Claire Keane
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Janaina Medeiros
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
KIROKAZE
YOU ARE THE REASON
sheepfilms
art blog(derogatory)
No title available
we're not kids anymore.
Three Goblin Art
No title available
izzy's playlists!
tumblr dot com
No title available
Cosimo Galluzzi
Cosmic Funnies
styofa doing anything
oozey mess
pixel skylines
seen from Romania
seen from France
seen from Russia
seen from Australia
seen from Iraq
seen from Australia
seen from Brazil
seen from Netherlands
seen from Honduras
seen from Myanmar (Burma)
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@burrowbby
welcome.
what i write: mostly short fics, but open to anything.
who i write for: currently joe burrow, but open to others.
my work: if you’re new, i'd suggest starting with this. full masterlist can be found here.
requests: my ask box is open.
&.⠀⠀FIC RECS⠀⋆⠀joe burrow.
disclaimer⠀...⠀i tried my best to stick to writers that are still active to encourage interaction. i hope you discover your new favorite writer! most of these recommendations are from the last year or so. didn't tag because i didn't like how it was fucking up my layout. any fics, blurbs, headcanons, that fall under an umbrella series are linked under the general series header.
some fics are tagged as mature containing sexual content. please do not read/interact with these works if you are under 18. i am not responsible for your media consumption, so please be sure to heed relevant warnings and proceed with caution.
(⋆) = black!reader/writer.
masterlist | jb9
oldest 𐃘 recent ︳✦ = most popular
in plain sight
dinner could wait
the berry and the bark
quiet apologies ✦
under the stove light ✦
joe relationship headcanons ✦
joe x pregnant wife!reader headcanons ✦
what do you think joe would be like with wife!reader when she's pregnant + after baby is born?
the softest play he’s ever made
summary: my take on what joe would be like as a dad (to be)
telling him you’re pregnant: joe would be speechless. not in a bad way—just quiet, hesitant. you can see his mind racing, all those thoughts he never says out loud. would he be a good father? is he ready for this? he’s happy—you can tell—but he doesn’t know how to show it yet. he holds the test in his hand, shaking a little, staring at it like it might talk back to him. and then his eyes find yours. that soft smile that only ever appears when he looks at you. “you’re pregnant.” you barely get a word in before he pulls you into him, arms tight, test still in his hand. “we're going to be the best parents,” he whispers against your forehead.
buying baby things: you thought you’d be the one obsessing over baby shopping. you were wrong. it starts the second you tell him. baby clothes, toys, books—he doesn’t even wait a day. half the packages arrive before you’ve even processed what’s happening. “joe, do we really need five baby burrow jerseys?” “yes,” he says, deadpan, like you just asked something ridiculous. and by the time your baby shower happens, you don’t even need gifts. joe’s already bought everything.
finding out the gender: he’s not the gender reveal party type. no confetti, no crowd, no cameras. just a private moment for the two of you, envelope from the doctor between you. he opens it slow, reads it once, then again, like it might change. then he looks at you—that’s all he needs, that’s enough. no big announcement, no performance. and best of all—you get to tell everyone yourselves. a secret to share when you’re ready.
morning sickness: he’s always up first, already awake when he hears you running to the bathroom. he’s right behind you—no words, just quiet help. holding your hair, rubbing your shoulders, whispering soft things near your ear. after, you lean back against his chest on the bathroom floor for a few minutes, letting his hand trace lazy circles on your arm. and he never complains. not once.
cravings: joe’s seen things he can’t unsee. ice cream with pickles. peanut butter on pizza. he just stands there, eyes squinted, jaw tight, like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. “there’s no way you’re eating that,” he says, voice flat, disbelief all over his face. “the baby wanted it,” you shrug. he groans, rubs a hand over his mouth—that you’ve got to be kidding me look—but still ends up at the store at midnight when you want something else questionable.
mood swings: he never takes it personally. you snap, cry, roll your eyes, and he just...takes it. calm, patient, quiet. “you done?” he’ll ask, not mean, just teasing. and when you sigh, “yeah,” he pulls you close like it never happened. he knows it’s not really you—it’s everything else. but he’s steady enough for both of you.
when your bump starts to grow: this is where joe changes. protective doesn’t even begin to cover it. his hand’s always on you—your waist, your back, your bump. you can’t walk through a doorway without him guiding you, muttering something about sharp corners like it’s a national threat. you complain about the bump, the weight, the ache—“i hate this thing,” you huff after dropping the remote you can’t reach. joe scoffs, “hey. our baby’s in there. don’t say that.” and then he grabs it for you, grin still on his face. and when you say you feel big or tired or not yourself, he doesn’t even let you finish. “you’re beautiful,” he says. and he means it every single time.
quiet nights: sometimes the nights are long. the baby kicks, you can’t sleep, and it’s all too much. “can’t sleep?” he mumbles, already awake. you shake your head, and he moves closer, head resting on your chest, hand finding your bump. he talks to the baby sometimes, low enough you barely hear it. and even when you finally drift off, he stays like that—listening, waiting, calm.
picking out baby names: you ask him for ideas, and he smirks, “what about joe jr?” you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. he grins like he’s proud of himself, already laughing at his own joke—the first of what’ll probably be years of dad jokes you’ll have to endure. truthfully, he doesn’t care what the name is. he lets you pick. he just likes hearing you say them out loud, watching your face light up when one feels right. “i like that one,” he’ll say, or, “that's cute,” or, “i don't know about that one.” short, simple replies, but you can tell he’s imagining it.
to the hospital: joe's the most prepared man on earth. hospital bags packed days in advance, lists double-checked, chargers, snacks, your favorite sweatshirt—everything he could think of. he swore he'd stay calm when the time came. and somehow, he does. he drives fast but careful, one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around yours. and when you arrive, he's the one talking you through each breath, brushing hair from your face, pretending not to be nervous. the doctor says, “let’s have a baby,” and joe just grins—“you heard her.” his hand never leaves yours. steady voice, soft encouragement. “you’re okay,” he whispers, “you’re doing so good.”
holding the baby for the first time: he goes silent—really silent. no grin, no joke. just pure disbelief. all the tension gone, just awe. he holds the baby like he's afraid he might break them, scared to breathe too hard. eyes tracing every inch like he's trying to memorize them. his thumb traces the baby's hand, then he looks at you—that soft, proud kind of look—and says, almost under his breath, “you did that.”
taking care of you after: you're his entire focus. no phone, no distractions—just you. he doesn't let you lift a finger. he's the one adjusting your pillows, bringing you water, making sure you eat. if you even try to get up, his voice comes low and sure, “sit down. i’ve got it.” he sets up the bathroom for you, guides you there slow, steady hand at your back, whispering “careful, i’ve got you,” when you move too fast. and when you start to worry about the baby, he just shakes his head. “the baby’s fine. the nurses will handle everything. just get some rest.” and when you finally close your eyes, he just watches for a minute, still whispering, “i’m proud of you.”
if it's a boy: the resemblance is ridiculous. same eyes, the same stubborn curls on the back of his head, grin, even that tiny furrow in his brow. you’re holding him when joe leans over, studying the tiny face. “he looks just like you,” you say. joe shakes his head, smirking, “you didn't even stand a chance. that’s me.” and he’s right. a baby joe—it fits too well. and he can't stop staring at his son, at this perfect miniature version of himself. later, you’ll hear it constantly: “did your genes even try?” you’ll roll your eyes every time, but secretly, you love it. your boys.
if it's a girl: she's all you. same eyes, same tiny frown. he waited nine months to meet her, and now that she's here, he's taking it all in—admiring every little detail. you see it the second he holds her—the gentleness, the awe. he's quieter with her. softer. his thumb brushing over her tiny hand like it's made of glass. he says it for the first time when he hands her back to you: “my girls.” and from that moment, it's his favorite phrase. she’s got him wrapped around her finger already, and he doesn’t even try to fight it.
what are your joe relationship headcanons?
control, care, and everything in between
summary: my take on what joe’s like as a boyfriend (the joe i write about)
he’s the type to show love quietly. not the loud kind, but the kind that lives in all the small things—hands on your waist when you pass by him, how he turns down the volume when you fall asleep on the couch, and the way he opens the door before you can even reach for it. and it makes your heart swell every time.
he’s the type to know when something’s off. you could smile all day, and he’ll still catch the difference in your tone. doesn’t ask right away, just presses a kiss to your hair and waits until later, when it’s quiet. then there's always a soft “you want to tell me what’s really wrong?”
he’s the type to get quiet when he’s mad. doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. just stands there, jaw tight, eyes dark, and somehow, that’s worse than yelling.
he’s the type to hate when you leave during an argument. catches your wrist every single time, firm but never rough. “we’re not done.” and even if you roll your eyes, the way his thumb grazes your hand says it’s not about control—it’s about putting whatever you're arguing about to an end.
he’s the type to hate jealousy but love the reminder that you’re his. he doesn’t make a scene, just slides a hand to your lower back when someone else gets too close. his thumb traces slow circles, but the look he gives you tells you everything you need to know about how he feels.
he’s the type to text short, direct things—on my way. be there in ten minutes. don’t be late. and when you tease him for never using emojis, he just mutters, “i hate them.”
he’s the type to hate being teased in front of people. he’ll let you get away with it, smile through it even—but when you’re alone later, that look changes. “you think you’re funny?”
he’s the type to remember everything. what you ordered the first time you went out, how you like your coffee, the song you play on repeat even when it makes you cry.
he’s the type to come up behind you while you’re getting ready, press a kiss to your bare shoulder, and mumble, “you always take forever, you know that?”—but he never actually minds waiting.
he’s the type to drive with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, always reaching for you like it’s instinct.
he’s the type to be gone all day, then come home and go straight for you. not dramatic, not rushed—just a quiet “hey, baby” against your neck, like everything else can wait.
he’s the type to make you feel safe in every small way possible—his arm thrown over you in bed, the way he checks the door locks twice, the way his voice drops low when he says “i’ve got you.”
he’s the type to be stubborn about leaving the bed on slow mornings—he'll groan, pull you closer, and say “five more minutes” even though you both know it’ll turn into thirty.
he's the type to notice the smallest things—the ring on your finger you always fidget with, the tone in your voice, the new color on your nails—he doesn’t point them out, just gives that small look that says he did.
he’s the type to always pay. he pays for everything—dinner, gas, coffee, all of it, and doesn’t even think about it. you could have your card out and he’d just shake his head, already handing his over. “i got it,” like it’s not up for debate.
he’s the type to sit through your reality shows, pretending he’s not paying attention—but ten minutes in, he’s making comments, picking favorites, and asking, “wait, didn’t she just say she wasn’t here for drama?”
he’s the type to do things for you even when he swears it’s ridiculous—matching sweaters for the holidays, holding your purse while you shop, sitting through a rom-com because you wanted to see it. he complains once, then does it every time.
he’s the type to go silent when you cry—not cold, just steady. thumb brushing your cheek, a quiet, “hey, look at me,” before pulling you close. no big words, just a calm presence that always finds you. and he'll never let you apologize for crying. “don’t do that. you’re allowed to feel things.”
he’s the type to hate selfies. hates when a camera is even on him, period. but has a thousand pictures of you—sleeping, laughing, half blurry, all his favorite.
he's the type to not be good with words, but his actions say everything. a jacket over your shoulders. a hand in your hair. the car started before you even get outside.
overall, he’s the kind of man who shows love in quiet ways—protective without being possessive, calm until you test his patience, steady enough to make everything around him feel safe. the kind of love that feels like home, even when he doesn’t say a word.
under the stove light
summary: past midnight, quiet kitchen, and joe’s hands everywhere but the stove.
it was way past midnight.
you’d done nothing but stir in bed, trying not to wake joe—though he was already half awake himself. every time you shifted, he stirred too.
eventually, you sighed and got up, deciding maybe a snack would help.
of course, you didn’t get far without him. you didn’t even hear him follow you—joe moved like a ghost.
he leaned against the doorway, watching as you looked through cabinets and the fridge, mumbling to yourself. when you paused in front of the pasta, he raised a brow. pasta? at midnight? he almost laughed. he thought you meant a snack—something small, something simple.
but whatever his girl wanted, she got.
you reached for the pot, and before you could even grab it, joe’s voice came from behind you—low, steady. “sit down. i got it.”
“joe,” you sighed, “go back to bed. i’m fine.”
“not happening.”
he moved you aside like he owned the space, setting you on the counter like it was the easiest thing in the world. the marble was cold beneath your thighs, a sharp contrast to how warm you felt watching him take over.
this was joe in his element—quiet, confident, entirely in control.
you watched as he moved around the kitchen, filling the pot, tossing in salt, waiting for it to boil. you noticed the wooden spoons beside you and leaned to grab one, but joe caught the motion, cutting his eyes toward you.
“told you to let me handle it,” he murmured, his voice dropped even lower. “i got it.”
you sat back, whispering, "you're ridiculous. it's just pasta."
"then let me be ridiculous," he said, without missing a beat.
so you stayed there, legs swinging lightly off the counter, watching him move in the soft light of the stove. at some point, he turned off the overhead lights, leaving just that dim glow, painting everything in gold.
when he came over, he stood between your knees, hands settling on your waist like they belonged there. his touch was slow, tracing over your hips, down to your thighs.
“you couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly.
“no.”
“should’ve told me.”
“you were half asleep, joe.”
“so?”
you smiled, shaking your head. “you think i can’t handle boiling noodles?”
he smirked, leaning in closer until his breath hit your jaw. “no, i just like handling things for you.”
his voice was softer now, that low, teasing edge that always got to you. his fingers slipped from your waist to your thighs, tracing slow lines against your skin like he was memorizing it.
“you’re trouble, you know that?” he murmured, smirking as his eyes flicked down to your outfit—one of his old shirts, and not much else.
you laughed under your breath, and that sound alone made him smile. the two of you might’ve stayed like that if not for the faint hiss from the stove. joe groaned, stepping away reluctantly.
“almost burned dinner,” he muttered.
“it’s not dinner,” you teased.
“it is now.”
he reached for the sauces, holding up two jars. “red or white?”
“red.”
“figured,” he said, smirking again as he poured it into the pot.
when it was done, he tested the noodles himself, stirring them once before turning back to you. “taste it,” he said. you reached for the spoon, but he didn’t hand it over—just kept his hand over yours, steady and warm, guiding it to your lips. the spoon brushed against your mouth, his eyes on you the whole time.
“good?” he asked quietly.
you nodded, and he smiled, slow and knowing. “told you. worth waiting for.”
by the time you were finished eating, you realized he'd done it all without complaint. just quiet care—his hand resting on your knee as you sat on the counter, sharing a plate under the soft stove light.
"at least let me wash the dishes?" you asked, biting back a smile because you already knew the answer.
"no chance."
how about joe apologizing after a fight?
quiet apologies
summmary: you and joe spend the morning together after an argument.
you'd always heard people say "never go to bed angry." but last night, you and joe did exactly that.
you both went to bed quiet, backs turned, the space between you colder than it should've been. neither of you reached out. neither of you said goodnight. stubbornness won over softness, and for once, you let it.
you couldn't even remember what the fight was about anymore. something small, probably. it always was. but neither of you were ready to be the first to break the silence.
when you woke up, joe wasn't beside you. the sheets were cold. but the smell in the air—warm, familiar—made your chest tighten a little. pancakes. your favorite.
you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, still groggy, and padded downstairs. the sound of a pan scraping against the stove told you he'd been there cooking for a while. joe looked like he'd already done his morning workout. sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, moving around the kitchen like he was trying to keep busy.
he hadn't noticed you yet. you quietly moved toward the counter, subtly making your presence known, pretending to be casual as you start the coffee. the soft hum filled the quiet, and for a second, joe's head turned to you. but he didn't say anything.
the smell of coffee soon mixed with everything else in the air, heavy and warm. you grabbed two mugs—one for you, one for him. a peace offering in caffeine form.
joe finished up the breakfast, plating pancakes stacked high. he sat your plate down at your usual spot at the table. another unspoken gesture, an apology in the way he always made your plate first.
you handed him his coffee, taking a sip of your own. you made it just how he liked it. he gave you a small smile—the kind that said thank you without saying it.
you both sat down, side by side. shoulders slightly touching because you were so close. no words, just quiet comfort. the fight was forgotten, whatever it was didn't matter anymore.
halfway through eating, joe's hand found it's way to your thigh. gentle, almost hesitant, like testing the waters. his thumb traced small circles there, and you didn't move away. it was his was of saying i'm sorry. and your way was letting him stay there.
outside, the morning sun crept through the window, lighting up the table in soft gold. the world was calm again.
you turned to joe, catching him already looking at you. both of you smiled—quiet, knowing, forgiven.
you leaned into his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to your hair. "i love you," he murmured, barely above a whisper.
you hummed softly, eyes closing as you let yourself fall into him.
can you maybe write something with grumpy x sunshine for joe?
the berry and the bark
summary: sunday mornings were never joe's thing. but for you, he made them sweeter.
pt.2
joe didn’t want to go.
you knew that the second you pulled the covers off him that morning and he groaned like you’d committed an actual crime.
“do i have to go?”
“it’s too early.”
“there’s no way this is how you want to spend a sunday.”
those were all the complaints from joe. and you’d heard it all—for thirty straight minutes.
he wasn’t even trying to hide his misery, sitting on the edge of the bed, hair a mess, rubbing his face like you were dragging him to war instead of a farmers market.
you reminded him—gently, but firmly—that you’d told him last night about your plans.
he thought you were kidding.
you never were.
“the earlier we go, the faster we can leave,” you told him.
“yeah, sure,” he mumbled, but you caught the tiny grin pulling at his lips. he secretly loved how excited you got about things like this.
so there you two were. joe trailing behind you in sweats, a backwards hat, and sunglasses that practically screamed don’t talk to me, while you bounced from booth to booth, happily taking a sample from everything you could get your hands on. berries, honey, drinks, little wedges of cheese that made you hum after every bite.
joe followed slowly, hands in pockets, watching you light up at every stand.
“look how cute this is,” you said, holding up the tiniest pumpkin you’d found.
he groaned. “yeah, so cute,” he said, deadpan.
you just rolled your eyes.
he was going to be even more annoyed when he found out what you were planning next—carving pumpkins together.
you bought way too much. fruits, candles, decor, a jar of cinnamon sticks you didn’t need but couldn’t resist. joe didn’t say a word. he just paid for everything and carried the bags while you moved on to your next find.
somewhere along the way, he disappeared. you figured he was hiding somewhere in the shade, avoiding the crowd.
meanwhile, joe had wandered off toward a small flower stand he’d noticed earlier. the florist was rambling about how the flowers wouldn’t last much longer with the colder weather coming, but joe barely listened—he just grabbed the flowers and paid.
you had went back to the pumpkin patch, ready to make your final picks—one for you, one for him.
but as you finished, joe was already walking toward you. and in his hand? flowers. your favorite kind.
“aw, joe, are those for me?”
“who else?” he said, that familiar teasing grin tugging at his lips.
you smiled, feeling that quiet warmth settle in your chest. joe really could be sweet when he wanted to be—or when he wasn’t busy being a grouch.
he looked down at the two pumpkins by your feet.
“i don’t even want to know what those are for,” he muttered, already sighing in defeat.
you laughed, reaching up to fix the brim of his hat. “you’ll see.”
the drive home was quieter. your flowers sat in your lap, and joe’s hand rested lazily on your thigh, tracing idle circles with his thumb as he drove.
it wasn’t the morning he wanted—but seeing you happy, smile soft and eyes sparkling in the early fall light—yeah, he’d do it all over again just for you.
even if it meant another sunday out of bed before ten.
dinner could wait
summary: you and joe had dinner reservations. too bad neither of you made it there.
warnings: allusions to smut but nothing actually happens.
joe went all out. the hotel was far too luxurious for a simple friday night. top floor, skyline view—the kind that made the city look like a painting. rose petals scattered across the bed, a bottle of wine already waiting on the table. there wasn't even an occasion. no birthday, no anniversary, joe just wanted to take you out.
the two of you were getting ready. you sat on the floor in front of the full-length mirror, adding the finishing touches to your makeup. your robe was soft, warm against your skin, it was hard not to melt into.
joe had just come out of the bathroom, buttoning his suit as he walked out. he looked good—too good—and from the way he adjusts his cuffs, he definitely knows it.
he stops behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. you tried not to stare but fail, watching as he fixed all the small details. he smooths down the crease on his pants and runs his fingers through his hair, fighting that one strand that refused to stay in place.
"oh, don't stop just because i walked in," he teases, catching your gaze.
you laugh softly, breaking eye contact only to gather your makeup and put it away. joe reached a hand out to help you up, and when you took it, his eyes didn't leave you. you walked over to the bed where your dress had been laid out—sparkly, long, and impossible to ignore. it matched your heels perfectly, both of which joe picked out himself.
he was a little disappointed when you insisted on changing in the bathroom instead of in front of him, but it made the reveal that much better. while you were gone, joe busied himself deciding which cartiers matched his suit the best. "is black on black too much?" he muttered to himself. "or does the silver not match all?"
you stepped out before he could decide, and at that moment, he had forgotten what he was even doing. you didn't just walk out—you appeared—graceful and slow, like time gave you space to exist.
"can you zip my dress for me?"
joe didn't answer, he just stared for a moment before pulling you closer. his touch lingered as he zipped you up, slow and delicately. you bent down to grab your necklace, and before you could even ask, joe was already hooking it for you.
you admire yourself in the mirror, the two of you framed perfectly together. his hands moved down to your waist, and suddenly the only thing that felt more perfect than the way your dress hugged your figure was the way his hands felt as he touched you. he leans in, lips grazing your shoulder, leaving soft kissing that trailed towards your collarbone.
"you're beautiful," he murmured against your skin.
you hummed, trying to sound composed. "we're going to be late, you know."
he laughed quietly, but didn't let go.
you eventually pulled away, going to the bed to put on your heels. joe followed, kneeling in front of you, getting his hands on your heels first. his touch was gentle, thumb brushing against your ankle as he slips the strap around it. the moment lingered—quiet and charged.
you tried to stand, but he didn't move. still kneeling as he looks up at you, eyes soft but pleading. that look. the one that said everything without needing words.
"joe," you warned, your tone firm but playful. "reservations are at nine."
he smiled—the kind of smile that made your whole act pointless. he knew you didn't actually care to stop him. you were enjoying his teasing.
he rose to his feet, and you followed. you take one more quick look in the mirror to steady yourself.
"are you ready now?" you ask.
joe glanced at his watch, then back at you with the same look as before. "we've still got a few minutes."
you barely had time to roll your eyes before he closed the space between you—slow, sure, giving you just enough time to tell him no if you really meant it. but you didn't. his hands found your hips, guiding you back until you hit the edge of the bed.
and then he was towering over you. a kiss. slow. certain. his hands found your waist again, yours slipped into his hair, and suddenly the reservation didn't matter anymore.
dinner could wait.
joe said in an interview before that he wears sunglasses inside public places because he likes to people watch so can you write something about that?
in plain sight
summary: you were only there for a drink. he was only there to blend in. neither of you expected the staring contest.
warnings: swearing, drinking. nothing too crazy.
june in cincinnati is already hot enough without being pressed into a crowded bar full of strangers.
this wasn’t your idea—your friends dragged you out, swearing it’d be fun.
most people here are hunting for something. someone to take home, someone to go home with.
you just wanted a drink. something cold, something simple, somewhere quiet enough to finish it.
your friends had already vanished into the noise, all of them probably flirting with someone whose name they wouldn’t remember tomorrow.
you find a seat at the bar. alone, but not lonely. you liked it this way.
neon lights flash against the walls, the dj’s remix shakes the floor, condensation slides down your glass. perfect conditions for your favorite habit—people watching.
you like inventing lives for strangers. building stories from posture, expression, the way they hold a glass. it’s dramatic, maybe a little sarcastic, but it passes time.
the only rule? don’t get caught. once someone catches you watching, it ruins the game.
but you can’t help it—you keep your eyes moving.
the guy in the tux? rich, probably a narcissist.
the girl ignoring her drink? first date, no second one coming.
and the guy who just left with someone new? predictable.
then you see him.
tucked into the corner, laughing at something his friend said. dimples cutting through the glow of the lights, smile like he doesn’t even realize what it does to people.
you tell yourself you’re just looking—but your stare lingers longer than you meant it to.
he’s got a piece of hair that keeps falling across his forehead no matter how often he pushes it back. it’s unfair how good that looks on him.
and the sunglasses? really? inside? you’d laugh if he didn’t somehow pull it off.
it’s not people watching anymore. it’s you, tracing details of someone who feels slightly untouchable.
but you still don’t look away.
─
joe rarely comes out like this.
too many nights he’s learned the same lesson—attention never feels good when it isn’t earned. the cameras, the fans, the constant performance. he hates it.
but it’s june. off-season. too warm for another quiet night at home. his friends wanted to go out. fine. he’d play along, have a few drinks, try to be normal.
the glasses help. they always do. half armor, half excuse to look without being looked back at.
he zones out halfway through the night, his friends still retelling a story he’s already heard twice. same punchline, louder laughs.
so he lets his gaze wander.
that couple over there on a first date maybe? probably their last.
that guy—too drunk, already lost his wallet.
is he wearing a chiefs jersey?
and then he finds you.
you’re at the bar, far end. you think you’re being subtle, but he can tell. he can feel it. that steady, unhurried kind of stare. not flirting exactly—just observing. curious. interested.
and he’s interested right back.
the light hits you once, then again, every time the disco ball turns. your mouth parts slightly when you notice something you like, maybe him.
he wants to keep watching, but someone slaps his back and laughs too loud beside him.
“you good, man?”
“yeah.”
he isn’t.
“pool table just opened up, let’s go.”
joe nods, even though he doesn’t want to move. the corner had air conditioning, and a view he wasn’t ready to give up.
─
you lose sight of him.
he’s gone—probably left, probably didn’t even notice you.
“y/n! come on, we got a table!”
you sigh, finish your drink, and follow.
it’s chaos by the pool tables—two groups walking up at once. a small standoff.
then a truce. “girls versus guys. losers buy shots.”
your friends are already in, laughing and shaking hands. you’re barely listening until you catch sight of him again.
he’s here. standing in the back, cue stick in hand, still wearing those sunglasses.
closer now. taller than you expected, shoulders broad enough to block the light. he doesn’t look like he wants to be here, but he’s here anyway.
and when his friends start to move, his eyes find yours. the same quiet stare. that unspoken acknowledgment—there you are.
joe watches you from across the table. your friends talk over each other, arguing who goes first, while his buddies act like this is the world championship.
he’s not listening. not to them, anyway.
he’s watching you. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the faint roll of your eyes when the game drags. he smirks when you mumble, “can we hurry up already?”
“ladies first,” he says when it’s finally your turn. his voice low, calm.
you lean over the table. your friends cheer. his friends boo. joe joins in, grinning. “no pressure.”
you miss—barely—and he doesn’t let you forget it.
you gesture at him. “your turn.”
joe steps up, overconfident. the cue hits the ball too hard and it rockets off the table, nearly hitting you. gasps. laughter.
he stands there, stunned, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s… not how i meant for that to go.”
you laugh. “that’s the best you could do?”
“like you did any better.”
“at least my ball’s still on the table.”
the game goes on, noise and light spinning around you both. every glance, every grin, every little exchange—too easy. too natural.
─
the girls win. the guys buy shots.
people drift, music softens, the night thins out a little.
you head toward the corner again—the one with the air conditioning. his corner. he told you to meet him there.
you find it empty for a moment, then he’s back. two drinks in hand.
“for the winner,” he says, sliding a shot your way.
you take it. it burns in the best way.
“still can’t believe you launched that ball off the table,” you tease.
“yeah?” he smirks. “did you like that?”
“loved it.”
“might add it to my highlight reel.”
“right next to your nfl stats?”
“exactly.”
you both laugh. the air hums between you.
then—quiet. just the beat of the music in the background.
“so,” joe says, eyes on you over the rim of his glass, “you gonna tell me why you were staring at me all night?”
“me?”
“yeah, you.”
you laugh softly. “why are you acting like you weren’t staring at me too?”
“i wasn’t staring,” he says. “i was observing.”
“observing?”
“people watching.”
you shake your head. “funny. that’s my favorite hobby too.”
“guess we’ve got something in common.”
he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. his voice drops just enough to make your chest tighten.
“so what are you thinking now?”
you blink. “what do you mean?”
“you’re still looking at me. what story are you making up in your head this time?”
you smirk. “oh, i’ve already got you figured out.”
“yeah?”
“terrible at pool. a little too confident. thinks those sunglasses make him look mysterious.”
joe laughs, the kind that rumbles low in his chest. “not bad.”
you tilt your head. “what about me?”
he thinks for a moment, then says, “you pretend you’re just here for the drinks, but i think you like being watched too.”
you hold his gaze. your smile falters just slightly, breath caught somewhere between your throat and his words.
the lights, the noise, the crowd—it all fades.
it’s just you and him now. two people in a room full of strangers, locked in the same quiet, steady current neither of you is trying to fight.
and maybe that’s enough.
