"𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭" | 𝐋𝐢𝐯 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 & 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐲
Chapter 10: Exhausted Royalty
I have always been an aggressive person.
Not cruel without reason. Not mindlessly violent. But reactive. Explosive.
I was never built to tolerate disrespect quietly.
If somebody tries humiliating me, provoking me, testing boundaries they should not cross, my instinct has always been immediate confrontation. I put people back in their place before they even fully realize they crossed a line. It is automatic now, almost primal. Years in this industry sharpen that instinct into survival.
Because if you allow people to walk over you once, they will try again.
So I learned very early to become difficult to approach carelessly.
Cold enough to intimidate. Sharp enough to wound before being wounded first.
Most people eventually understand that about me.
Most people know when to stop.
That woman walks directly into danger like she personally invented the concept.
She pushes. Provokes. Needles at every nerve she knows exists inside me with that infuriating grin on her face, fully aware of exactly what she is doing. Sometimes I genuinely think she enjoys watching my self-control deteriorate in real time.
There are moments where she says things so deliberately cruel, so recklessly targeted, that I feel rage flash through me hard enough to distort my vision for a second. Moments where every violent instinct inside me immediately rises to the surface demanding release.
That is usually when we end up fighting.
Against walls. Into equipment cases. Across locker room floors while officials desperately try separating us before somebody gets seriously injured.
And if she truly pushes me far enough, if she digs at the wrong wound hard enough, I can become vicious with her in ways that honestly frighten even me sometimes.
But outside of those moments...
Outside the adrenaline, the fury, the screaming...
Something in me refuses to truly hurt her.
And I do not entirely understand why.
Because logically, I should.
After everything between us, hatred would make more sense. Indifference would make more sense. Even cruelty would make more sense than whatever this strange restraint is that still exists inside me whenever it comes to Liv Morgan.
But every single time it matters most, my anger hits an invisible wall.
Argue with her until the entire room turns silent watching us.
But genuinely raising my hand against her outside the chaos of wrestling, outside the structure of combat we both understand?
And that realization irritates me more than I would ever openly admit.
Because Liv possesses an astonishing number of traits specifically engineered to test human patience.
She is stubborn to a pathological degree. Loud. Intrusive. Relentlessly persistent. She pokes at emotional bruises with the enthusiasm of someone trying to start a fire using gasoline and a blowtorch.
Sometimes she follows thoughts purely because somebody told her not to.
Sometimes she talks simply to fill silence because silence apparently offends her on a spiritual level.
And dear God, she is clingy in the most psychologically exhausting ways imaginable.
There are moments where she annoys me so profoundly I genuinely think about throttling her just to experience five consecutive minutes of peace.
Asleep against my shoulder.
The cabin remains dim around us, washed in warm amber light while the jet continues cutting through the night sky toward Toronto. Most people are either sleeping now or pretending not to observe the situation developing beside the window.
Liv's head rests heavily against me, curls slightly disheveled from sleep, breathing slow and even for once instead of anxious and sharp the way it usually becomes when she is awake.
That is the word that keeps settling into my mind no matter how much I resist it.
Not chaotic. Not sharp-tongued. Not provocative.
There is something strangely vulnerable about seeing loud people asleep. As though all the noise they use to armor themselves disappears temporarily, revealing whatever exists underneath when performance finally stops.
Liv sleeping is the quietest thing I have ever seen.
No constant movement. No dramatic reactions. No sarcasm. No oversized emotions ricocheting around the room demanding attention.
Just warmth against my shoulder and slow breathing near my neck.
She should probably remain asleep permanently.
Because unconscious Liv is significantly less dangerous to my sanity.
I glance down toward her briefly.
Her face is relaxed now, free from the tension she carries lately. Even in sleep I can still see exhaustion lingering around her eyes, the kind that accumulates when somebody has been fighting battles inside their own head for too long.
And despite myself, despite every argument and every scar between us, something tightens painfully in my chest at the sight.
Because I know her too well.
Too well not to notice when she is struggling.
Too well not to recognize that the sharpness in her lately has less to do with arrogance and more to do with exhaustion.
She thinks nobody sees it.
That has always been the problem between us.
No matter how vicious things become, no matter how loudly we try convincing the world we despise each other, there remains this terrible, irreversible intimacy underneath it all.
I know how she sounds when she is genuinely angry versus when she is hurt.
I know when her laughter is real.
I know when she is spiraling before she says a single word.
And apparently, even now, my body still reacts to her like she belongs near me.
Because without thinking, I adjust slightly in my seat so her neck rests more comfortably against my shoulder instead of at an awkward angle.
I stare back out toward the dark sky beyond the window afterward, jaw tightening slightly at myself.
I do not move away from her for the rest of the flight.
By the time the private jet finally lands in Toronto, the cabin has fallen into that strange, exhausted silence unique to late-night travel.
The engines gradually quiet beneath us as the aircraft slows along the runway, the faint vibration beneath the floor disappearing inch by inch until stillness finally settles over the cabin completely.
Outside the windows, the airport glows against the darkness like a scattered constellation brought down to earth. Long strips of white runway lights stretch endlessly through the night while distant airport vehicles drift slowly across the tarmac beneath the cold Canadian sky.
Around us, everyone begins waking properly.
Bags are pulled down from overhead compartments.
Half-asleep conversations emerge in low raspy voices while people gather their things with the sluggishness of bodies dragged unwillingly out of exhaustion.
Completely unconscious against my shoulder as though she has personally signed a long-term lease there.
I glance downward at her for a moment.
Her curls are slightly messy now, one arm folded lazily against herself, breathing slow and warm against the fabric near my neck. The exhaustion on her face looks softer in sleep somehow, less guarded. For once, her expression is not carrying ten emotions simultaneously.
I exhale quietly through my nose before nudging her shoulder lightly.
"Morgan," I murmur, voice low from disuse. "Wake up. We landed."
I try again, this time giving her shoulder a slightly firmer shake.
"Come on," I say. "Wake up."
She lets out the most irritated sleepy sound imaginable, somewhere between a groan and a complaint, then finally cracks one eye open with visible annoyance.
The moment she realizes where she is, her brows knit together immediately.
"Get up," I tell her dryly. "I'm not carrying you off this plane. You're too heavy."
She stares at me for a few sleepy seconds, clearly still halfway unconscious, then closes her eyes again like I personally offended her by speaking.
"In that case," she mumbles against my shoulder, "I live here now."
"I was sleeping perfectly," she continues sleepily. "I was probably in my tenth dream already and you ruined all of them. As usual."
There is genuine irritation in her voice too, which somehow makes this more absurd.
I rub tiredly at my forehead.
"Stop behaving like a child and get up," I say. "People are literally leaving the plane."
Honestly, dealing with Liv sometimes feels less like interacting with another adult and more like negotiating with a hostile raccoon that somehow learned sarcasm.
Then, without opening her eyes, she mutters:
This time she finally lifts her head slightly to glare at me with sleepy irritation.
"And yet," she says slowly, "here we are discussing it instead of you simply leaving."
Completely stubborn. Entirely immovable. Absolutely insufferable.
There are moments where I genuinely wonder if she survives purely through weaponized persistence.
"And by the way," she adds irritably, "the comment about me being heavy was unnecessary."
So that is what offended her.
Not the threats. Not the shaking awake. Not the argument itself.
I resist the urge to sigh aggressively.
"Well maybe if you actually stood up—"
"I'm not getting up now," she interrupts immediately.
"You are going to kill me one day," I mutter flatly.
The answer comes instantly.
No hesitation whatsoever.
Around us, I can already feel several people deliberately pretending not to watch this interaction while very obviously listening to every second of it.
Somewhere near the exit, I hear Seth snort quietly into his coffee.
Without another warning, I slide one arm beneath Liv's knees and the other around her lower back before lifting her cleanly into my arms.
She lets out a soft surprised sound before instinct immediately takes over. Her arms slide around my neck automatically, body settling against my chest while her head drops back onto my shoulder like she belongs there.
Somehow she is still half asleep through all of this.
I start walking toward the exit of the jet while she grumbles quietly against me with her eyes still closed.
"I hate you," she mumbles sleepily.
I step down onto the staircase leading onto the tarmac, cool night air immediately brushing against us.
"Feeling's mutual, Morgan," I answer dryly. "I genuinely don't know how I still possess enough patience to tolerate you. Another person would've buried you alive years ago."
She shifts slightly against me.
"Please," she mutters. "Stop talking."
I glance downward briefly.
"Demanding for someone currently being carried around like exhausted royalty."
"There's the gratitude I was hoping for."
Her fingers tighten lazily against the back of my hoodie.
Despite myself, despite the exhaustion and irritation and complicated mess she permanently turns my life into—
A faint smirk pulls briefly at the corner of my mouth as I continue carrying her across the dimly lit tarmac beneath the cold Toronto night.
Because the truth is, there is something profoundly ridiculous about us.
Two people who spend most days threatening to destroy each other...
Yet somehow ending nights like this.
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