"𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭" | 𝐋𝐢𝐯 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 & 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐲
Chapter 9: Too Close for Peace
Beyond the airplane window stretches a kind of darkness that barely resembles anything earthly.
Not the ordinary darkness of bedrooms with drawn curtains or empty streets after midnight. This is something far older, far quieter, almost cosmic in its scale. An immense abyss suspended endlessly around the aircraft, deep and ink-black, thick as velvet soaked in shadow. The higher atmosphere swallows color completely at this altitude, leaving behind only gradients of obsidian and midnight blue layered into infinity.
And within that darkness, the stars.
They do not resemble the distant fragile pinpricks visible from city streets below. Up here they feel unnervingly close, almost tangible, burning sharply against the sky with cold silver intensity. Thousands of them scattered across the heavens like shattered glass frozen in motion. Some pulse faintly. Others remain steady and piercing, ancient and indifferent.
There is something deeply unsettling about seeing the night sky unobstructed like this.
As though the universe has momentarily peeled back the comforting illusion of human importance and revealed its true scale without mercy.
The airplane drifts through it quietly, surrounded by silence so immense it almost becomes physical.
And beneath the aircraft...
An endless ocean of them.
They stretch below in uninterrupted white expanses illuminated softly by moonlight from above, transforming the atmosphere beneath the plane into something dreamlike and surreal. Their surface appears smooth in some places, turbulent in others, rising and folding into itself like slow-moving tides frozen in time.
Not clouds anymore, almost.
The moonlight touches their contours delicately, tracing silver across the upper edges while deeper valleys between them dissolve into muted shades of blue-gray shadow. They resemble waves on a sleeping sea, vast and motionless beneath the aircraft's steady passage.
The plane moves above them not like a machine crossing air, but like a ship gliding between realities.
And suspended directly between them, the cabin drifts onward through the sleeping atmosphere with quiet mechanical grace.
Occasionally the clouds shift.
A subtle opening forms somewhere far below, a fracture in the endless white.
And through that opening, the earth appears.
Almost impossibly far away.
Scattered lights emerge from the darkness beneath the clouds in delicate golden clusters. Small constellations mirroring the stars above, except warmer somehow. Softer. Imperfect in a way that feels strangely intimate against the terrifying perfection of the night sky.
Some gather densely together, outlining the faint geometry of cities barely visible through the darkness. Others stretch into thin glowing veins along unseen roads, winding endlessly through black landscapes hidden beneath the clouds.
A few lights stand entirely alone.
Single flickers suspended in vast emptiness.
The farther the aircraft travels, the more fragmented the lights become. Brief glimpses appearing through breaks in the clouds before vanishing once again beneath layers of silver-white atmosphere.
Everything feels muted at this altitude.
The lights below do not shimmer aggressively the way they do from the ground. Instead they glow softly, as though filtered through water or memory itself. Tiny embers scattered across the sleeping earth. Golden remnants burning quietly beneath the endless night.
Moonlight spills faintly across the airplane wing outside the window, cold and metallic against the darkness. The surface gleams occasionally whenever the aircraft shifts slightly through invisible currents in the atmosphere. Beyond it, the horizon curves almost imperceptibly beneath layers of cloud and distant starlight.
There is no sense of time here.
A strange suspended quiet that belongs exclusively to nighttime flights above the clouds, where the world below becomes abstract and unreachable, reduced to scattered lights and indistinct shadows beneath an infinite sky.
The engine hum remains low and constant, blending almost seamlessly into the atmosphere itself.
Everything else is silence.
Beautiful enough to feel almost unreal.
The private jet cuts silently through the darkness on its way to Toronto for Monday Night Raw.
Inside the cabin, everything is wrapped in that muted, dreamlike atmosphere unique to late-night flights. Soft yellow lighting glows overhead, dim enough not to sting tired eyes, warm enough to make the polished interior feel strangely intimate despite its luxury. Shadows settle gently into the corners of the cabin. The low hum of the engines vibrates subtly beneath everything, steady and hypnotic, almost like background static holding the entire aircraft together.
Somewhere further back, Seth Rollins and Cody Rhodes are half-watching a UFC fight on someone's tablet while occasionally arguing over predictions. Dominik Mysterio had fallen asleep nearly an hour ago, hood pulled over his head, completely unbothered by turbulence or human existence in general. Raquel is scrolling through her phone with the exhausted expression of someone too tired to actually process what she's reading anymore.
Further ahead, Becky Lynch and Lyra Valkyria are speaking quietly between themselves, their voices blending softly into the low mechanical ambiance of the aircraft.
I'm seated beside the window, staring intermittently out into the endless black sky beyond the glass while trying very hard not to acknowledge the overwhelming physical presence occupying the seat next to me.
But ignoring Rhea has always been impossible.
She sits beside me with the kind of relaxed dominance only she could make look natural. Broad shoulders stretched comfortably against the seat, one arm resting lazily near the armrest, black clothing absorbing the dim cabin light rather than reflecting it. Her attention is fixed on her phone, expression unreadable, jaw sharp beneath the warm amber glow overhead.
And Jesus Christ, she takes up space.
Not intentionally. Not theatrically.
She simply exists like gravity exists.
Heavy. Immovable. Inescapably present.
The air around her feels warmer somehow, denser, saturated with her cologne and that infuriatingly calm energy she carries everywhere. I swear the entire row feels smaller because she's in it.
I finally turn my head toward her fully, glaring.
A sharp, irritated stare meant to burn holes straight through her skull.
Almost immediately, she senses it.
Her gaze slowly lifts from her phone to me, cold and detached beneath dark lashes. Not annoyed. Not surprised. Just aware.
Which somehow irritates me even more.
"There is literally no oxygen left in this row," I mutter dryly. "Do everyone a favor and go sit next to Roxanne or Raquel. They're probably more accustomed to suffocating levels of ego than I am."
Rhea slowly raises one eyebrow.
"Mhm," she says in that low Australian drawl, voice rough with quiet amusement. "Anything else I can do for Your Highness tonight?"
She slips her phone lazily into her pocket before continuing.
"Maybe jump out of the plane entirely so you can breathe easier?"
I immediately smile sweetly.
"Oh, that would actually be wonderful."
"Tempting," she replies smoothly. "But unfortunately I'm still rather attached to being alive."
A faint smirk ghosts across her mouth.
"Who should I relocate beside then," she asks calmly, "to preserve your fragile respiratory system?"
I gesture vaguely toward IYO SKY a few seats away.
"Go sit with your wife. I'm sure IYO would be thrilled to accommodate your enormous presence."
At that, Rhea's eyes flick briefly toward IYO.
And something changes there.
Not visibly enough for most people to notice. But I notice it instantly. A dangerous flicker igniting behind otherwise controlled eyes. Sharp. Predatory. Irritatingly attractive.
Her voice lowers slightly when she answers.
"My wife?" she repeats thoughtfully. "Interesting."
She leans back slightly in her seat, studying me now instead of merely looking at me.
"That's strange, Liv. I don't remember exchanging vows with anyone recently."
"Or are you keeping tabs on my personal life these days?"
Her smirk deepens subtly.
"Careful. You're starting to sound jealous."
The words settle into the air between us like lit gasoline.
"If you're this curious about who shares my bed," she continues quietly, "you could always ask directly instead of trying to exile me toward other women."
Heat flashes instantly through my chest.
Something uglier beneath both.
I react before thinking, sharply pinching her shoulder hard enough to hurt.
"Trust me, Ripley," I snap, "your personal life is the last thing on earth important enough to hold my attention."
I release her shoulder with another irritated shove.
"You could sleep with the entire RAW roster for all I care."
She does not even flinch.
Instead she just watches me with that infuriating stillness of hers before answering in a voice so calm it borders on insulting.
"You sound wounded," she says quietly.
Then comes the smirk again.
"'The entire roster'? Seriously?"
Her eyes drag over me slowly, mercilessly observant.
"That attempt at provoking me was embarrassingly lazy."
The cabin around us has begun growing quieter.
People are listening now.
Rhea crosses one boot casually over the other.
"My name is associated with championships and dominance," she says evenly, "not locker room gossip. So maybe watch your mouth until we land in Toronto."
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
"Otherwise the oxygen situation in this row might become genuinely difficult for you."
I notice movement from nearby seats.
People turning subtly toward us now.
And suddenly I'm furious enough that rational thought evaporates completely.
I grab her by the throat without warning.
Not enough to injure her.
Just enough to drag her closer.
The movement is so fast several people visibly tense around us.
Rhea's body goes still beneath my grip.
Her face remains inches from mine now, expression unreadable except for the dangerous glint flickering faintly in her eyes.
I lean closer, voice low and venomous.
"You really think people admire your name?" I hiss.
My fingers tighten slightly against her neck.
"Listen to me carefully. Everything you represent to decent people is rot. Filth. You're like dirt ground into concrete everyone forgot to wash away."
The words spill out sharp and vicious now, years of unresolved grief disguising itself as hatred.
"I look at you and feel disgusted that we ever had anything in common at all."
The cabin feels dead silent around us.
"I would erase every memory of knowing you if I could. So save the cheap threats for somebody else, because to me?"
I stare directly into her eyes.
"You are absolutely nothing."
For a moment, neither of us moves.
A small, arrogant curve of the mouth that somehow infuriates me more than if she had yelled back.
And that smile alone is enough to make my chest tighten violently with emotions I no longer know how to separate from each other.
I finally let go of her neck.
She leans back again without a word, adjusting her collar slightly as though nothing significant just happened.
Then, from somewhere across the aisle, Becky Lynch sighs dramatically.
"I'm at the point where I hear you two arguing in my nightmares," she mutters. "This rivalry has become psychologically damaging to innocent bystanders."
And immediately, without hesitation, both of us speak at the exact same time.
"I'd rather die than keep listening to her voice."
The synchronization lands so perfectly it takes the cabin a second to process it.
Then Becky stares at us both with visible concern.
"You know," she says slowly, "the simultaneous speaking is somehow the part that scares me most."
An hour later, somewhere between the quiet glow of the movie screen and the endless vibration of the engines beneath the aircraft, I fall asleep without even realizing it.
It happens slowly, subtly, the way exhaustion always ambushes people who have been carrying too much inside themselves for too long. One moment I am still vaguely aware of the film playing across the cabin television, of muffled dialogue and shifting lights flickering softly against the walls of the jet.
And the next, consciousness slips quietly through my fingers.
My body finally relaxes for the first time in days.
Not fully, not completely. Anxiety never truly releases its grip that easily. But enough. Enough for the tension in my shoulders to loosen. Enough for my breathing to deepen slightly. Enough for the constant invisible alarm inside my nervous system to dim into silence for a little while.
And somewhere during that unconscious surrender, my head slowly drifts sideways.
Until it settles against Rhea.
Even asleep, apparently my body has terrible judgment.
Her shoulder is massive beneath my cheek, firm with muscle and warm through the black fabric of her hoodie. Solid in a way that feels absurdly comfortable, almost unfairly so. Not stiff like airplane seats or awkward like most people are when you accidentally fall asleep near them.
Like leaning against something incapable of collapsing.
Ironically, despite all my complaints about her taking up too much space, her size carries its own dangerous kind of comfort. She is built like something designed to protect rather than merely exist. Broad chest, heavy shoulders, strong arms capable of making almost any place feel safer than it probably should.
Honestly, she could probably replace furniture entirely.
Beds. Pillows. Human civilization as a concept.
My sleeping brain seems to arrive at that conclusion long before my pride ever would.
The cabin around us remains dim and quiet, washed in muted amber light while the aircraft continues gliding through the night sky. Most conversations have faded away by now. Someone further back laughs quietly at something half-whispered. The movie continues playing to an audience no longer fully paying attention.
And I sleep through all of it.
Which feels almost miraculous considering the state my mind has been in lately.
Gentle fingers brushing lightly through my hair.
So careful it barely registers at first.
A slow movement near the crown of my head, almost absentminded, fingertips grazing delicately through loose strands before disappearing again.
The touch is astonishingly tender.
Gentler than someone like Rhea Ripley has any business being.
Even half-asleep, I feel my body instinctively relax further into the contact before my consciousness can properly process it. Like some buried instinct inside me still recognizes safety in her despite everything we have become to each other.
For a moment, somewhere in that hazy space between sleep and awareness, the years seem to blur together.
All of it fading temporarily beneath muscle memory older than resentment itself.
Because once upon a time, Rhea touching my hair was normal.
Once upon a time, I trusted her enough to fall asleep beside her without hesitation.
The realization drifts faintly through the edges of my subconscious before dissolving again into exhaustion.
Maybe my overtired brain simply reconstructed old memories into dreams because grief has a habit of resurrecting dead things when you are vulnerable enough.
Because Rhea Ripley does not stroke my hair anymore.
She does not look at me softly anymore.
She certainly does not sit awake on late-night flights allowing me to sleep against her shoulder while pretending not to notice.
Even asleep, some traitorous part of me remains curled unconsciously closer to her warmth for the rest of the flight.
Something I do not say out loud.
Something I probably would not admit even to myself if I were fully awake, fully guarded, fully in control of my own narrative.
But it exists anyway, whether I acknowledge it or not.
Genuinely, disarmingly calm.
Not the kind of calm that comes from silence or isolation or being left alone with your thoughts. That kind is fragile, temporary, always one intrusive idea away from collapsing.
This is the kind of calm that settles into the bones.
As if something inside me unclenches without permission.
As if a weight I did not fully realize I was carrying suddenly loosens its grip and drops away without ceremony.
It is almost unsettling how immediate it is.
One moment my mind can be loud, chaotic, overfilled with static thoughts and invisible tension, and the next, simply being near her shifts something fundamental in the atmosphere inside me.
Like my nervous system recognizes a pattern it trusts before my conscious mind has time to argue with it.
My thoughts lose their edge.
The constant background noise of anxiety, that familiar hum of anticipation and fear, fades into something distant and irrelevant, like a radio station being tuned out without effort.
As if my mind forgets, briefly, how to be at war with itself.
And what is most confusing—
Is that this happens precisely with someone I constantly describe as unbearable.
Annoying. Infuriating. Overwhelming in presence and attitude. Someone I argue with, clash with, and actively resist at every possible opportunity.
And yet my body responds as though she is the opposite of all of that.
As though she is stability itself.
It makes no rational sense.
I have spent so much time framing her as the problem, the rival, the source of irritation, the person I refuse to tolerate peacefully. And still, my internal reality betrays me the moment distance disappears.
Because near her, there is a strange kind of equilibrium I cannot replicate anywhere else.
A silence that is not empty, but complete.
A stillness that does not feel like absence, but presence without threat.
It is as if my mind stops preparing for impact all the time.
Stops predicting collapse in every direction.
Even the intrusive thoughts lose their urgency around her. They do not vanish completely, nothing ever truly vanishes, but they lose momentum, like waves breaking against something they cannot quite reach.
And I hate how effortless it feels.
Because peace, for me, has never been simple. It has always required work. Strategy. Management. Control. Something I have to actively construct and defend like fragile architecture in a storm.
That is the most disorienting part.
Even when I insist she is annoying, even when I argue, provoke, or resist her presence, there remains this undeniable contradiction sitting quietly beneath everything else.
My body does not interpret her as danger.
It interprets her as... anchor.
And I do not have a word for that contradiction that does not feel like betrayal of my own logic.
So I do what I always do when something refuses to fit neatly inside my understanding of things.
I let it exist only in moments like this—half-asleep, half-aware, where honesty slips through the cracks I usually keep sealed shut.
Because the truth is simple in a way I do not fully know how to accept yet.
Near her, the world does not feel like it is constantly collapsing.
And for someone like me...
That kind of silence inside the mind feels almost like a miracle.
discoholicmusic
titsay
baratheonpilled
2087
tangentwithtanner
origamiaround
