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Happy Birthday, Mrs. Reigns | R.R. Smut

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“You married me that night and then let him keep the wedding on the calendar.” - R

A/N: Wanted to post a birthday-themed post ❤️ Hope you enjoy it!!

Summary: It’s Asha’s first birthday as Mrs. Reigns, and nothing about it feels simple. Between complicated feelings, outside opinions, and everything left unsaid, she’s not sure how to celebrate herself—let alone this new chapter. But Roman? He always shows up when it matters most. And tonight, he has no intention of letting her forget exactly who she is… or who she belongs to.

Content Warning: This one-shot contains explicit sexual content (18+), emotionally vulnerable moments, mentions of past infidelity and relationship conflict, language, and themes of emotional tension and healing. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: ~5.5k

The first thing Asha noticed was the silence.

Not the soft, morning kind—the one that greeted you with peace and sunbeams. No, this one was loud in its stillness. Empty. Familiar. The kind of silence that reminded you no one was coming.

Her phone screen lit up on the nightstand.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. No “Happy birthday, baby” with a dozen heart emojis like he used to send when they first got engaged.

Just a silent lock screen. A picture of her and Zaire—taken at All-Star weekend. His hand on her waist, his smile perfect, his love polished.

She turned the phone over. Face-down.

Asha laid there for a while, one arm bent over her forehead, staring at the ceiling. The air was too warm. Her throat was dry. Her stomach… hollow.

She hated that feeling—expectation and disappointment getting drunk together in her chest.

But she’d told herself Zaire was the safe choice. The predictable one. The kind of man who looked good on paper and never missed a press appearance—even if he forgot her birthday. It was easier to stay than start over. Easier to pretend polished love was real love.

Her planner was still cracked open beside the bed, clinging to last week’s page.

Wedding Day – April 20th.

She crossed it out with the edge of her nail. Hard. Like that could scratch the whole thing out of her life.

Her phone buzzed again.

She grabbed it too fast—heart lurching—but it wasn’t Zaire.

ESPN.She didn’t bother opening it. Just swiped it away.

Then opened Instagram. Zaire’s story was ten minutes old.

A video. Him walking up the stairs to a plane, hoodie on, headphones over his ears. The caption:

✈️ Roadwork. See y’all tonight.

No tag. No mention. No "Happy birthday to my fiancée."

She closed the app. Locked her phone.

Her throat burned. Not from tears. From holding them in.

She used to love birthdays.

Counted down to them with giddy pride. Practiced her birthday wish like it could fix things. Like it could make people stay.

Birthdays were supposed to feel like magic. Like people waking up with you on their mind. Like candles and laughter and “I couldn’t wait to celebrate you.”

But somewhere between then and now, birthdays stopped being magic.

They just became reminders. Of who shows up. And who doesn’t.

Asha moved through the kitchen like she was underwater. Her birthday cupcakes still sat in a plastic container on the counter—three red velvet, untouched. She’d bought them herself. Stuck her own name on the label just so the cashier wouldn’t ask.

The lavender candle she meant to light was still sealed. The wine unopened.

She set both down gently. Her hand hovered over the lighter, but she didn’t reach for it.

He doesn’t even know today matters.

Asha didn’t realize she was whispering until the words caught in her throat.

Maybe he does know. And that’s worse.

The knock at the door startled her.

She froze.

Nobody just showed up.

She crossed to the door barefoot, tension in every step. One peek through the peephole—

A delivery man. Holding something round and black. Elegant.

She opened the door slowly.

“Delivery for Asha Langston,” he said with a polite nod. “Happy birthday.”

“…Thanks,” she murmured, stepping forward.

The box was heavy. She shut the door with her hip and carried it to the kitchen island.

It looked expensive. Velvet and matte. Her hands hovered over the lid for a second too long.

Then she lifted it.

Dozens of deep red roses. Arranged in a spiral, rich and velvety, full of perfume and color and care.

Tucked into the center was a small black velvet box.

She didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, she reached for it.

Inside was a delicate gold necklace, warm-toned and fine, the kind of subtle luxury that whispered. One small “R” charm curled next to a soft glint of blue-green—her birthstone. The color of ocean glass.

Her breath caught.

He remembered.

She hadn’t even remembered to wear jewelry today.

And he—

She opened the folded card pressed beneath the flowers.

To my favorite accident.Happy Birthday, Asha.You’re unforgettable.— R

Her fingers trembled.

Not from surprise. From the way it felt to be seen.

To be remembered like this. On purpose.

Zaire once told her birthstones were for horoscope girls. Said he didn’t believe in sentimental jewelry.

“Gold’s gold,” he’d said, when she told him once—quietly—that she loved pieces that felt personal.

She’d never brought it up again.

Now here she was. Holding something that felt like it had been picked just for her. Not for a crowd. Not for a caption. Just… her.

And it hurt.

Because it wasn’t Zaire who gave it to her.

Asha sank onto the couch, necklace in her palm, and stared at the flowers like they might disappear.

A memory flickered. Vegas. The hotel room. Roman’s voice in the dark:

“I notice everything about you.”

Back then, she thought it was just something men said when the lights were off. But now? With this necklace in her hand? She wasn’t so sure.

Her thumb brushed the “R” charm again.

She didn’t know what she felt. Not exactly. But it was sharp. And soft. And terrifying.

Her phone buzzed again on the counter.

This time, the name glowed across the screen:

ZURI 💅🏾 LOUD ASS.

Asha exhaled once.

Then reached for it.

“Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. I know that cupcake ain’t talking back to you.”

Asha sniffed quietly, pulling her sleeve over her hand. “I’m fine.”

“Mmhm. Get up. Café Mae. Twenty minutes. You need food, fresh air, and me. In that order.”

Click.

Asha stared at the screen for a second longer. Let herself breathe.

Then the phone buzzed again — same caller.

She picked up without saying anything.

Zuri didn’t miss a beat.

“Another thing—happy birthday, hoe. Love ya. Bye.”

Click.

This time, Asha smiled.

For real.

The café’s front windows breathed soft light onto the sidewalk. Asha leaned against the brick wall just outside the entrance, her phone still warm in her hand from Zuri’s call.

Zuri didn’t give her time to spiral. She never did.

The second Asha stepped inside, she spotted her best friend in the far booth — hair up in a clean, high puff, earrings big and bold, gold rings stacked like she’d been ready for war since sunrise. Zuri didn’t do halfway. And she didn’t pretend either.

Her eyes locked on Asha the moment she walked in, and her expression shifted. Not to pity — Zuri didn’t pity people — but to something gentler. Focused.

“You look like you been listening to Summer Walker and ignoring your vitamins,” she said, sliding a glass of pineapple juice across the table.

Asha let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. She sat down, adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie. No makeup. No jewelry—except the one thing she hadn’t been able to take off.

Zuri didn’t notice it at first. She was too busy waving the waitress over and talking about how she was gonna need extra syrup for her pancakes or else she’d flip the damn table. But eventually, as Asha reached for the honey for her tea, Zuri blinked. Then squinted. Then leaned in.

“Wait. What’s that on your neck?”

Asha froze. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. That’s a gold chain. With an R. Is that your birthstone? Girl—”

“It was a gift.”

“From who? Wait—” Zuri stared at her. And then her voice dropped, quieter now. Sincere. “Did Zaire send that?”

Asha looked away. “No.”

Zuri blinked. Once. Twice. “So he didn’t even send you a text?”

“No call. No post. Just his assistant wishing me a happy birthday in our group chat.”

Zuri sat back, the humor gone now. Her brows were furrowed, her voice low. “And the man who married you drunk in Vegas sent you a necklace and remembered your birthstone?”

Asha nodded once. She didn’t have it in her to explain the roses. The note. The silence he gave her afterward so she wouldn’t feel cornered.

Zuri exhaled and leaned forward again. “So cancel the wedding.”

Asha blinked.

Zuri didn’t flinch. “You keep trying to act like you owe that man your life because he was safe. But what has safe actually done for you, Asha?”

Silence lingered between them. A waitress dropped off their plates and refilled the juice, but neither of them spoke until the clinking faded.

Then Asha finally said it. “Can you cancel the venue?”

Zuri paused, her face softening. “You serious?”

“I just… I can’t see it on my calendar anymore.”

Zuri nodded. Not dramatic. Not smug. Just Zuri. “Say less.”

Asha’s breath escaped her chest like a door had finally opened. She stared down at her plate. The syrup pooled into the corner like it didn’t want to touch anything.

“You want me to also cancel the part where you keep pretending he’s a good man?”

Asha smiled without lifting her head. “Start with the venue.”

They parted just outside the café. Zuri pulled her into a hug, tight and warm and brimming with everything Asha didn’t say out loud.

“Happy birthday, Ash. Go where the love is.”

Asha nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

She made it halfway down the block before her phone buzzed again.

ROMAN Happy birthday, Asha. I didn’t want to crowd your day… just wanted you to know you deserve to feel held, even when nobody’s watching. Hope today gave you at least a little bit of that. And if not… you know where I’m at.

She didn’t text back. But she read it twice.

And when she slipped the phone back into her coat pocket, her fingers brushed the gold “R” charm resting above her heart.

She was still smiling.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline by the time Asha stepped back into her apartment. The air felt heavier than usual—not stifling, but thick with the kind of stillness that came after too many thoughts had been left unspoken.

Warm light glowed from the kitchen, where her favorite candle sat on a warmer, quietly releasing the scent of vanilla and spice into the air. She didn’t light it today. Didn’t need open flame. Just wanted something soft. Something steady.

She slipped off her shoes and coat, toes curling into the floor as she poured herself a glass of wine. The stem felt cool in her hand, the weight familiar. Her gaze wandered—not on purpose—and landed on the bouquet still sitting on the dining table.

A vase of bold red roses sat near the window, fresh and dramatic. Tall black marble. Gold lettering along the base. Expensive without being loud. Thoughtful without needing to explain itself. The kind of arrangement that didn’t whisper affection—it declared it. Like Roman had known exactly what message he wanted to send without ever signing his name.

She hadn’t thrown them out.

She hadn’t even moved them.

She’d rinsed the vase. Refilled it with water. And sat them at the center of her apartment like some unspoken centerpiece to a day she didn’t know how to feel about.

The card was still beside it.

Unopened.

She took another sip of wine just as the knock came—three soft taps, deliberate and steady.

Her spine straightened. She set the glass down.

Checked the peephole.

Roman.

Black hoodie. Gray sweats. One hand in his pocket. The other carrying a matte black takeout bag with a gold emblem stamped on the side—Torenzo’s. The place she used to joke about being overhyped. Until he took her there once and she accidentally moaned over the risotto.

She opened the door slowly.

He didn’t speak.

His eyes flicked up and down, catching her at the edge of tiredness and tension, and then landing right where her collar dipped. Where the delicate gold chain glinted under the low kitchen light. Where the tiny “R” charm lay tucked beside her birthstone, warm against her skin.

“You wore it,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

She didn’t speak. Just nodded, her hand rising almost unconsciously to touch the charm. Her thumb brushed across the letter before she realized she was doing it.

Roman’s jaw flexed. He shifted slightly, the takeout bag rustling in his hand.

“Didn’t know if you’d eaten. Figured you deserved better than cold cupcakes.”

Asha blinked, something tightening in her throat. Zaire would’ve sent a text. Maybe.Roman showed up.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not until her eyes caught the soft look on his face—restrained, but present.

She stepped aside.

He walked in—brushing past the bouquet without ever glancing at it—and set the food gently on the kitchen counter. She watched him move like he’d done it a hundred times before.

She opened her mouth, hesitated. “You didn’t have to…”

“Yeah, I did.” He paused. His voice dropped, rough at the edges. “Didn’t want you going to sleep thinking nobody showed up.”

A few seconds passed—too long, too quiet.

Then the door clicked shut behind them.

One Week Ago

The room looked like wealth. Gold-rimmed glasses, roses that had never seen a grocery store, a jazz trio tucked in the corner playing notes that didn’t dare interrupt the silence. The lighting was warm and low—not cozy, but curated. Asha sat at a table that felt more like a stage.

Zaire was beside her in a tailored dove-grey suit, quiet and unreadable, his phone face-down next to his water glass. Asha had matched the energy—sleek black dress, heels high enough to hurt, posture perfect. But none of it made the food taste better. None of it softened the knot in her stomach.

His mother had been speaking for ten minutes without a pause. The kind of woman who wielded compliments like warning shots.

“You’ve always been such a… challenge, Asha.” She said it sweetly, like a joke meant to land softer. It didn’t. “But that’s what makes things exciting, right? Keeps Zaire sharp.”

Asha blinked slowly. “Sharp must be exhausted.”

Zaire didn’t laugh. Didn’t correct his mother either. He just reached for his wine and sipped like he hadn’t heard a thing.

His father leaned back. “We’ve spoken to the planners.” Asha’s stomach tightened.

“Everything’s been pushed back. Venue. Catering. PR. It’s handled.”

He didn’t even ask. Just expected her to be thankful for the cleanup crew.

“You should be grateful,” he added, eyes locking on hers.And that was it. The line she couldn’t unhear.He looked straight at Asha. “You should be grateful.”

Her fingers tensed beneath the tablecloth.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“And yet we did. Because we clean up our son’s messes. Even when they’re not entirely his.” “You’re still planning to marry into this family, Asha. Consider what that requires.”

She caught her reflection in the polished silverware—expression still poised, chin lifted. Her silence was a skill now. But her tongue ached from biting it.

Zaire said nothing.

His mother folded her hands, eyes warm and cruel. “And hopefully, this wrestler situation doesn’t spiral. The announcement already embarrassed a few partners. But we’ll move forward.”

Asha tilted her head slightly. “Excuse me?”

His father didn’t pause. “Roman Reigns is a performer. Men like him thrive off chaos. They don’t think about how it reflects on women like you. You’re caught in the smoke of his spectacle. That’s why we stepped in.”

A slow, simmering beat passed.

Then Asha said, quiet but precise: “One of those men happens to be my brother.”

The jazz trio didn’t stop playing—but the tension in the room cut through every note.

His mother blinked. His father’s jaw moved but produced nothing. Even Zaire shifted, but only to adjust the cuff of his jacket. He didn’t say a word.

Asha folded her napkin neatly and placed it beside her plate. “So if we’re handing out gratitude, maybe offer a little back—for how long I’ve held my tongue.”She let the silence sit. “And for how much more I could say.”

Zaire looked down at his wine glass again.

Still. Nothing.

Something wilted in her chest.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, rising from the table.

She walked across the sleek marble, her heels echoing louder than any voice in the room. The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click that felt like a slammed door.

Inside, she braced both hands on the sink.

Her breath came fast. Her chest tight. The mirror showed her the same face she’d walked in with—lipstick still sharp, lashes still full, bones still high. But her eyes...

Her eyes looked like someone who just watched a house she built burn to the ground—while the man inside refused to leave.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch.

1 Missed Call — Roman Reigns 10:14 PM

She stared at the name. Her thumb hovered.

But she didn’t press it. Didn’t call back.

She just held the phone tighter.

Present Day

Now, that same hoodie from that night was clinging to Roman’s frame as he stood in her doorway.

Takeout bag in one hand. Silence in the other.

His eyes flicked to the necklace resting on her collarbone. “You wore it.”

She nodded. No words yet.

She felt that in her chest.

Her hand drifted unconsciously toward her ring—his ring—and then stopped.

“It was supposed to be a mistake,” she murmured.

Roman’s jaw flexed once. But his voice didn’t rise.

“You wore my name,” he said. “You’re still wearing it.”

Her throat tightened.

“That boy doesn’t have a chance,” he went on, casual but cutting. “I don’t give a fuck what that boy got to say. Or your lame-ass brother either.”

Her brow rose—but not in protest. It was the truth of it that made it hard to argue.

“He treats you like a PR move,” Roman said. “Like you’re something to bring out when he needs to look a certain way. Then he forgets you the second it’s not convenient.”

Asha looked away.

“I just wanted you to feel like someone showed up,” he finished, voice softening again. “Even if it was just me.”

She didn’t speak right away.

Roman held up the black-and-gold takeout bag. “Torenzo’s.”

Her brows shot up. “You remembered that?”

“You only said it once.” His voice was quiet but steady. “I listen when it’s you.”

Asha turned, lips parting slightly. There wasn’t a good response to that. She moved to the kitchen, pulling two plates from the cabinet. He helped unpack everything—grilled sea bass, truffle risotto, charred broccolini, still warm bread with rosemary butter.

Roman plated hers first. No rush, no instructions. Just care.

They sat down on the couch, not shoulder-to-shoulder but close enough that the tension hung between them like humidity—undeniable, heavy, waiting.

She sipped her wine. He didn’t drink.

They ate quietly at first.

Until Asha caught herself watching the way he cut his food, his shoulders relaxed for once. She swallowed hard and took a breath.

“This feels weird,” she admitted.

Roman didn’t look up. “Eating with your husband?”

Her gaze jerked to his face.

He finally met her eyes and gave the smallest smile. “Still feels real to me.”

She blinked—once, then twice—and looked down at her plate.

He reached for the bread, split it in half, and passed her a piece like it was second nature. Like they’d done it before. Like he’d always be that steady hand.

And suddenly she didn’t want to pretend she didn’t miss that kind of ease.

After dinner, Roman stood up and crossed to the counter again.

She watched him open the bakery box with practiced care, then pull out one cupcake—deep red velvet, piped high with cream cheese frosting, dusted in edible gold flakes.

From his hoodie pocket, he pulled a single candle.

He lit it using the small glass lighter sitting near her wax warmer.

Then he turned and brought the cupcake over slowly, holding it in both hands like something sacred.

“Make a wish,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “And don’t lie about what you really want.”

Asha stared at him. At the way the flame made his eyes softer. At the necklace he gave her resting against her collarbone.

She blew the candle out.

Roman didn’t move.

She reached for him first.

Her fingers curled into the front of his hoodie. She kissed him slow—no rush, no edge, just everything she hadn’t said out loud.

He tasted like dinner and quiet devotion.

When he pulled her in, his hand went to the small of her back and didn’t move. The other braced behind her on the couch—his grip tight, fingers flexing against the cushion like he was barely holding back. Asha gasped into his mouth

“You want something real?” He murmured.

She nodded.

“Then stop pretending you don’t already have it.”

His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time. The kiss turned from soft to aching in a heartbeat.

The red velvet cupcake sat forgotten. The candle burned down in the kitchen behind them.

His knuckles brushed her bare thigh—slow, reverent. She was still in her lounge shorts and a soft, ribbed tank. Her body was tense beneath the quiet. But not pulling away.

His voice came low, almost inaudible. “Let me see you.”

Asha nodded.

Roman leaned in, mouth grazing hers with a kiss that lingered. Not rushed. Not rough. Just full. He kissed her again. And again. Until her shoulders dropped and her chest rose to meet his. Until her breath hitched and her hand found the curve of his jaw like muscle memory.

Then his hands moved—down her body, gripping the hem of her shorts. He tugged gently, knuckles grazing the underside of her thighs as he drew them down. Her panties came with them, damp from everything he’d already done to her with words alone.

He didn’t break eye contact.

Didn’t ask permission again.

Roman knelt between her legs like he belonged there.

Like she was some divine offering and he was starving on his knees.

His hands wrapped around her thighs, spreading her open with quiet reverence. His breath coasted over her center, warm and steady—teasing her without even touching. Asha felt the way her body pulsed for him, the way her thighs tried to close on instinct. Roman growled low in his throat and gripped tighter.

“Nah,” he murmured. “You been acting like this don’t belong to me.”

Then he licked her.

Long and slow.

One smooth stroke of his tongue up her slit, tasting every drop like he was collecting her on his tongue. Asha let out a trembling breath—but Roman wasn’t satisfied with that.

He flattened his tongue against her clit and held it there, not moving, just applying pressure, just waiting.

It worked.

Her hips lifted, lips parting on a sharp gasp. Roman smiled against her. “There she is…”

Then he got to work.

He licked her with slow, controlled precision, alternating between dragging his tongue up her folds and circling her clit. Every stroke was deliberate. Every motion a study in restraint. He was savoring her, not just going through the motions. Tongue firm. Mouth warm. Beard grazing her thighs just enough to make her squirm.

“Fuck, Roman—” she whispered.

He didn’t respond.

He sucked her clit into his mouth instead. Soft at first. Then harder. Then he let it pop free with a low moan that vibrated straight through her. Asha’s body jolted, fingers digging into the cushion beside her.

Roman didn’t stop.

He tilted her hips up slightly, locking one arm under her thigh while the other hand slid up to her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, slow circles that made her cry out. At the same time, his tongue flattened again, licking fast, building heat. He alternated between that and teasing flicks over her clit, stopping only to breathe her in, to taste her like he never wanted to forget.

Asha gripped the couch, her body teetering between pleasure and panic. It felt too good—too personal. Like he knew things about her she hadn’t told anyone. She didn’t know whether to run from it or fall apart.

“You shaking already?” he teased, voice hoarse. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he buried his face deeper.

Sucked harder.

His tongue moved with brutal control—slow when she needed fast, fast when she thought she couldn’t take more. He read her like a map, adjusting with every whimper, every arch, every time she whispered his name like a secret.

Her thighs were trembling now.

Her hands slipped down to his head, fingers threading through his thick curls, trying to ground herself. Roman grunted, and the vibration pushed her over the edge.

She came with a soft cry, her body locking up, thighs trying to close around his face. Roman didn’t let her. He held her open and kept licking—softer now, coaxing her through it, letting her ride the aftershocks as his lips ghosted over her sensitive clit.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth and beard were wet.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then sucked the taste off his fingers, eyes locked on hers.

“Better than that sorry-ass birthday text you didn’t get, huh?”

Asha could barely breathe.

Roman stood, reached for the waistband of his sweats, and freed himself with one hand. He stroked slowly, watching her squirm, the “R” charm still resting right over her heartbeat.

“You ready?” he murmured, voice deep, thick with want.

“I’ve been ready,” she breathed.

He smirked.

And that’s when he moved in closer—cock thick, heavy, lined up just right.

Roman dragged the swollen head of his cock through her slick folds—slow, deliberate. Teasing her overstimulated clit just enough to make her gasp again.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s what happens when I taste what’s mine.”

Her thighs parted wider.

And Roman didn’t wait anymore.

He slid in deep.

Asha’s back arched off the couch with a gasp so sharp it knocked the wind out of her. He filled her in one long stroke, thick and pulsing, her walls stretching to take every heavy inch. It wasn’t rushed—just inevitable. Like gravity. Like a promise made flesh.

Roman groaned low in his throat, his forehead dropping to hers.

“Fuck… You’re always so warm,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Always pullin’ me in like you need me.”

He rolled his hips, grinding into her, staying deep. Asha whimpered. Her hands flew to his back, nails raking across tan skin, needing more. Needing him.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you missed me.”

She whimpered again, breath stuttering. “I missed you.”

Roman’s lips ghosted across her cheek, his hips slowly pulling back.

Then he thrust again—hard.

Her moan was sharp, raw, swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her. His thrusts picked up, fast and deep, hitting every nerve ending like a punishment wrapped in a prayer.

“You married me,” he panted. “That night… you said I do.”

She didn’t answer—not out loud.

Her legs wrapped around his waist tighter, drawing him in closer, her body giving him her truth.

Roman’s mouth crashed into hers again, rougher this time. Messier. His fingers tangled in her curls as he fucked her through the silence. Sweat formed between them. Her necklace glinted between her breasts like it belonged there.

“You still wearing my name,” he groaned. “Still letting me inside you like this—like you know nobody else can touch you like this.”

Asha cried out, her hands gripping the back of the couch. Roman’s hand slammed against it too, fingers flexing against the cushion, holding himself back by a thread.

He pulled out slightly—just enough to make her whine—and then drove back in, rougher this time.

“That boy,” he said, voice nearly breaking with frustration, “he forgets your birthday. I remember how you breathe when you come.”

His hand slid between their bodies, thumb finding her clit. She jolted. Her thighs clenched. The rhythm faltered—then deepened. She shattered beneath him, crying out his name like it was the only language she knew.

“Say it,” he grunted, lips at her ear. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—fuck—you.”

“That’s right.”

He fucked her harder, the couch creaking under them, her legs locked around his waist now.

Roman’s face hovered just above hers—eyes wild, mouth open, breath harsh. And then he slowed.

Ground his hips deep.

Rolled them.

Until Asha was sobbing beneath him, clutching at his back like she didn’t know where her body ended and his began.

“I’m not letting go of you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers. “You hear me?”

She nodded, her voice a shaky whisper. “I hear you.”

And when she came again—body clenching, hips bucking, vision blurring—it was with his name falling from her lips like worship.

Roman followed seconds later, his moan guttural, drawn from the base of his spine as he buried himself inside her one last time.

Then silence.

Just the sound of their breathing, and the quiet weight of what couldn’t be unsaid anymore.

Roman didn’t move right away. Just brushed his thumb over her cheek, then down to the “R” charm resting on her chest.

His voice was quieter now. Still rough. Still sure.

“Happy fucking birthday, Mrs. Reigns.”

The only sounds left in the room were the rise and fall of their breathing and the occasional shift of fabric beneath their bodies. Sweat cooled on Asha’s skin as Roman eased back, chest rising with the weight of what they didn’t say.

He didn’t rush. He never did when it mattered.

Roman’s hand lingered at the dip of her waist, fingers flexing lightly like he didn’t want to lose contact yet. Like if he let go too fast, she might float away.

Without a word, he sat up, slipped off the couch, and disappeared down the hall. She heard the faucet run. When he returned, a damp towel hung from his hand, warm and fresh.

Kneeling beside her, Roman cleaned her with a reverence that didn’t need language. He moved slowly, wiping between her thighs like she was something precious, not something he’d just fucked into breathless silence.

When he looked up, his eyes weren’t clouded with lust anymore. Just clarity.

“You good?” he asked gently.

Asha nodded. But something in her eyes made him pause.

Roman leaned up, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I mean more than that.”

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t push. Instead, he stood, bare still, and crossed to grab the hoodie he’d tossed over the kitchen stool earlier. As he slipped it on, he pulled something small from the pocket—a black envelope, no larger than his palm.

He placed it down beside her. No speech. No drama.

She blinked at it. Then at him.

Roman offered her a look—steady, unreadable, heartbreakingly soft. Like he had one foot out the door, but his heart hadn’t followed.

Asha sat up, the blanket gathering at her waist. Her voice came quietly:

“…You don’t have to go.”

Roman stilled. Then turned.

She lifted her chin, eyes vulnerable but resolute. “Stay.”

There was a beat. A flicker of something fragile in his gaze.

Then, Roman nodded. Not rushed. Not smug. Just real.

He crossed back to her and slipped under the blanket without hesitation, like her body was the only place that made sense. She melted into him, head against his chest, heartbeat syncing with his. One of his arms tucked under her neck. The other wrapped around her waist, grounding her.

“You feel safe?” he asked, voice low in her hair.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

They lay like that for a long time. No noise but the city outside and the soft hum of comfort finally allowed.

A buzz broke the stillness.

Asha’s phone lit up across the table.

Zaire. Calling.

Roman looked at the screen. Then back at her. “You want me to grab it?”

“No,” she said.

He waited.

Then reached for it himself. Answering wasn’t on the table. He just pressed silence, flipped it screen-down, and returned to her.

“He doesn’t get to interrupt this,” Roman murmured. “Not after forgetting the day you were born.”

Asha didn’t reply, but her hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, of this night, of everything she thought she didn’t deserve.

After a while, she reached for the envelope.

Inside was a single card. No gold trim. No extravagant message.

Just ink. Just him.

Let me know when you’re ready to be loved out loud. — R

Her throat tightened.

She looked down at her left hand—where the slim gold wedding band rested against her skin. Still there. Still hers. She’d never taken it off, not even when she should’ve.

The “R” charm on her necklace caught the glow, resting over her pulse like a quiet truth finally speaking.

Roman wasn’t asleep. She could feel his gaze on her even with her back turned.

“You’re not just a wish I made,” she whispered, thumb grazing the card. “You feel like the answer.”

He didn’t say anything.

But the way his arm pulled her closer, the way he kissed her shoulder, said more than words ever could.

She didn’t need to make another wish.

She was already wearing it.

Author’s Note: This one’s soft, a little messy, and full of unspoken feelings. Asha’s not sure how to celebrate herself—but Roman makes sure to always remind Asha what she deserves.

Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this, make sure to check out the masterlist for more stories and join the taglist so you never miss an update. Your support means everything. 🤍

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