Any workout that didn't end in tears and searing pain, he'd count as progress.

Kevin the Yorkie barked at Seth Rollins as he stepped through the front door into his home. His hobble had improved to a steady trudge in recent weeks. Day by day he could put a little more weight onto his damaged knee. He couldn't wait to walk normally again. Couldn't wait to run. Workout like normal.

Couldn't wait to wrestle again.

That was a pain far worse than any he experienced by the day, in this condition.

Kevin was still yapping.

"Hush, Kevin, God," Seth said, irritation cracking into a smile at his pup, spinning in circles on the kitchen floor. He fixed himself a protein shake and sat at the dining room table in front of the stack of mail he'd brought inside. Bill, bill, something about an election he didn't care about, another bill, a monthly workout journal he subscribed to…how the hell did one guy rack up so many bills…?

And, at the bottom of the stack, a pink envelope with his name and address scrawled across the top.

There was no return address, no stamp. That's the first thing he noticed. Whoever had delivered this did so by hand, not through the postal service—dropped by his mailbox and dispensed it manually. The writing was messy. He didn't recognize the penmanship.

Seth turned the envelope over in his hands. Studied the script.

Hmm. Who could this be from?

Seth wedged a finger beneath the fold and tore the envelope open. Inside was a card, deep red in color, a bouquet of roses on the cover. Inside the flowers was printed, curly white text:

"By miles, you are far from me.

By thoughts, you are close to me.

By hearts, you are in me."

Seth had no response to the cheesy verse except laughter. Was this a joke? A gag from Triple H or Stephanie? Valentine's Day was on tomorrow and he expected nothing less of them than a lark like this. Shaking his head, he wondered what other tawdry lines awaited him inside the card. He was prepared for a "GOTCHA!"

Instead there were messily-written words matching the handwriting on the envelope. Seth was no longer laughing.

"You shouldn't have to be alone.

I'll be at Creekside Bar from eight to ten on Sunday.

Yep.

Find me there or don't."

It was signed with a symbol, not a name. The anarchy symbol, with a "D" slashed over the "A" instead of an "O".

Seth froze. His breath hooked in his throat.

Ambrose?

No way. There was no way. No way in hell.

He was laughing again, with no humor intact. "Are you kidding me?" he asked aloud, running a hand over his mouth. "Is this some kind of joke?" The hand holding the card clenched, crinkling the tacky Hallmark purchase. He flung the card across the kitchen. Someone who ain't funny thinks they're real clever…

Seth pushed from the table, careful on his injured leg, and moved towards the stairs. Time to shower, change, forget that ever happened.

But before he moved up the first step, he stopped.

Waited in place.

Slowly turned back towards the kitchen.

The card seemed to be staring back at him.

What if…don't be an idiot, Rollins…

But what if…

What if it wasn't a joke?

Seth's nostrils flared. If it wasn't a joke, then it was just sad.

If it wasn't a joke…would Ambrose really be at that bar tomorrow night? On Valentine's Day? Waiting for him?

When he had a perfectly good Samoan to hook up with?

No. Seth shook his head, at himself, loathing himself for believing such a thing for even a moment. If anything, it's a joke from him. That lunatic's always pranking me. He's probably got cameras or something set up, waiting for me to show up all hopeful, then laugh at my face. What an asshole.

Then again…he pursed his lips in thought…if Ambrose truly wanted to prank Seth, why would he have endorsed the card with his signature mark? Ultimately giving himself, and any obvious motives, away?

What if these motives weren't obvious?

What if another purpose was intended?

All this questioning was making Seth's head ache. Was this your plan all along, Ambrose? Make me stress myself into a meltdown? Freak me out?

The incredible thing was, it was working. Whether it was Ambrose's intent or not.

Seth wandered towards the card. He scooped down to pick it up. A twinge in his knee made him grunt. Perhaps he'd find more evidence on the card. A clue. But it was simple, really, and he was making a mystery out of nothing. The words inside were definitive. Not orders, but a given statement.

Then the first line. "You shouldn't have to be alone."

Now what the hell did that mean? At all, or on Valentine's Day specifically? That was the theme of the card, the holiday of the date Ambrose specified he'd be at that bar. What the hell did Ambrose care if Seth was alone or not? What did it matter to him anymore?

He read the outer piece again.

"By miles, you are far from me.

By thoughts, you are close to me.

By hearts, you are in me."

Ambrose is crazy. Reading this…sounds like he misses me.

A lump swelled in Seth's throat. And he doesn't…right? Why would he? After what I did?

This was so stupid. Seth was afflicted by nothing.

What should have been nothing.

Yet it wouldn't leave him alone.

Not when he showered at last. Not when he spent an evening watching TV alone, rehydrating with water and Gatorade, eating dinner alone. Not during his short walk with Kevin around the neighborhood, good exercise for himself and his furry friend. Even when he laid himself down to sleep that night, alone, his forehead was ridden with wrinkles just by thinking about it. Thinking about him.

Ambrose.

The first man he ever really, truly loved. Hell, the only man he'd ever loved.

A man he destroyed, betrayed, abandoned.

A man who shouldn't forgive him.

Yet a man who might have missed him? Wanted to see him?

Seth crushed a pillow over his face, believing asphyxiation was the only way his body would rest that night. Fuck. What's he doing to me?

Nothing he's done in a good, long time.

He was awake in pain, alone, until his own exhaustion of the day put him under.

Even in his bleak dreams he couldn't kid himself. He saw the swing of a chair and the pain in a beautiful pair of eyes; he felt a knife leave his hand and lodge itself into the backs of his brothers.

He felt rage. Disgust. Misery.

Tears.

The truth.

I deserve to be alone.

"Am I stupid for doing this?" Seth asked Kevin the next evening.

The Yorkie's only response was the lift of his head, blinking sleepy eyes at his owner, then returning to his nap on Seth's bed.

I truly am alone, if it's come down to just Kevin and me having one-sided convos.

He wasn't going all out for this supposed meeting at the bar. Nice jeans, a Chicago Bears t-shirt under a CrossFit hoodie. He brushed his hair out long, then clumped it into a bun the way he did before a workout. His blond patch was just a dab on his brown mane by now. He'd considered re-dying it before his return to the WWE.

He considered a lot of things for that day.

But right now, he was considering this night and this night only.

What would happen? Who the hell knew? Maybe Ambrose would come just to laugh in his face. Seth was ready for anything. He was braver than people made him out to be. He wasn't afraid of much, not anymore. He wouldn't give Ambrose the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

Not anymore.

Maybe Seth could beat him to the punch. Get the first laugh and the last.

Maybe even a literal punch.

But who the hell knew?

That's why he had to be on top. Be prepared. Just like wrestling. One step ahead of the adversary, no matter who it was.

Why would you miss me anyway, Ambrose? I'm a shit person.

Seth waited until nine-fifteen to leave. Part of him was scared Ambrose would actually still be there, waiting for him, even after the intentional delay in arrival.

Driving was still hard. Seth had to confront the pain with gritted teeth and controlled breathing, refusing to give into it. Yield to it. He'd never submit to his own physical weakness. Never had, never would, never could. He wasn't that type of man.

Just the guy who betrays family, damages friendships and burns bridges, am I right?

Seth didn't know who this voice belonged to but he sure hated it. It faithfully reminded him of all his wrongdoings, a skirmish against his self-confidence. He believed in himself, but some days, he believed that small, critical voice, too.

He could be his own worst enemy on some days, nowadays.

When there was nobody to fight, the only adversary left was you.

Seth pulled into the parking lot of Creekside Bar. The place was decent. Seth had seen shabbier bars in his day, even in this city. Creekside was jammed tonight, as evidenced by the crowded lot, surely teeming with drunk singles and desperates.

I'm a single, sure, but I wonder how well I'd fit in with the desperate right now.

Seth held the door open for a woman behind him and treaded into the bar. The air was hot and smoky. Stumbling patrons blocked his view of anything, anyone, recognizable. Music and crowd noise battled in a volume contest. Seth kept to himself, feeling timid. This isn't my scene. Sure isn't Ambrose's, from what I'd guess. Why would he pick here, of all places?

Two muscular men, obviously just shot down by two blondes at the bar, withdrew from the women, getting out of Seth's way…and giving him a view he had both been prepared for, and was in no way ready to see.

Ambrose.

Sitting a table by himself, pushing a sigh out. His hands were folded on the table, thumbs tapping against one another. He pulled his hands apart long enough to stir a drink in front of him, take a sip, then resume having a thumb war with himself.

Seth couldn't move. Bail, what are you waiting for? Leave before he sees you, it's not too late. This is so stupid…

But Ambrose looked over.

There was a certain light in his eye that was impossible to miss, even in this crowd, at this distance. Incredulity. He'd sent out the invitation yet was baffled Seth Rollins had accepted it.

Seth reminded himself how to walk. One foot in front of the other. In this slow process he made his way over to Ambrose.

Dean.

Seth stood tableside for several moments, wondering what the next step was. Dean looked up at him, then eyed the empty seat across from him. Sit, Seth commanded himself. Made it this far, might as well see it through.

Progress.

Well, he wouldn't be the first to speak. That was part of his plan to be one step ahead of Dean. He had to study his opponent first, get a feel for the gravity of the situation. He folded his hands on the table and watched Dean.

Dean watched back. It wasn't a stare. There was no hostility in his expression. That light in his eyes had yet to diminish. The beauty had yet to fade. Seth couldn't lie to himself; he looked good, damn good, gorgeous as ever. Seth watched Dean's tongue run over his lips. They were either dry or he was nervous, or thirsty, or wanting a kiss.

Ha. Right.

Seth said nothing.

And nothing still.

Why couldn't he just…talk?

Because what would he say? Hi Dean, sorry for dismantling the Shield and stabbing you in the back, happy Valentine's Day, what's your poison?

No. Dean had to do everything first.

But he was refusing to speak, too. He'd take a sip of his drink on occasion, his hands would move from folded to flat on the table, to behind his head and back down again. But he was either at a loss for words, or he was resisting just what Seth was: giving in and talking.

The chaos of the bar couldn't beat out their looming silence.

Seth nearly couldn't take it anymore until Dean's lips finally parted and his voice uttered four words: "You're such a whore."

Seth blinked. "I—what?"

Dean grinned at him. "After all that's happened, you're still completely committed to CrossFit. Can't leave the mistress. She owns you. Slut."

Seth had to chuckle at the ridiculousness. That's so Dean. "You think looking this good comes naturally to any man? Hell no. You gotta work for it." His jacket covered his arms, but he flexed his muscles anyhow.

"Good to see you've still got your sense of humor."

"Good to see you're still out of your mind."

"Some things never change." Dean downed the rest of his drink. His glass hit the table with a noisy smack. "Want something to drink?"

It'd make the night easier, but I might lose control of myself and do something I regret. "Not yet."

"Oh, not yet. I see. Let me drive you to insanity first, then you'll drink till you forget all about it."

Seth smiled. Wow, a real smile. It almost hurt his cheeks, he was so unfamiliar with the sensation. Muscles that hadn't been worked out in ages. "No way. Then I'll be on your level."

"You'll like it here."

The quietude lifted between them again like a rising mist. Seth decided to fan it away. "So. Intercontinental Champion, huh?"

"Yeah, why not? Pays the bills."

"Owens isn't still on your ass about it, is he?"

"Nah. Not so much anymore. Guy's got issues." Dean lifted his glass and peered through the top like it was a loupe. How much had he had to drink before Seth got here? "What about you? How's your, uh…knee thing going?"

Obviously more than one. Alcohol had been his literal solution to dealing with a situation he'd arranged. Maybe he had regrets. "It's hard, but…it's getting better by the day. I'm still working out."

"Of course you are. You're a CrossFit slut."

Seth smiled again. Damn, I forgot how good he was at making me do that. "You know me. I'm headstrong."

"Is that the positive way of saying 'stubborn as an ass'?"

"Think the term is 'stubborn as a mule.'"

"You're still an ass."

Seth's smile nearly faltered until Dean set the glass down again and added, "But hey. So am I."

"We've all got our issues."

"And we can fix 'em, or we live with 'em. Or we can whine and bitch about 'em, but who wants to live with that, really?"

"What brings you to Davenport?" Seth asked, breath hitching. Be brave. It had to come up eventually. The small talk was irritating him, hindering the point of the night.

"You want me to lie, or tell the truth?"

"I appreciate honesty as much as the next guy." HYPOCRITE! The condemning voice was back, screaming. YOU'RE SUCH A HYPOCRITE!

"You, Rollins. You bring me to Davenport. What else?"

His frankness was impressive—and a bit uncanny. Right out with it. "You, uh…you really…" Seth's throat was arid. He was wishing he had a drink now. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah? That's why I sent you the card. And you obviously wanted to see me, too, or else you wouldn't have shown up. To tell you the truth—'cause that's what you wanted—I expected you not to."

I expected me not to, too. Life's funny that way. "Why?" Seth had to know.

Dean leaned over the table like he was about to let Seth in on a major secret. "Because I pity you."

That certainly wasn't a secret…was it? Seth leaned back, straightening his posture. "You pity me."

"Yeah. Look at you, Seth. You had the whole world. You had everything going for you…and one day—not even a day, one moment—was enough to take it all away."

Seth chewed on his lip. "I don't need to hear this," is what he wanted to say, but Dean carried on, and Seth didn't interrupt him.

"You are alone. You are so alone. And I think, in a way, ever since you left us, you've been alone. Triple H and Stephanie? They didn't care about you. They cared about looking good. You made them look good. The proof's on TV right now. What'd Hunter do as soon as you were out of the picture? Moved onto Roman. When he couldn't tempt Roman to turn to the dark side, he focused on Sheamus. A while later he figured, fuck it all, I'll be the champion. Now he's the man. That's all that mattered to those two the whole time. And I'm sorry you were blinded by a lust for power to see it until it was too late." Dean flattened his hands on the table. "You're a weasel, you're a traitor, you destroyed our family, you absolutely broke me…"

Seth was squirming in place. He felt suffocated. He wanted to get the hell out, get out, he didn't need Dean to list out all his character flaws when he tortured himself with them daily, nightly—

Dean anchored his beautiful, troubled eyes into Seth's. "But I still care about you. I feel so, so sorry for you. I meant it when I said you shouldn't have to be alone. Hence the card, hence us being here right now. Because in spite of everything, I care. A lot. More than I should."

"You really shouldn't," Seth grumbled, jaw locked, voice quaking. "After all I did, I don't deserve to hear this from you."

"Shut up and listen," Dean snapped. "It's not about what you deserve. It's about what you have. Some people deserve the world and get shit. Some people don't deserve a thing, but they got too damn lucky, too many breaks. If I got everything I deserved in life, I'd be rotting in jail. If you got everything you deserved in life, you'd probably be hospitalized. Or dead. What do you have, Seth?"

"Don't make me answer that, because I know the answer, and I fucking hate it."

"I know the answer, too. At least you're not living in denial. Me? I've got a lot. A title on my shoulder, the career of my dreams, a two-hundred and fifty pound Samoan as a best friend. I worked my ass off, and I've got a lot to show for it. So you'd think I'd be happy. But I've learned something over the years. It ain't about what you deserve, man. It's what you have. And if I don't have you, Seth…" His voice broke unexpectedly, and he licked his lips again. The eyes were sad, yet still not lacking in allure. "It's like not having anything."

Seth couldn't believe what he was hearing. He didn't even have words to answer with. So much for being one step ahead.

But Dean was no opponent.

Dean was…Dean was…

What the hell was he now?

"If I was gonna get over it by now, I would have," Dean went on. "Maybe I'm not meant to. Maybe I don't want to. Whatever the case is, I'm not. I'm not over you, Seth, I never was. Don't think I ever could be, if it's years later and I'm still thinking about you all the time. And hell. There are nights I just disregard what you did to me and remember the good times. That's how much I need you, Seth. When you love someone, you accept all of 'em."

"You love me?" Seth croaked.

Dean touched his fingers to his lips. "Think that's what my rambling was leading up to."

"And you're sure it's not the booze talking?"

"I've only had two drinks, including this one. I can hold my liquor."

Ah. So his impaired behavior before was simply Ambrose being Ambrose. Seth pressed his hands over his face. "Jesus, Ambrose, don't make me bawl like a bitch in front of all these people."

"Then let's get out of here."

Seth peeked at him between his fingers. "You serious?"

"Did I stutter?" Dean stood up, fishing for his keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. "Come on, my hotel's down the street. We can keep talking there."

"And by talking, you mean…"

Dean smiled, refusing to make eye contact as if doing so would let another secret slip. "I mean talking."

Talking did not mean talking.

That was made perfectly clear when the door closed locked behind them and Seth and Dean tore into each other, Seth's jacket and t-shirt sailing across the room, Dean's muscular form nearly ripping out of his muscle shirt on its own, without Seth's help.

Dean's lips fastened onto Seth's, fingers clawing at his bare chest, teeth nipping at Seth's bottom lip. He plowed Seth backwards until Seth fell over the bed. Dean didn't lose his control over Seth. He was assertive and aggressive without anger, dominant and powerful without harm. Seth surrendered to his emotions, surrendered to his current master Dean Ambrose. Slut for Ambrose, CrossFit will just have to wait its turn…

Dean wrestled Seth out of his jeans and rubbed Seth's swelling cock through his thin boxer shorts. Seth yanked on Dean's hair, muscles vibrating. It wouldn't take long for Dean to lose his jeans, discard them, discard everything, leave the whole world behind to take Seth Rollins up as his very own for the first time…

Seth would not be spoiled. He managed to slip Dean's boxers right off and got to work on rubbing him up and down, working him over. Dean was audible in his pleasure, while Seth managed to subdue his groans and cuss words to a pitch just above a whisper. For a little while, anyway.

"I missed you so much," Dean breathed, nibbling on Seth's earlobe while jerking him off.

"I missed you too," Seth whimpered, nearly in tears again. Fuck, this felt fantastic. Fuck, did he feel amazing inside and out. He couldn't even feel pain in his knee. And the voice that judged him, put him down, damned him every day, was gone. He could love himself because Dean loved him and he loved Dean.

He was worth it.

He could believe it.

Dean knew exactly what he was doing, and Seth lost control of himself when the orgasm hit. His body writhed, his fingers grabbed at the bedsheets and he groaned loud like he was singing. He'd came before Dean had, but it seemed that Seth's pleasure was all Dean needed to finish, himself. The sheets underneath them were stained with sweat and the juices of their climaxing organs.

Seth threw his head back and sighed. "Fuck. I cannot believe we just fucking did that."

"Long overdue, I'd say," Ambrose whispered in his ear, erecting goosebumps up both arms.

Seth was still catching his breath. Dean held him in his arms. "Did you mean it, Ambrose?"

"Did I mean what?"

"You said you loved me…did you mean it?"

"Totally not. I used you for sex and now I'm about to kick you out of my hotel room. I'm an ass, remember?"

Seth smiled. "I never told you that I did, too."

"Do you?" Dean grinned, trying to be cocky, but Seth sensed the warmth in his cheeks, even in the dark.

"I always have, Dean."

"Me too." Dean kissed Seth's nose, a tender act in total contrast to the animal he'd been just minutes ago. "Wanna stay the night?"

"Wouldn't mind it."

Dean kissed his chest again. "Happy Valentine's Day, Seth."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Dean."

Both bodies still bare, Dean was asleep minutes later, one arm over Seth's body, the other bent and tucked underneath his resting head. It would take Seth longer to get to sleep, but that was alright. It only meant he was awake to enjoy the moment a little longer.

He'd gotten up today thinking he was scum of the earth, still dead to Ambrose, dead to any emotion but self-despise.

He got to end the day knowing what crap that was, and believing in himself in a new way.

Just like exercise on a damaged knee: any workout that didn't end in tears and searing pain, he'd count as progress.