something after we hang up."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She studied your face for another second before nodding. "Good."
The conversation drifted onto lighter things after that. Chelsea had accidentally locked herself out of her rental car. Someone had hidden one of Tiffany's boots before the show. Nick had somehow managed to keep a straight face through the entire thing. By the time you said goodnight, you genuinely felt lighter. That was the thing about Tiffany. She somehow made everything seem manageable simply by talking to you.
Friday morning started with doomscrolling. A mistake. You knew it was. Still, you found yourself lying in bed, absentmindedly flicking through social media before you'd even properly opened your eyes. One comment caught your attention. Then another, then another, most people were kind. They always were. But every now and then someone said something that lodged itself somewhere it shouldn't. It wasn't even particularly creative. Just dismissive. Questioning your work. Questioning why anyone cared. You knew better than to take strangers seriously, you closed the app.
Made breakfast, washed the dishes, started work.
And somehow the words followed you anyway.
That night Tiffany called from the airport. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. No makeup, grey hoodie, she looked tired. Beautiful. But tired.
"There you are."
"There I was."
"I thought you'd abandoned me."
"I considered it."
"Rude." She smiled anyway. "What've you been up to?"
"Oh... not much."
"Work?"
"Mhm."
"How'd it go?"
"It got done."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic."
"I'm just tired."
"You've said that every day this week."
You looked down at your lap. "I guess I have."
She was quiet for a moment. Not awkwardly. Just thinking. "You sure you're okay?"
You nodded automatically. "I'm okay." It came so easily. The familiar answer. The safe answer. "I'm just looking forward to you coming home."
Her smile returned. "I'm looking forward to coming home too." A boarding announcement echoed through the terminal behind her. She grimaced. "That's me."
"Go."
"I don't want to."
"I know."
"I'll call you tomorrow?"
"You always do."
"I always will."
You smiled. "I know."
She blew you a kiss before the screen disappeared. You stared at the now-dark display for another few seconds before setting your phone beside you on the sofa. The apartment fell silent again.
For the first time all week the silence didn't just feel lonely.
It felt loud.
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You didn't expect the silence to bother you quite so much. By Saturday evening, you should have been used to it. You should have settled into the routine by now. Instead, the apartment seemed quieter than it had all week. The television filled the room with meaningless background noise while your laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of you, the cursor blinking patiently at the end of a sentence you'd rewritten four times.
You stared at it. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Your phone buzzed. Without thinking, your hand reached for it.
Tiff Baby :(
You smiled despite yourself.
You Hi.
The typing bubble appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Flight got delayed.
You frowned.
Again?
Yep. Been sitting at the gate for nearly two hours.
You imagined her exactly as she always was during delays, legs tucked underneath herself in an airport chair, expensive headphones around her neck, complaining to absolutely anyone who would listen.
Poor you.
I know.
I'm incredibly brave.
You laughed quietly.
The bravest.
Three dots appeared. Then stopped. Then started again.
I was gonna FaceTime but the airport Wi-Fi keeps dying.
It's okay.
I'll call when I land.
You looked back towards the untouched document on your laptop.
Don't worry about it.
She replied almost instantly.
I always worry about it.
Before you could answer, another message arrived.
Actually...
Then another.
Give me a second.
You frowned. The typing bubble stayed there. Longer than normal. Long enough that you assumed she was being interrupted. Then your phone vibrated again. Not once. Three times. Four. Five. One enormous message filled your screen.
I know you've been saying you're okay all week. And maybe you are. But I also know you. So just in case your brain's being mean to you today, here's a few things I'd like to remind you of.
You blinked. Your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you kept reading.
You always make enough dinner for two, even when I'm away, because you say leftovers taste better than cooking twice. You apologise to tables when you walk into them. You still laugh at your own jokes before you've finished telling them. You remember everybody's birthdays without putting them in your calendar. You somehow know exactly where everything I lose is, even when I swear I've already looked there. You leave the last bite of dessert for me every single time. You don't even think about it anymore. You just do it.
Your chest tightened. The smile on your face had softened into something much smaller. Much more fragile.
The message continued.
You always stop to wave at dogs. You thank bus drivers. You still get excited when the moon looks particularly pretty. You make every hotel room feel less lonely just by answering the phone. You celebrate my wins like they're bigger than your own. You've never once made me feel like I had to earn being loved.
A lump settled stubbornly in your throat. You swallowed around it.
There was more. So much more.
Not generic compliments, Not things anyone could have written, Things Tiffany had noticed, tiny pieces of you that you'd never imagined anyone was paying attention to.
You make people feel important. You make me feel safe enough to be completely myself. You make ordinary days my favourite ones. Home stopped being a place a long time ago. Now it's just wherever you happen to be.
Your vision blurred, you blinked quickly. It didn't help.
The final few lines were shorter. Almost like she'd thought about them the longest.
I know you don't always see yourself the way I do. So until you can borrow my eyes.
A tear slipped down your cheek before you realised it had escaped. You laughed quietly at yourself, wiping it away with the sleeve of your hoodie. One last line waited at the bottom.
And tomorrow, if your brain starts lying to you again...
Read this again.
You stared at the screen. Read it again. Then immediately scrolled back to the top, slower this time. You pictured Tiffany sitting in a noisy airport terminal, surrounded by delayed flights and strangers rushing past, taking the time to type every single word.
No. Not type. You knew her. This wasn't something she'd thrown together while waiting to board. There was no way someone came up with details like you apologise to tables in five minutes. You could almost picture her adding to it over time. A note in her phone, a sentence here, another there. Every time she caught you doing something that made her smile. The thought made your chest ache.
Your phone buzzed again.
Tiff Don't overanalyse how long it took me to write that. Your eyebrows lifted. She knew you far too well. Another message appeared before you could reply.
Just let me love you, okay? ❤️
You looked back down at the message she'd sent. Then at the little heart sitting underneath it. For the first time all week the apartment didn't feel quite so empty.
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Sunday morning arrived quietly.
You woke before your alarm. For a few blissfully unaware seconds, everything felt normal. Then your eyes landed on the empty side of the bed, right. Another day. You reached for your phone almost on instinct. Not because there were any new notifications. Because you wanted to read it again. Your thumb found Tiffany's conversation without thinking. The message was still there, stretching far enough down the screen that the tiny "Read more" prompt had long since disappeared.
You started from the top. By the time you reached the end you realised your shoulders weren't sitting quite as high as they had when you'd woken up. The knot in your chest had loosened.
Only a little. But enough.
Enough was something.
The day didn't magically improve. Your laptop still chose the worst possible moments to freeze, work still demanded revisions you hadn't expected, the washing machine started making a noise that definitely hadn't been there before, life continued exactly as it always had. The only difference was now, whenever your thoughts started turning against you, you knew where to go.
Monday afternoon. Your inbox pinged. Another email. Another request for changes. You read the first sentence. Felt that familiar frustration creeping up your spine. Before your brain could finish constructing all the reasons why you weren't good enough your phone was already in your hand. One tap.
Tiff
You didn't even read the whole thing this time.
Your eyes landed halfway down.
You make people feel important.
You stared at the sentence for a few seconds.
Then locked your phone. Took a breath. Opened your laptop again. The revisions suddenly didn't feel quite so impossible.
Tuesday evening. The supermarket was busier than usual. Someone barged past your trolley without so much as an apology. You reached for the pasta sauce on the top shelf, knocking another jar sideways in the process. It shattered against the floor. The sharp crack echoed down the aisle. "Oh my God." Heat rushed into your face. "I'm so sorry."
An employee hurried over. "It's alright."
"I can help"
"It's okay."
"No, really, —"
The embarrassment settled heavily in your chest as you stepped back to let them clean it. You knew accidents happened. You knew they did. It didn't stop your brain from replaying the sound over and over as you wandered towards the checkout. By the time you reached your car, you'd convinced yourself everyone in the shop thought you were an inconvenience. You sat behind the steering wheel without starting the engine. Unlocked your phone. Scrolled. There it was.
You apologise to tables when you walk into them.
A tiny laugh escaped you.
You could almost hear Tiffany's voice saying it. Shaking her head. Smiling. The embarrassment melted away just enough for you to start the car.
Wednesday. You caught yourself smiling at a golden retriever outside a café. Its tail wagged furiously against the pavement while its owner struggled to untangle the lead from a bench. You waved without thinking. The dog barked happily. Halfway down the street, you stopped. Opened your phone.
You always stop to wave at dogs.
"...You're unbelievable."
A passer-by glanced at you curiously. You smiled to yourself and kept walking.
Thursday night. Sleep refused to come. You'd turned your pillow over twice, fluffed it. Moved to the other side of the bed. Checked the time far too many times. Eventually, with a sigh, you reached for your phone from the bedside table. The room glowed softly in the darkness.You didn't scroll this time. You knew exactly where your favourite sentence was.
Home stopped being a place a long time ago. Now it's just wherever you happen to be.
Your throat tightened. You missed her. God, you missed her. Not in the dramatic, all-consuming way films liked to portray. Just in all the little moments. The second mug staying in the cupboard, nobody stealing the duvet, nobody talking through whatever you were trying to watch, nobody absentmindedly humming while getting ready in the morning. The spaces she'd quietly filled before leaving had become impossible not to notice. You pressed the phone lightly against your chest. It wasn't the same. Of course it wasn't. But somehow it made the bed feel a little less empty.
By Friday afternoon, you realised something. You'd stopped opening the message because you were upset. Now you opened it because it made you smile because every sentence sounded exactly like Tiffany. You could hear the playful emphasis she'd put on certain words. Picture the little grin she'd have worn while writing others. It had become less like reading a text and more like borrowing a piece of her until she came home. When your phone buzzed with another notification from the same conversation, you smiled before you'd even looked.
Tiff Guess who's boarding their flight home?
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By the time you heard keys fumbling against the front door, you were already smiling. Not because the lock had actually opened. Because nobody else on earth managed to make unlocking a door sound quite so complicated. The handle rattled. "...Seriously?" A muffled huff came from the other side. "I literally live here."
You laughed, pushing yourself off the sofa just as the door finally swung open. "There she is."
"There I am." Tiffany stood in the doorway with one hand still on her suitcase, her hair slightly windswept from the journey home and a hoodie you'd seen disappear into her hanging from her shoulders, your hoodie. She looked exhausted, eyes a little heavier than usual. Travel bag slipping down one shoulder. But the second she saw you her entire face lit up. She barely gave herself time to let go of the suitcase before she crossed the hallway in quick strides and wrapped both arms around you. The hug was immediate, firm. The kind that squeezed every lonely evening of the past week into something much smaller. You buried your face against her shoulder, laughing quietly when she rocked the two of you from side to side. "I missed you."
"I know. I missed you more."
"You definitely didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"You've been surrounded by people all week."
She pulled back just enough to look at you. "And none of them were you."
You smiled. "I missed you too."
"I know." She leaned in, kissing you once. Then again. Then one more quick kiss to the tip of your nose. "I've decided," she announced, "tour is cancelled."
"Oh?"
"Mhm."
"You told WWE?"
"Not yet."
"I think they'll want a little more notice."
"They'll cope."
You laughed, reaching down to pull her suitcase fully inside before nudging the door shut with your foot. The apartment felt different already. Louder. Warmer. Like somebody had switched the lights on without actually touching them. Tiffany kicked her trainers off carelessly, letting them land somewhere in the general direction of the shoe rack without making even the slightest attempt to actually use it.
You noticed. "So we're still doing that?"
"What?"
"The shoes."
"They're near the shoe rack."
"They're in a different postcode."
"They know where they're supposed to be."
You shook your head. "I gave up trying to change you months ago."
"I know." She smiled proudly. "It's one of your better qualities."
You rolled your eyes. "Come here."
"I am here."
"Closer."
She obeyed immediately, slipping one hand into yours as naturally as breathing while you wandered together into the living room. Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn't need to. She flopped dramatically onto the sofa with an exhausted groan. "I'm never getting on another plane."
"You say that every trip."
"This time I mean it."
"Mhm."
"I do."
"You've got Smackdown in three days."
"...Don't ruin this for me."
You laughed, sitting beside her. For a few peaceful minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the fridge from the kitchen and Tiffany absentmindedly tracing lazy circles across the back of your hand with her thumb. She'd always done that, without thinking, without even realising. Your phone buzzed softly on the coffee table. You reached over to check it. A delivery notification. Nothing important. You unlocked the screen anyway before setting it back down. You didn't notice Tiffany watching.
"What?” You frowned. "My wallpaper?"
"No."
"My contact photo?"
"No."
You looked at the screen. "I don't know what you are looking at."
She leaned sideways, trying to peek properly. "You just opened our chat."
"I didn't."
"You literally did."
"I was checking a notification."
"Mhm." She narrowed her eyes playfully. "And somehow you accidentally ended up looking at me."
"I wasn't"
"You absolutely were."
Heat crept into your cheeks. "I wasn't."
"Liar."
"I'm not lying."
"You've got the guilty face."
"I don't have a guilty face."
"You absolutely do." Before you could stop her, Tiffany leaned across your lap with surprising speed and snatched your phone from the coffee table.
"Tiff—"
"Evidence." She grinned triumphantly as she unlocked it with the passcode she'd known for months. "You trust me too much."
"I know."
She opened your messages. Found your conversation. Then she stopped smiling. Not because she'd found anything bad. Because the first thing she saw wasn't today's conversation. It was her message, still open, still sitting exactly where you'd left it before the delivery notification arrived. Her thumb hovered over the screen she could see where you'd highlighted little sections with heart reactions. One sentence had two, another had a crying emoji. There were tiny replies scattered underneath different paragraphs across the week.
You remembered that?
I love you.
Shut up.
❤️
You hadn't expected her to ever see them. She looked back up at you. "...Baby."
You suddenly found the pattern on the sofa cushion incredibly interesting. "What?"
"You've been... replying to it?"
"It felt weird not to."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You've read it again."
You scratched absentmindedly at the sleeve of your hoodie. "...Maybe."
She raised an eyebrow. "How many times?"
You hesitated. "...I don't know." She gave you a look. "...Twenty." Another look. "...Seven." Silence. "...Twenty-eight."
Tiffany laughed, not at you. Just softly like her heart had grown two sizes in the space of a few seconds. "You actually counted?"
"I stopped pretending I wasn't rereading it after about fifteen."
She looked down at the message again, then back at you. There was something wonderfully unfair about how easily she could make you feel seen. "You know," she said quietly, "I was hoping you'd read it twice."
You blinked. "Twice?"
"Mhm Not..." She glanced at the phone. "...twenty-eight."
You smiled sheepishly. "I had a rough week."
The laughter faded from her expression, replaced by something much softer. She reached over, lacing your fingers together. "I know."
It wasn't pity. It wasn't sadness. Just understanding. She'd known long before you'd admitted it.
The room settled into a comfortable silence. Your phone still rested between you, Tiffany's message filling the screen exactly as it had every day that week. Neither of you reached to lock it, neither of you needed to. Tiffany looked back down at it, smiling to herself as she scrolled through the reactions you'd left beneath different sentences. "You hearted the pasta one."
"It was cute."
"You cried at the hotel room one."
"I did."
"You laughed at the table one."
"...I did."
"And you replied 'shut up' to the dog one."
You covered your face with one hand. "I forgot I'd done that."
"I didn't." She nudged your shoulder with hers. "I was very offended."
"You absolutely were not."
"I recovered."
"Barely."
She laughed quietly before her eyes drifted back to the message. Her thumb brushed lightly over the screen. "You know..." She hesitated. "I didn't actually write this at the airport."
You looked at her. "I figured."
"You did?"
"There was no way you randomly remembered I apologise to furniture."
"Told you."
"Tables."
"Same thing."
"They're completely different."
"They're both objects."
You smiled, shaking your head. "What did you mean?"
She tucked one leg underneath herself on the sofa, turning until she was facing you properly. "I started it before I left."
"Before tour?"
She nodded. "Way before." Your eyebrows lifted. "I have a Notes app folder."
"You have a what?"
"A folder."
"Tiffany."
"What?"
"You have a folder?"
"I know how to use technology."
"I never said you didn't."
"You implied it."
"I absolutely did."
She reached for her phone from beside her bag, unlocked it, and held the screen out towards you. There, buried between shopping lists and gear ideas, sat a note simply titled: Things I Love About You ❤️
Your breath caught.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"I don't think I was supposed to read it twenty-eight times either."
"Twenty-eight is still insane."
"I had free time."
"You absolutely did not." She smiled. "Every time you did something that made me smile..." She shrugged. "I wrote it down."
You looked back at the note. It was much longer than the message she'd sent. Far longer. Little bullet points, half-finished thoughts, tiny observations, dates beside some of them.
One simply read: Held my hand in the car because she knew I was nervous.
Another: Got excited because she saw a really fluffy pigeon.
Another: Fell asleep halfway through a film but still insisted they'd watched the ending.
You laughed through the sudden sting behind your eyes. "You've been collecting these."
"For months."
"Why?"
She looked at you as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I never wanted to forget them."
The answer landed somewhere deep inside your chest. Not because it was elaborate. Because it wasn't. It was simple. Every tiny thing you'd convinced yourself was forgettable she'd been making a note of. You reached for her hand. "I don't think anyone's ever looked at me that closely before."
"They should." She squeezed your fingers. "They're missing out."
You laughed softly. "You know..." You glanced at the still-open message on your phone. "There were a few days this week where I really believed all the stupid things my brain was saying."
Her expression softened. "I figured."
"I almost believed them."
"Almost?"
You nodded. "Then I read this." You lifted the phone slightly. "Again." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And again." She laughed. "And again."
"You've made your point."
"I don't think I have."
She watched you for a moment before reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I'm really glad you borrowed my eyes."
The words settled gently between you.
You thought about the week. About the empty apartment. The rewritten emails. The spilled coffee. The comments that had lingered far longer than they deserved. None of those things had disappeared. Life hadn't magically become easier. But every time your confidence had started to crack Tiffany had already left something there to hold it together.
You leaned forward until your forehead rested against hers. "I love you."
"I know." She smiled. "I love you too."
Outside, the evening carried on as it always did. Cars passed below the apartment windows, someone laughed somewhere out in the street, the world kept moving, inside, though, everything felt wonderfully still.
Your phone buzzed quietly on the coffee table. Another notification. Another email. You barely looked at it before turning the screen face down. It could wait.
Because for the first time all week, you didn't need to borrow Tiffany's eyes anymore.
She was home.
why you wont write for becky, bfab, michin, bayley, nia and lyra ? not hating!! just super curious 💗
Honestly I just don’t particularly click with them as characters so I just can’t see myself doing a very good job with them and I’d absolutely hate to post something I didn’t feel was at the standard of my usual work. I feel that you all as readers deserve the best content possible and I would feel awful disappointing people 🐰🤍
Hiiiii do you take requests ? If yes is there any wrestler you wouldn’t write for ?🩷
Yes maam I take requests!!! I think the only people I wouldn’t really be down to write for.. which is a really random mix lowkey.. areee: Becky, michin, b fab, Bayley, nia, Lyra, anddd I think that’s about it!! 🐰🤍🤍🤍
