#loganpaulxreader

[moonstonerings]

The Tourist

I have no clue what I'm doing. 

That’s the thought loop playing on repeat in my head, louder than the eighty thousand people currently screaming in the stadium outside. It’s a deafening, rhythmic mantra.  

I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in a locker room that smells like Deep Heat, hairspray, and the palpable ego of fifty grown men in spandex. My reflection stares back at me. I look like a superhero. I look like a million bucks. The black and yellow gear is tight, the Prime logo is plastered across my midsection like a corporate stamp of approval, and my hair is coiffed to aerodynamic perfection. 

But behind the eyes? Pure, unadulterated terror. 

It’s the impostor syndrome to end all impostor syndromes. I’m a YouTuber. I’m a podcaster. I’m the guy who filmed a dead body in a forest and had to claw his way back from the internet’s basement. And in about ten minutes, I’m supposed to go out there and wrestle Seth "Freakin" Rollins at WrestleMania. A guy who has been doing this since he was wrestling in high school gyms for a hot dog and a handshake. 

I adjust my wrist tape, pulling it so tight my fingers start to tingle. 

"Stop fidgeting, Mav," a voice cuts through the noise in my head. "You’re going to cut off your circulation, and then you really won’t be able to do a Buckshot Lariat." 

I look up. YN is leaning against a locker, arms crossed over her chest. She’s in her gear too—silver and blue, looking like a gladiator ready for war—but she’s not on the card tonight until later. Right now, she’s just my cousin. She’s the only person in this entire building who shares my DNA, the only one who really knows the difference between Logan the Content Creator and Logan the guy who just wants to not die tonight. 

"I’m not fidgeting," I lie, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat, dropping the octave. "I’m calibrating. It’s a process." 

YN rolls her eyes, pushing off the locker and walking over. She’s smaller than me, obviously, but she carries herself with this wrestler’s gravity that I still haven’t mastered. I walk like I’m on a red carpet; she walks like she’s trying to crack the concrete beneath her boots. 

"You look like you’re about to puke on your boots," she says, reaching out to fix the collar of my entrance jacket. "Breathe, Lo. Seriously. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don't make me slap you." 

"I’m good, YNN. I’m a Maverick. Mavericks don’t puke." 

"Mavericks absolutely puke," she counters, her eyes locking onto mine. "Remember the chili challenge? Remember the flight to Dubai?" 

"Okay, Princess, low blow," I mutter, finally letting out a long, shaky breath. I slump a little, the superhero posture fading just for a second. "Dude, he’s going to kill me. Rollins. He looks at me like I’m a bug on his windshield. He wants to embarrass me. And let’s be real, I know the spots, I know the choreography, but… I’m a tourist here. I’m a guest in his house." 

YN grabs my shoulders. Her grip is surprisingly strong. "Hey. Look at me." 

I look down at her. 

"You are a tourist," she agrees, brutally honest as always. "But you’re a tourist who happens to be a freak athlete. You’ve got a forty-inch vertical. You picked up the basics faster than anyone I’ve ever seen in developmental. And that’s saying something since I was in NXT fro four years. You’re not a wrestler yet, Logan. Not really. But you are a performer. And that’s half the battle out there." 

"The other half is getting punched in the face," I point out. 

"You’ve been punched in the face before. You boxed Floyd Mayweather, for God’s sake. You can take a bump." She gives my shoulder a hard shake. "You don’t need to out-wrestle Seth Rollins. You can’t. If you try to go hold-for-hold with him, he’ll tie you in a knot and leave you there. I can tell you right now, his wife is the same way. You just need to out-spectacle him. You need to be Logan Paul. Loud, flashy, annoying as all get out, and undeniably athletic." 

I nod, the logic piercing through the panic. "Be annoying. I can do that." 

"I know you can. I grew up with you," she grins, a fierce, shark-like expression. "Go out there, make them boo you until their throats bleed, and then hit that Frog Splash so perfectly that they have no choice but to respect you. I’ll be right there at ringside. If you get lost, find me. I’ll steer you back." 

"You promise?" 

"I promise. Now get your head in the game. It’s showtime." 

The walk from the locker room to the Gorilla Position—the area right behind the entrance curtain—feels like walking the Green Mile, if the Green Mile was lined with production assistants shouting about camera angles and pyro cues. 

My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Thump-thump-thump. 

I can hear the crowd now. It’s a low, ocean-like roar that vibrates through the floor. The announce team is talking, their voices amplified over the PA system, muffled by the curtain. 

"And now..." the ring announcer bellows. 

My music hits. The Maverick. 

The reaction is instantaneous. A wall of noise hits the curtain. It’s a mix—maybe 70% boos, 30% cheers from the kids who buy my merch. But it’s loud. It’s passionate. They hate me, and they love to hate me. 

"Go," the stage manager yells, slapping the curtain open. 

I step through. 

The world explodes. Pyrotechnics blast off to my left and right, the heat washing over my face. The lights are blinding, thousands of LEDs swirling in purple and gold. I throw my arms out, soaking it in, putting on the mask of arrogance. I strut. I bounce. I point at the camera and scream something unintelligible about being the greatest. 

Inside, I’m thinking: Don’t trip. For the love of God, do not trip on the ramp. 

I slide into the ring, hop onto the turnbuckle, and do the pose. Flashbulbs pop like lightning storms. I look down at ringside and spot YN. She’s standing near the timekeeper’s area, looking stoic, arms crossed. She catches my eye and gives a barely perceptible nod. You got this. 

Then, Seth Rollins’ music hits. 

The energy shifts. The boos turn into a choir of "Whoa-oh-oh!" The crowd sings his song. He walks out wearing something ridiculous—a lace suit with oversized sunglasses—and he looks like a god. He dances down the ramp, laughing. He’s not nervous. He’s playing. This is his playground; I’m just the kid who hopped the fence. 

He slides into the ring and gets right in my face. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat. 

"Welcome to the big leagues, kid," he sneers, not even waiting for the mic. 

The referee holds up the belt. The bell rings. Ding ding ding. 

And immediately, I have no clue what I’m doing. 

We circle each other. My brain is scrambling through the weeks of training at the Performance Center. Lock up. Left arm over, right arm under. Head placement. Watch his feet. 

We lock up. His strength is deceptive. He’s wiry, but he feels like a hydraulic press. He twists my arm, wrenching the joint. Pain shoots up to my shoulder. This isn’t the soft mat training; this is live TV. He cranks it. I yelp, flipping forward to alleviate the pressure, trying to kip up like I practiced. 

I land on my feet, feeling a surge of pride—I did it!—and then immediately eat a dropkick to the mouth. 

My head snaps back. I taste copper. The canvas rushes up to meet me. The mat is harder than people think. It’s wood and steel with a thin layer of foam padding. It’s like falling onto a carpeted sidewalk. 

I scramble up, disoriented. Rollins is laughing. He plays to the crowd, conducting their boos like an orchestra. 

"Is that all you got, YouTuber?" he shouts. 

I check my mental hard drive. What’s next? The sequence. The sequence. 

I charge him. I duck a clothesline. I leapfrog over him—my vertical leap saving me—and drop down. He runs over me. I pop up, looking for a hip toss. He blocks it, effortlessly, planting his feet. He looks at me, shakes his head, and chops my chest. 

THWACK. 

It feels like being whipped with a wet towel that’s been frozen. The sound echoes through the stadium. The crowd goes "WOOOO!" 

I stumble back, clutching my chest. My skin is already burning. I look for YN. She’s leaning over the barricade, her eyes wide. She mimes an elbow. Elbow. 

Right. I need to hit him. 

I swing a wild haymaker. Sloppy. Amateur. Rollins ducks it easily, slipping behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist—German Suplex. 

The world flips upside down. I see the lights, the rafters, the upside-down crowd, and then—CRASH. 

My neck and shoulders slam into the mat. The air leaves my lungs in a violent whoosh. I’m staring at the lights, gasping like a fish out of water. 

I can’t do this, I think. I actually can’t do this. I’m going to get paralyzed. I’m going to look like an idiot. 

Rollins is on me, grinding his forearm into my face. "You don’t belong here," he hisses. "Go back to your podcast." 

That sparks something. Not bravery, exactly. But pettiness. I possess a world-class level of pettiness. 

I shove him off, scrambling to the ropes. I pull myself up. I’m wheezing. My chest is bright red. My neck hurts. 

Rollins charges. 

Instinct takes over. Not wrestling instinct—survival instinct. I drop down, pulling the top rope with me. Rollins, expecting a solid object, goes tumbling over the top rope to the floor outside. 

The crowd gasps. 

I’m alone in the ring. I have a second to breathe. I look at YN again. She’s clapping, pointing at the turnbuckle. Fly, she’s mouthing. Fly, you idiot. 

The script says I’m supposed to dive. My brain says, Are you insane? It’s ten feet down. 

But the red light on the camera is glowing. Millions of people are watching. 

I hit the ropes. I rebound. I run across the ring. I step onto the middle rope, then the top rope, launching myself over the corner post. 

For a split second, I’m flying. The noise fades. It’s just me and gravity. I tuck my body, flipping forward—a somersault senton. 

I crash into Rollins on the outside. We both go down in a tangle of limbs on the thin black mats. The impact rattles my teeth. My hip bone smacks the concrete floor through the padding. 

"Holy shit! Holy shit!" the crowd chants. 

I lie there, staring at the underside of the ring apron. My whole body is throbbing. 

"Get up," a voice hisses near my ear. It’s YN. She’s right there. "Sell the ribs, grab your side, and throw him back in. You’re doing great. He’s ready." 

"I’m dying," I wheeze. 

"You’re not dying, you’re wrestling. Get up." 

I groan, clutching my ribs—which isn’t hard, because they actually hurt—and grab Rollins by his wet hair. I roll him back into the ring. 

I slide in after him. The adrenaline is starting to flood my system now, masking the pain. I feel lighter. I feel... electric. 

I go for the cover. One... Two... Kickout. 

Rollins gets his shoulder up. I sit up, running a hand through my sweaty hair. The crowd is buzzing. They didn’t expect me to hit that dive. 

I get to my feet, waiting for Rollins. He groans, pulling himself up using the ropes. 

Now we enter the deep water. This is the part of the match called "The Heat." Rollins takes control again. He beats me down. He throws me into the corner. He stomps me. He puts me in a chin lock that feels less like a hold and more like a strangulation attempt. 

I’m fading. The conditioning required for this is insane. It’s not cardio; it’s burst energy, over and over again. My lungs feel like they’re filled with cement. 

"YN!" I yell, reaching for the ropes. It’s part of the act, but it’s also real. I want my cousin. 

She’s pounding on the mat. "Come on, Logan! Fight up! Don't let him keep you down!" 

Her voice cuts through the crowd noise. I feed off it. I feed off the hate from the guy in the front row wearing a "Logan Sucks" t-shirt. 

I fight up to my feet. I elbow Rollins in the gut. One, two, three times. I break the hold. 

He swings. I duck. I hit the ropes. I come back with a flying forearm. He goes down. 

I nip-up. The crowd actually cheers. A confused, reluctant cheer, but a cheer nonetheless. 

"Do the Buckshot!" YN screams. 

The Buckshot Lariat. It’s Hangman Page’s move, but I stole it because I can. It requires perfect timing. A flip over the ropes into a clothesline. 

I wait for Rollins to stand. He’s groggy. 

I hop over the apron. I grab the top rope. 

Don’t slip. Don’t slip. 

I launch myself. I flip over the top rope. The rotation feels slow, heavy. My legs clip the rope slightly—a mistake—but I compensate. I land on my feet and swing my arm. 

WHAM. 

I connect. It’s not the cleanest lariat in history, but I take his head off. Rollins does a 360-bump, landing face-first. 

I scramble for the pin. 

One... Two... Th—NO! 

He kicks out at 2.9. The crowd erupts. I sit back on my heels, eyes wide. That was it. That was the finish. Or was it? My brain is foggy. Did we change the finish? No, wait. He kicks out. We have one more spot. The Table. 

I look at the announce table. It’s stripped. The monitors are gone. 

Rollins rolls out of the ring, collapsing onto the announce table. It’s the setup. 

I look at the turnbuckle. I look at the table. 

I have no clue what I’m doing. 

"Climb!" YN yells. She’s pointing to the top rope. She looks terrified for me, which isn't comforting. 

I climb. My legs feel like lead. I step onto the bottom rope. Middle rope. Top rope. 

I’m so high up. The stadium looks different from here. It’s a sea of faces. I can see the fear in the commentators' eyes as they scramble away from the table. 

Rollins is lying prone on the table. 

I pull out my phone. Because I’m Logan Paul. I record a selfie video from the top rope. "WrestleMania, baby!" I scream into the camera, tossing the phone to the ref. 

Then, I focus. 

Don’t rotate too much. Don’t rotate too little. Land flat. 

I take a breath. And I jump. 

For the second time, I’m flying. But this time, it feels like an eternity. I’m suspended in the air, arms and legs extended. The Frog Splash. 

Gravity reclaims me. 

I crash through Seth Rollins and the Spanish Announce Table. 

The sound is sickening. Wood splintering, plastic shattering, bodies colliding. The impact knocks the wind out of me so hard my vision goes black for a second. Everything hurts. My ribs, my chest, my knees. 

I’m lying in the wreckage. I can’t breathe. 

"Logan!" YN is there. She’s leaning over the barricade, her hand reaching out but not touching me (disqualification rules). "Logan, sell it! You’re okay! Just sell it!" 

I don't have to act. I am selling it because I am broken. 

But I hear the chant. 

"THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!" 

Eighty thousand people chanting. For me. 

I roll over, clutching my midsection. Rollins is groaning next to me. We lock eyes. He gives me a tiny wink. 

We got ‘em. 

The ref counts. We both struggle up. The match has to end in the ring. 

We crawl back inside. It’s the home stretch. 

I go for a superkick. Rollins catches my foot. He spins me around. Kick to the gut. The Stomp. 

He drives my head into the canvas. 

Lights out. 

He covers me. 

One... Two... Three. 

The bell rings. 

I lie there, staring at the ceiling again. My chest heaving. Sweat stinging my eyes. The music plays—Rollins' music. He won. 

But as I lay there, listening to the roar of the crowd, the panic is gone. The mantra—I have no clue what I’m doing—has been replaced by something else. 

I just did that. 

Rollins celebrates. He leaves the ring. 

I struggle to sit up. The referee tries to help me, but I wave him off. I need to do this myself. 

I roll under the bottom rope and fall to the floor. YN is there instantly. She ducks under the barricade (security lets her through now that the match is over) and grabs me. She puts my arm over her shoulder. 

"You alive?" she asks, her voice tight. 

"I think I broke a rib," I groan, leaning my weight on her. "Maybe two." 

"You didn't break a rib, you big baby. You just got the wind knocked out of you." She starts walking me up the ramp. "But that splash? That was insane. You got incredible height." 

"Did it look cool?" I ask, wincing with every step. 

"Yeah. It looked cool." 

We get to the top of the ramp. I turn back to look at the ring one last time. The crowd sees me turn. And this time, the boos are different. They’re respectful boos. They’re "we hate you, but damn, you’re crazy" boos. 

I smirk, giving a little salute, and limp through the curtain. 

As soon as we’re out of sight, the facade drops. I practically collapse. YN catches me, grunting with the effort, and lowers me onto a crate. 

"Water," I gasp. 

She grabs a bottle, cracks it open, and hands it to me. I down half of it in one gulp, splashing the rest on my face. 

Production crew are clapping. The producer, a legend of the business, walks over and gives me a nod. "Good work, kid. Great timing on the finish." 

"Thanks," I wheeze. 

YN sits down next to me, unlacing her boots, preparing for her own match later. She bumps my shoulder with hers. 

"So?" she asks. "Still feel like a tourist?" 

I wipe the water from my chin. My body feels like it’s been run over by a truck. My ears are ringing. I have a massive bruise forming on my thigh. 

"I still have no clue what I’m doing," I admit, leaning my head back against the concrete wall. "I was terrified the entire time. I forgot half the spots and just improvised." 

YN laughs, a genuine, warm sound. "Welcome to wrestling, Mav. Nobody really knows what they’re doing. We’re all just throwing our bodies at the ground and hoping the other guy catches us." 

She stands up, offering me a hand. 

"Come on. Let’s get you to the trainer’s room before the adrenaline wears off and you start crying about your manicure." 

I take her hand and pull myself up. "My manicure is fine, thank you very much." 

I limp down the hallway, YN at my side. I hurt everywhere. I’m exhausted. I’m terrified of doing it again. 

"Hey Princess?" 

"Yeah?" 

"When's the next show?" 

She looks at me, seeing the spark in my eyes—the addiction setting in. She grins. 

"Monday Night. See you there, Superstar." 

[moonstonerings]

Friction Makes Fire

The humidity in Charlotte, North Carolina, was heavy enough to wear like a coat, but inside the Spectrum Center, the air was conditioned to a crisp, sterile chill. It smelled of ozone, spray tan, and the distinct, medicinal bite of Icy Hot. To YN YLN, it smelled like home. 

YN sat on a travel crate near the Gorilla Position, her knees pulled up to her chest, retaping her left wrist for the third time. She was a technician, a purist, a woman who had broken bones in bingo halls in front of fifty people before she ever saw a WWE contract. She respected the lineage of this city—Flair country. You didn't come to Charlotte to play pretend; you came to wrestle. 

Which was why the name on the call sheet for tonight’s main event segment was making her blood boil. 

Segment 4: In-Ring Promo / Contract Signing. Talent: YN YLN & Logan Paul. 

She ripped the athletic tape with her teeth, the sound sharp and jagged. Of all the people on the roster, she had been paired with the tourist. The influencer. The man who treated the squared circle like just another backdrop for a viral TikTok. 

"You look like you're plotting a murder," a voice echoed from the hallway. 

YN didn't look up immediately. She finished smoothing the tape over her wrist, checking the articulation of her joint, before lifting her gaze. 

Logan Paul stood there, flanked by two members of his entourage who were holding cameras and ring lights. He was wearing a gaudy, chaotic button-down shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, highlighting the Prime bottle necklace dangling from his neck. He looked expensive, polished, and infuriatingly relaxed. 

"Just visualization exercises," YN said, her voice dry. "I haven't decided if it's murder yet. Depends on how tonight goes." 

Logan laughed, a bright, media-trained sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. He waved a hand at his camera crew. "Cut the feed for a sec, boys. Give us a minute." 

The entourage retreated down the concrete corridor, leaving them in a rare pocket of privacy amidst the chaos of SmackDown. Logan stepped closer, his demeanor shifting slightly. The "Maverick" persona dropped just an inch, revealing the athlete beneath. 

"Triple H said you weren't happy about the pairing," Logan said, leaning against a stack of production cases. He crossed his arms, the muscles distinct. For all her distaste, YN couldn't deny the man was in shape. He was a genetic freak, which only made his attitude more annoying. 

"I'm a wrestler, Logan," YN said, standing up. She wasn't short, standing five-foot-eight, but he still towered over her. "I spent ten years grinding my cartilage to dust to get this spot. You walked in because you have followers. So, yeah. I’m not throwing a parade." 

"It’s a business, YNN," Logan replied, his voice dropping an octave, sounding less like a hype man and more like a strategist. "I put asses in seats. You put on five-star clinics. Hunter thinks if you mix the oil and the water, you get something combustible. We're tagging next week. Tonight is just the sell." 

"The sell," she scoffed, adjusting her knee pads. "You mean you talking for ten minutes about how great you are while I stand there and look menacing?" 

"I mean us creating a moment," Logan corrected. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. It was a power move, standard intimidation, but YN didn't flinch. She stepped into it, tilting her chin up. "Look, I know you think I'm a joke. I know you think I don't respect this. But tonight, in Charlotte? I’m not here to play games." 

"You're always playing games," YN shot back. "That's your whole brand. You're a chaos merchant. You don't care about the legacy of this place. You care about the thumbnail." 

Logan looked at her, really looked at her, for a long moment. His blue eyes narrowed, calculating. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

"You're incredibly intense," he observed. "Bordering on obsessive. You look at me like you want to snap my arm just to see if the bone is real." 

"I might," she threatened quietly. "You're loud, you're arrogant, and you are arguably the most irritating human being I have ever had the misfortune to share oxygen with." 

Logan’s grin widened, genuine amusement dancing on his face. He leaned down, bringing his face level with hers. 

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment." 

YN blinked, caught off guard by the deflection. "It wasn't one." 

"Sure it was," Logan said, straightening up and checking his reflection in the darkened window of a production office. "You think I'm effective. If I wasn't getting under your skin, I wouldn't be doing my job. Hate me all you want, YLN. Just make sure the cameras see it. Friction makes fire." 

Before she could retort, a production assistant with a headset sprinted up to them. "Two minutes! Logan, YN, you're up next. Music hits in 120." 

Logan flashed her a wink, slipped his "Maverick" persona back on like a mask, and bounded toward the curtain. "Let's go make some money, partner." 

YN let out a long, steadying breath. Friction makes fire, she thought. Let's hope we don't burn the building down. 

The entrance ramp was blinding. The moment Logan’s music hit, the Charlotte crowd erupted into a deafening mix of cheers and boos—mostly boos. He soaked it in, bouncing on the balls of his feet, doing a backflip off the turnbuckle that was so clean it annoyed YN even more. 

When her music hit—a heavy, driving rock anthem—the reaction was different. It was respect. A solid, deep roar from the crowd that appreciated the grind. She walked to the ring with purpose, ignoring Logan who was currently sitting on the top turnbuckle filming himself with a phone he’d pulled from nowhere. 

Inside the ring, a table was set up with a contract for the Mixed Match Challenge. Adam Pearce, the General Manager, stood there looking already exhausted. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Pearce began, raising his microphone. "Next week, you two will be forced to coexist against The Judgment Day. But tonight, we make it official." 

Logan hopped down from the turnbuckle and snatched the mic before Pearce could continue. The heat from the crowd was nuclear. He waited, smiling, letting them scream “You Suck” until the noise hit a fever pitch. 

"Charlotte!" Logan yelled, pointing at the hard cam. "I love the energy! I know, I know, you're all excited to be in the presence of a global superstar." He paused, turning toward YN, who was leaning against the ropes, watching him with folded arms. "And you're also happy to see... YN." 

The crowd cheered for her. Logan rolled his eyes. 

"Look," Logan continued, pacing the ring. "I didn't ask for this partner. I asked for Rhea Ripley. I asked for Liv Morgan. I asked for someone with... pizzazz. Instead, management gave me the library." He gestured to YN. "Because she's all technique and no volume. Boring." 

YN walked to the center of the ring. She didn't need to snatch the mic; Pearce handed her one. She waited for the "Logan Sucks" chant to die down. 

"You done?" she asked, her voice calm, cutting through the arena’s acoustics. 

"I'm just getting started, sweetheart," Logan quipped. 

"Don't call me sweetheart," YN snapped, stepping into his face. The crowd popped. "You talk about pizzazz? You talk about volume? Logan, you're the equivalent of jangling keys in front of a toddler. You're a distraction." 

"I'm the main attraction!" Logan yelled back. 

"You're a tourist!" YN roared, her composure cracking. "You come in here, you take the big checks, you take the big spots, and then you go home to your podcast and laugh about how easy it is. Well, guess what? It’s not easy. And next week, when we’re in the ring with The Judgment Day, your followers aren't going to save you. A viral tweet isn't going to break a pinfall. I am." 

The crowd chanted “Whoop him, YNN!” 

Logan stared at her. The script called for him to mock her again, but he hesitated. He saw the fire in her eyes—the genuine, unscripted passion. He brought the mic to his lips. 

"You think I don't respect this?" Logan asked, his voice losing the manic edge, dropping to that serious tone he had used backstage. "I broke my knee for this. I tore my meniscus for this. I put my body on the line just like you. The difference is, I make it look good. You're jealous, YN. You're jealous that I did in two years what you couldn't do in ten." 

It was a low blow. It blurred the lines of reality. YN felt the sting of it, the truth mixed with the insult. 

She slapped the microphone out of his hand. 

The thud of the mic hitting the canvas echoed through the silent arena. 

Logan looked down at the mic, then back up at her. He wasn't smiling anymore. The air in the ring grew heavy, charged with electricity. This wasn't in the rehearsal. 

YN grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive shirt. "You want to see what I can do in two seconds?" she hissed, off-mic, but the cameras caught the intensity. 

She spun him around, locking in a standing Kimura. It was tight—tighter than a work usually was. She wrenched his arm back, forcing him to bend. Logan let out a shout of surprise, his knees buckling. He tapped frantically on her arm. 

YN held it for a beat longer than necessary, staring at the camera with wild eyes, before shoving him away. 

Logan stumbled back, clutching his shoulder. He looked shocked, his eyes wide. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. A real one. Adrenaline. 

He picked up his mic with his good hand. "Okay," he breathed out, laughing breathlessly. "Okay. I see you." 

He picked up the pen, signed the contract aggressively, and threw the clipboard at Adam Pearce. "Sign it, YLN. Let’s go to war." 

YN signed the paper without breaking eye contact. The segment ended with them nose-to-nose, the tension thick enough to choke on. The crowd was going absolutely feral. 

Twenty minutes later, the adrenaline crash was hitting hard. 

YN sat in the locker room, unwrapping her wrist. Her hands were shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of the performance. It had felt real. For a second out there, she had wanted to hurt him. And for a second, she thought he liked it. 

A knock on the door frame made her look up. 

Logan stood there. He had changed out of the ridiculous shirt into a black hoodie and athletic shorts. He held an ice pack to his shoulder. 

"You've got a hell of a grip," he said, walking in without asking. He sat on the bench opposite her. 

"You provoked me," YN said, tossing the ball of tape into the trash. "You went off script." 

"I improvised," Logan corrected. "And it worked. Did you hear that pop? They ate it up. We were trending worldwide before we even got back through the curtain." 

"Is that all you care about? Trending?" 

Logan sighed, shifting the ice pack. "No. I care about being the best. And tonight... that segment was the best thing on the show. Because of you." 

YN paused, looking at him. It was rare to hear humility from him, however slight. "You weren't bad yourself. You sell well for a guy who talks that much trash." 

"High praise from the technician," Logan smirked. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I meant what I said backstage. About the friction." 

"I know." 

"It felt good out there," Logan admitted, his voice lower. "The energy. I've been in the ring with Rollins, with Roman, with Ricochet. But that staring contest? That was... heavy." 

"It's called chemistry, Paul. Don't let it go to your head." 

"Too late," he tapped his temple. "Already there." 

He stood up, wincing slightly as he moved his shoulder. "Hey, my crew is heading to a steakhouse uptown. Validating the Charlotte experience. You should come." 

YN raised an eyebrow. "You want me to hang out with you and your entourage of yes-men?" 

"I want my tag team partner to build rapport," Logan said, offering a hand. "Plus, I'm buying. And I promise not to film you eating." 

YN looked at his hand. She looked at his face—the blue eyes that were currently devoid of the chaotic influencer spark and filled with a strange, waiting patience. 

She thought about the match next week. She thought about the undeniable spike in her heart rate when they were nose-to-nose in the ring. She thought about the line he had said earlier. I'm gonna take that as a compliment. 

Maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe she was obsessive. Maybe she did need a little bit of his chaos. 

YN stood up, ignoring his hand but grabbing her gear bag. "If I see one phone camera, I put you in an armbar that you won't tap out of." 

Logan grinned, opening the door for her. "I'm gonna take that as a yes." 

"Take it however you want, Maverick. Just keep up." 

They walked down the hallway together, the distance between them significantly smaller than it had been an hour ago. The friction was still there, buzzing like static electricity, but it no longer felt like it would burn the building down. 

It felt like the start of a fire they could both control. 

The following week, the atmosphere in the arena was different. The "odd couple" dynamic had shifted. The internet wrestling community had spent seven days dissecting the segment, analyzing the body language, the heat, the "shoot" comments. 

They were backstage in the prep area. The Judgment Day—Finn Balor and Rhea Ripley—were their opponents. It was a high-stakes match. 

"Alright," Logan said, bouncing on his toes, clapping his hands. "Game plan. I handle the high-flying, you handle the grappling. If Rhea gets in my face, you tag in." 

"And if Finn tries to isolate you?" YN asked, tightening her boots. 

"Then I tag you, obviously," Logan laughed. "I'm not stupid. You're the weapon." 

YN stood up. She was wearing gear that coordinated slightly with his—black and gold. A subtle nod to the team unit. "Just don't do anything reckless." 

"Reckless is my middle name." 

"I thought it was Alexander." 

Logan stopped bouncing and looked at her. "You Googled me." 

"Know your enemy," she replied deadpan. 

"I thought we were partners?" 

"We're... evolving." 

The music for their entrance started. Logan looked at her, a rush of excitement coloring his features. He held out a fist. 

"For real, though," he said, serious for a split second. "I got your back out there." 

YN looked at the fist, then at him. She bumped it with her own. "I know." 

They burst through the curtain. The pyro hit. The noise was overwhelming. 

The match was a blur of motion. Logan was spectacular, pulling off athletic feats that defied physics, springboarding off the ropes to take out Finn Balor. YN was surgical, dissecting Rhea Ripley with precision strikes and joint manipulation. 

The climax came when Logan was cornered. Finn and Rhea were double-teaming him while the ref was distracted. YN slid into the ring, not waiting for a tag. She speared Rhea, driving her out of the ring. 

Logan, seeing the opening, hit his finisher—a devastating right hand—on Balor. But he was too exhausted to cover. 

YN scrambled back into the ring. She grabbed Logan by the hair. 

"Get up!" she screamed over the crowd noise. "Finish it!" 

Logan looked at her, dazed. He saw the fire in her eyes. He nodded, dragged himself to the corner, and climbed. He looked at YN one last time. She nodded. 

He launched himself. A frog splash that spanned three-quarters of the ring. He landed on Balor. The ref counted. 

One. Two. Three. 

The bell rang. Logan Paul and YN YLN were victorious. 

Logan rolled off Balor, gasping for air. YN was there, pulling him up. He stumbled into her, his arm draping over her shoulders for support. The ref raised their hands. 

"We did it," Logan panted, sweat dripping down his face. "We actually did it." 

YN looked up at him. The crowd was cheering for them. Not just her, not just him. Them. 

"Not bad for a tourist," she said, a small smile breaking through her stoic mask. 

Logan laughed, pulling her into a side hug that was surprisingly firm. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear so only she could hear over the roaring fans. 

"You know," he said, his breath hot against her neck. "You called me reckless earlier. You said I was impossible to manage." 

YN turned her head, their faces inches apart. The adrenaline was high, the endorphins flooding their systems. She could see the pupils of his eyes blown wide. 

"I did," she whispered. 

"Well," Logan smirked, the cocky, charming, infuriating grin returning. "I do believe you managed to manage me pretty damn well for someone to be so reckless as me." 

YN didn't roll her eyes this time. She didn't pull away. Instead, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his forehead down to rest against hers. 

"Shut up and pose, Paul," she said softy. 

And as the cameras flashed and the copyright logo appeared in the corner of the screen, Logan Paul did exactly what he was told. For once. 

[moonstonerings]

Cheap Heat

The rain in Vancouver doesn’t fall like it does in Ohio. In Ohio, it comes down in sheets, aggressive and loud, like it’s trying to wash the pavement away. Here, it’s different. It’s a relentless, gray mist that seeps into your bones, clinging to the glass skyscrapers of Coal Harbour like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised. 

I was staring out the floor-to-ceiling window of my suite at the Fairmont Pacific Rim, watching the lights of the North Shore struggle against the fog. My reflection stared back—hair perfectly messy, hoodie costing more than most people’s cars, and a face that was currently trending number one on Twitter. Again. 

Usually, that’s the dopamine hit I live for. I check the engagement, I see the heat, I see the "Logan Paul is ruining the business" tweets mixed with the "Logan Paul is the GOAT" tweets, and I sleep like a baby. 

Tonight, though, the phone felt heavy in my hand. 

I scrolled past a clip from SmackDown a few hours ago. Rogers Arena had been electric. A sell-out crowd, eighteen thousand Canadians screaming their lungs out. The clip showed me sliding into the ring, that effortless vaulted leap that I know looks incredible on camera. It showed me grabbing the mic. It showed me interrupting the biggest moment of YN’s career. 

YN YLN. My cousin. The one person who knew me before the Vines, before the forests, before the boxing, and before the WWE contract. 

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the massive king-sized bed. It bounced silently. 

"It’s just business," I muttered to the empty room. My voice sounded hollow, swallowed up by the luxury soundproofing. 

I needed a drink. I walked to the mini-fridge, grabbed a blue raspberry Prime bottle I’d stocked myself because I don't trust hotel tap water, and cracked it open. The familiar taste grounded me, but it didn't wash away the knot in my stomach. 

I checked my watch. 1:00 AM. 

She hadn't answered my texts. Not the first one ("Great show tonight!"), not the second one ("Yo, grab food?"), and definitely not the third one ("Come on, don't be like that."). 

I grabbed my key card. I couldn't sit here. The adrenaline from the show had worn off, replaced by a gnawing anxiety that I rarely let the public see. I left my suite, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, and walked down the silent, plush hallway. 

Her room was two floors down. WWE travel coordinators usually try to keep family close, which is great when things are good, and absolute torture when they aren't. 

I reached room 1402. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wood. I’m Logan Paul. I’ve stared down Floyd Mayweather. I’ve jumped off the top rope through a table. Why was I nervous about knocking on my little cousin’s door? 

I knocked. Three sharp raps. 

Silence. 

"YNN?" I said, leaning close to the door. "I know you're up. I saw your story. You're eating room service sushi." 

Nothing. 

"Come on. Open up. I brought..." I patted my pockets. I had nothing. "I brought my winning personality." 

The lock clicked. The door swung open, but only halfway. 

YN stood there. She was out of her gear, wearing oversized gray sweatpants and a black tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun that looked like it had been retied ten times in frustration. Her face was scrubbed clean of the stage makeup, leaving her looking younger, more like the kid I used to push on the tire swing in the backyard. 

But her eyes were hard. Harder than I’d seen them in a long time. 

"Go away, Logan," she said. Her voice was flat. 

"Can I come in?" I asked, putting on my best charming smile—the one that usually disarms interviewers. 

"No." 

"YNN, listen—" 

"No, you listen," she snapped, stepping back but leaving the door open just enough that I took it as an invitation. I slipped inside before she could protest, the heavy door closing behind me. 

The room was a mirror image of mine, just messier. Her gear bag was exploded in the corner, wrist tape balled up on the floor. On the TV, SportsCenter was on mute. 

She walked over to the window, turning her back on me. Her arms were crossed so tightly over her chest her knuckles were white. 

"Look," I started, leaning against the dresser, trying to keep it casual. "I know you're mad. But did you hear the pop? When my music hit? The place went nuclear. And then when I cut that promo on you? The heat, YNN. The heat was astronomical. We’re going to do huge numbers on YouTube. Triple H is already texting me about the metrics." 

She didn't turn around. She just stared out at the rain-soaked Vancouver harbour. 

"It’s not about the metrics, Logan," she said quietly. 

"It’s always about the metrics," I countered, stepping forward. "That’s the business. We’re storytellers. And tonight, the story was that the big bad superstar cousin came in to overshadow the underdog. It’s classic. It’s Wrestling 101. Next week, you cut a promo on me, you get the sympathy, you get the rub. I’m helping you." 

She spun around so fast I actually flinched. 

"Helping me?" she laughed, but it was a dry, humorless sound. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you hijacking the Women’s Championship contract signing—a segment I have worked my ass off for three years to get—so you could plug your hydration drink and make a joke about my dating life." 

"It was a work!" I threw my hands up. "The dating line was just banter. It gets the people talking!" 

"It humiliated me, Logan!" Her voice cracked, and that sound cut through my defenses faster than any knife edge chop. "This isn't your YouTube channel. This isn't a vlog where you can just edit out the parts where you hurt people. That was live TV. My parents were watching. Your parents were watching." 

"They know it's a show," I insisted, though my voice lacked the conviction it had ten seconds ago. 

She took a step toward me, closing the distance. She looked small compared to the monsters I usually fight in the ring, but right now, she looked ten feet tall. 

"I had five minutes," she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. "Five minutes to prove to the office, to the fans, and to myself that I belong in the main event picture. I had a monologue prepared. I worked on it for weeks. I was going to talk about my ACL tear, about the rehab, about the struggle. Real emotion. And then your music hits." 

"I was told to go out there," I lied. Well, half-lied. Creative had said go out there and spice it up, but I might have improvised the timing. And the content. 

"Don't lie to me," she warned, pointing a finger at my chest. "I saw the producer's face. He looked panicked. You went into business for yourself, Logan. You saw a lull in the crowd, you got bored, and you decided to make it The Logan Paul Show." 

I looked away, studying the pattern on the carpet. "The crowd was dying, YNN. I saved the segment." 

"You killed my moment!" she shouted. 

The silence that followed was deafening. The hum of the mini-fridge seemed to roar. 

She took a deep breath, smoothing her hair back. When she spoke again, her voice was dangerously calm. 

"You owe me an apology." 

I stiffened. My ego, that fragile, massive thing that kept the Logan Paul machine running, bristled. I don't apologize. Apologizing is admitting defeat. Apologizing is content weakness. 

"I made you trend," I deflected, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "Look. Number one. 'YN YLN'. People are talking about you more than the champion." 

She slapped the phone out of my hand. 

It hit the floor with a thud. I stared at it, then at her. Her eyes were blazing. 

"I don't care about trending!" she yelled. "I care about respect! I’m your family, Logan. I’m not one of your yes-men. I’m not a prop for your thumbnail. I’m your cousin. I used to change your ice packs after wrestling practice in high school. I defended you when the whole world hated you. And you treat me like an NPC in your video game." 

She turned away again, walking back to the window, her shoulders shaking. 

I stood there, the ghost of her words hanging in the air. I defended you when the whole world hated you. 

That hit. 

I looked at my phone on the floor. It was buzzing with notifications. Likes, comments, shares. The currency I traded in. But looking at YN’s back, seeing the genuine hurt in her posture, the currency felt worthless. 

I thought about the drive to the arena today. We’d ridden together. She was so nervous she was vibrating. She’d recited her lines to me in the SUV. I’d been half-listening, scrolling through Instagram, nodding at the right times. I hadn’t realized how much this meant to her. To me, every Monday or Friday is just another show. To her, tonight was The Show. 

I bent down and picked up the phone. I turned it off. Not just locked it—powered it down completely. 

I walked over to the window. I didn't stand next to her, but behind her, giving her space. 

"Do you remember that time in Westlake?" I asked softly. "When we were like, twelve? And I tried to do a backflip off the garage roof?" 

She didn't answer, but she didn't tell me to leave. 

"I landed on my neck," I continued. "Thought I was paralyzed. I was terrified. You were the only one there. You didn't run to get your mom. You just sat in the grass next to me and held my hand until I could feel my toes again." 

I saw her reflection in the glass. She wiped her cheek. 

"You told me not to tell your dad," she mumbled, her voice thick. "Because he’d ban you from the trampoline." 

"Yeah," I chuckled weakly. "You kept my secret. You always had my back." 

I took a step closer, standing beside her now. The Vancouver rain was picking up, blurring the city lights into abstract streaks of gold and neon. 

"I get addicted to it, YNN," I admitted. The truth felt heavy, like coughing up water. "The noise. The reaction. When I’m out there, and I feel the crowd... I just want more of it. I want to be the center of the gravity. And sometimes... most of the time... I forget that other people have gravity too." 

She sniffled, glancing at me sideways. "You were a jerk tonight, Logan. A massive, colossal jerk." 

"I know." 

"You made me look like a joke." 

"I didn't mean to make you look like a joke," I said, turning to face her. "I meant to make myself look like the villain. But I didn't think about the collateral damage. I didn't think about you." 

She turned to me, her eyes red-rimmed. "That’s the problem. You never think about me. You think about 'YN, Logan's Cousin.' Not YN, the wrestler. Not YN, the person." 

I took a deep breath. This was the part I hated. The part where the character dies and the human has to live. 

"You're right," I said. I held her gaze, making sure I wasn't smirking, wasn't looking for a camera angle. "I’m sorry, YN. Legitimately. I shouldn't have interrupted you. I shouldn't have made the jokes. You earned that time, and I stole it because I’m an attention-seeking missile. I’m sorry." 

She studied my face for a long moment, looking for the lie. She knew my tells better than anyone. 

"You owe me more than an apology," she said, crossing her arms again, but the tension in her shoulders had dropped an inch. 

"Name it," I said immediately. "You want a Rolex? A car? I’ll buy you a G-Wagon right now." 

"I don't want a G-Wagon, you idiot," she rolled her eyes, and a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I want you to fix it." 

"Fix it how?" 

"Next week. SmackDown is in Seattle. Close to here." 

"Yeah?" 

"We have a mixed tag match scheduled. You and me versus The Miz and Maryse," she said. 

"Yeah, I saw the run sheet. We’re going over, right?" 

"I don't care about the finish," she said. "I want the mic. And I want you to stand there, in the middle of the ring, and let me cook you. I want to say everything I wanted to say tonight, plus I want to roast you for interrupting me. And you have to take it. No comebacks. No interruptions. You just stand there and look stupid." 

I grimaced. "You want me to just stand there and get roasted? In front of millions?" 

"If you're really sorry," she challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Unless the Maverick can't handle getting verballed by his little cousin." 

I looked at her. I saw the fire in her eyes. It was the same fire I saw when we were kids, arguing over who got the top bunk. She was talented. She was fierce. And she was right—I had been stifling her. 

"Okay," I nodded. "Deal. You get the stick. I shut up." 

She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for hours. "And you buy dinner. Tonight. Room service. I want the lobster mac and cheese. And another order of sushi." 

"Done," I said. "But only if you admit that my vault over the ropes was clean." 

"It was sloppy," she lied, finally cracking a real smile. "You clipped your foot." 

"I did not!" 

"Check the tape, superstar." 

She walked over to the bed and sat down, patting the spot next to her. I sat down, the mattress sinking under my weight. The tension wasn't gone completely—trust takes longer to rebuild than a viral cycle—but the bleeding had stopped. 

"Hey," she said, picking up the remote and unmuting the TV. 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks for coming down here. Even if I did have to yell at you." 

"I wouldn't let you go to sleep mad," I said, leaning back against the headboard. "Our moms would kill me." 

"True," she laughed. 

We sat in silence for a bit, watching the highlights of the night. When my segment came up, I reached for the remote to change the channel, but she stopped my hand. 

"Leave it," she said. 

We watched me interrupt her. We watched her face fall. It was hard to watch. I looked like an arrogant prick. She looked crushed. 

"I can fix this," I said quietly, plotting the angle in my head. "Next week. You dress me down. You talk about how I've always overshadowed you. You bring up the childhood stuff—keep it vague but emotional. Then you slap me." 

"I can slap you?" Her eyes lit up. 

"Hard. Make it look good. The crowd will pop huge. It turns you into the face who doesn't take crap from the entitled celebrity relative." 

YN nodded slowly, her wrestler brain engaging. "And then Miz and Maryse come out to mock the dysfunction. We have to unite to fight them off." 

"Exactly," I said, feeling the creative energy sparking between us again. "But the focus is on you. It’s your segment. I’m just the supporting role." 

She looked at me, and for the first time all night, I saw the affection back in her eyes. 

"You're actually pretty good at this when you aren't being a narcissist," she said. 

"I'm a genius, YNN. I'm just a misunderstood genius." 

"You're a dork," she corrected. She picked up the room service menu. "Now call down and get me that mac and cheese. And get yourself a water. You look dehydrated." 

"I have Prime," I said instinctively. 

"Real water, Logan. H2O." 

I grabbed the hotel phone. "Yes, ma'am." 

As I dialed the number, I looked out the window one more time. The rain was still falling over Vancouver, turning the city into a watercolor painting. I thought about the millions of people watching my stories, the fans, the haters, the endless noise of the internet. 

Then I looked at YN, who was arguing with the TV referee about a botched count on Rhea’s match. Was it? Who’s to say. That was her best friend after all. Let her think what she wants. 

The viral moments are great. The money is insane. But sitting here, in a hotel room in Canada, eating overpriced food with the only person who actually knows who I am? 

That was the only content that really mattered. 

"Hello, Room Service?" I said into the receiver. " yeah, I need to place an order. And listen, make it fast. My cousin is hangry, and she's tougher than she looks." 

YN threw a pillow at my head. I caught it with one hand, not dropping the phone. 

"See?" I grinned at her. "Reflexes." 

She shook her head, smiling. "Just order the food, Logan." 

I did. And for the rest of the night, I didn't check my phone once.