baessist

•call me ish(mael)•26• you make me feel like i am whole again.

[remanence-of-love]

[calumslovesong]

idk if you've seen but HOTM is like fully done. chapter 18, epilogue, and a bonus. are up on the main masterlist, if you need a link let me know!

omg how did i miss that?! i started a second job recently and life has been life-ing 😩. i know what i will be doing tonight 🙂‍↕️

[heyydolly]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 17: Chrysalis

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

Marlowe's CD to Joe (Playlist Version)

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

___________________________

It’s not supposed to be this hard—Joe knows this. Yet, he feels himself going around and around in a circle on this decision. It’s not a bad decision or even a hard decision he’s making, but it feels important. It is an important decision. Joe doesn’t want to do something cheesy of course and definitely doesn’t want to do anything that Marlowe won’t like either.

Crafts seem to be a thing she likes to do. Joe was the one that said her having an art phase seemed so her, so he’s not inherently off base with the idea. Joe knows that. Marlowe was the one who made the sock monkey, and his bracelet. So, it wouldn’t be a wrong decision. Besides, it’s clear that for Marlowe this time of year is not about material things. He’d prompted mostly in passing if there was anything she had her eye on over the last few weeks, attempting to gather intel on what to get her for Christmas. But Marlowe wouldn’t give him anything solid—shrugs, or head shakes to indicate no. Jewelry seemed obvious, from the rings and necklaces. But Joe doesn’t want to go just for the obvious either.

So that leaves him here—running around in circles on options. His pen flicks back and forth between his forefinger and middle finger.

Marlowe liked music. It was always playing. Any time he called her and she was driving, she’d have to dial the radio down to talk. On the occasions that she drove the two of them around, music played. Marlowe’s taste is rather eclectic on the whole. Though, Joe has managed to put together that she always gravitates back to R&B, some dancehall and Afro beats too. Where Joe listened mostly to hiphop, each time he slipped into her vehicle, he found himself anticipating the soft hum instead of the throaty rattle.

Marlowe’s presence soothed and that calm, the way Marlowe always felt like warmth and quiet, reflected into the music she listened to as well. But Joe would never consider himself well versed enough to think he could truly attempt to do much in that realm to give a gift. Joe would learn eventually about all her favorite artists. He’d learn all her quirks and be able to hear something in the wild and know if she’d like it or not. Until then, until Joe had more of a solid understanding of her preferences, it’s best not to risk it. Joe strikes through the idea of the back of some junk mail he’d intended on tossing, but then the ideas started rolling. Joe didn’t want to lose any of them and scratched them down on the white envelope.

Joe will keep music in mind for later. Come July or so, there’s a music festival the city holds. That could be interesting then, around their first year anniversary mark. The paper crinkles under the press of Joe’s pen, making a mental note to himself for later.

“Oh, what you smilin’ about?”

Joe glances up from his list and spies Tee grinning before he settles in to Joe’s left in the tiny airport seats. The windows are giant to their right, reflecting the bright morning back against their skin. “Nothing,” Joe laughs.

“Man, you can lie to anyone else, but you cain’t lie to me.” Tee’s eyes dart down before Joe can attempt to cover the list. “Homemade candles, eye color bracelets, DIY Christmas ornaments? What the hell is that?”

“Present ideas for Marlowe,” Joe sighs. He’s been caught red-handed, or rather blue penned as it would be.

“Oh my god, she got you sprung. A little spring chicken over here,” Tee laughs, slipping down against the seat. “Girls like jewelry and perfume and clothes.”

“They can like those, but that’s the stuff we get when we don’t know what else to do. Let’s be honest. I want to do something that Marlowe’s going to appreciate.”

Joe has a tangible gift, something to give to Marlowe too. He ordered it months ago, custom built for her. Though again he thinks his questions should’ve raised more suspicions in Marlowe. Especially when he teased her about the size of her ankle, his palm wrapped around joint, thumb resting on his own fingers given the size difference. He did pass it off as a joking gesture, tugging her down from the arm of the couch, with ‘Such a tiny little thing,’ falling from his lips around his laughter. She only laughed at him, pressing into his shoulder with her other foot, ‘It’s eight and three quarters. A perfectly fine sized ankle thank you very much’. It was an exact measurement. The very thing Joe needed that he was sure he’d have to come clean out, and yet, he didn’t.

“Smart.” Tee sits up just a smidgen more, phone now face down against his stomach. “So, she’s crafty, I take it?”

“Very.”

“Would she be the reason for your little travel friend?” Tee points down to the bag at Joe’s feet, where George is situated inside, his head sticking out. George is attached now to a chain—which was artfully threaded with George’s back by Marlowe— to the rectangular metal D ring at the ends of Joe’s travel bag, where his planet chain is currently connected too. When George isn’t clipped to his travel bag, the wire almost looks like a tail.

“That’s George,” Joe answers, “and Korey commissioned him for me as my birthday present.”

“Commissioned Marlowe, I bet,” Tee laughs.

Tee’s not wrong about that. Marlowe’s also the reason for Joe’s name stitched into the bottom of George’s right foot, and George’s own name embroidered under his left arm. Joe watched over her shoulder as she made careful measurements, sketched out on scrap fabric the exact dimensions and threaded needles. The work looked tedious and almost impossible from Joe’s perspective. But Marlowe insisted it was rather easy, and more importantly, she made it look as such. Grinning as she pulled purple threads in and out of the cotton. Even with her nails—trimmed shorter for the sake of her sport—she poked and pulled with ease.

“Yeah, Marlowe made him.”

“That’s kinda cute though. You taking him with you. Now you gotta send a picture of him at the airport and on the hotel bed.”

Joe hadn’t considered where he’d snap his photo. He knew he would want to send proof that he did indeed take George with him as promised. Inside the airport could be a nice one, so Joe fishes out his phone from the depths of his pockets. “Good idea.”

“I get those a time or two in my life.”

“Yeah, but only ever a time or two,” Joe teases as he eases his bag up against the glass. It’s quick work to fix George’s body so he faces towards the camera all before Joe bends down low enough to get a clear shot of the plane in the background.

“Oh, that’s cold.” Tee’s laughter eases around the words and once Joe’s satisfied with the picture—which takes a couple tries to avoid a massive glare—he loads it up in the thread with Marlowe. I think George is excited for his first adventure, Joe adds below before pressing send. “I guess you don’t want my thoughts on your craft ideas then. Since we playing dirty,” Tee hums.

Joe cuts his gaze up, looking up through his lashes. Given the time of day, he’s pretty sure Marlowe’s working on something, that she’ll probably respond when she takes her lunch—late, which seems to be her latest habit. Not that Joe’s been keeping track of it, he just happened to noticed that her responses come when she has a break, and given that, the response have been coming later and later in the day. Yet, some part of Joe hopes maybe he managed to catch her at the right time time each time he spends a text.

“I’m listening,” Joe returns.

“Naw, you said what you said. My lips are sealed.” Tee mimics like he’s zipped up his lips and tosses the invisible key back over his shoulder.

Joe stretches out as if to catch the key and then hands it back to Tee. “Hit me with it.”

“You supposed to be throwing, leaving the catching to me. But get a tree, invite her over. Decorate it. Do the ornaments and some other craft. If Marlowe’s crafty like you talking, she’ll eat it up.”

Now that—that’s a perfect idea. Joe nods. “We can make that two or three good ideas.”

Joe’s not a big decorator. It’s not that he doesn’t like the holiday stretch, it’s more so just the reality of the fact that his job’s crunch mode hits the second the air turns crisp. There’s never been a reason to decorate too much.

Until now.

Joe’s late on that whole decor train. Christmas is five days away, and the gift exchange with Marlowe is even sooner than that. Stores will be crazy. Had Joe had an idea like this earlier, he most certainly wouldn’t have to even pause. Nevertheless, Joe likes that idea—that he could invite Marlowe over and make it less of an exchange and more of an experience for her. It’s for Marlowe and truly Joe doesn’t have to think much more than that. He’d find a way to make this work. Come hell or high water. Fingers are flying before he can think twice about deviating from this. Hey, Justine. Random question—where would you say is the best place to get Christmas decor? I think I’m going to pick some up when I get back in town.

Justine’s response is prompt. If you tell me what colors you want or the vibe you’re going for, I can pick some up.

I appreciate the offer. This is something I want to do myself for Marlowe, just need a little guidance on where to start. It doesn’t even matter to Joe if it takes his entire day to get it all, but he does want to be able to say if Marlowe asks that it was all him. Things he liked, things he thought she might like too.

Sending you a list of stores to check out via email now, Justine returns.

Thank you.

Joe goes to exit that thread just as another buzz shakes his phone. George’s first flight! I’m picking up Korey today from daycare so I’ll show her first thing and let you know the response.

Joe takes note of the time. It’s not too late if she’s taking lunch now and he breathes a little easier. Thank you. Also, I know we planned for you to come over Tuesday evening to exchange gifts, but could we meet earlier than that? Around 1? We can have lunch and then have the rest of the day together too.

He needs a yes. He hopes and prays that Marlowe’s not somehow busy earlier in the day. Not that it wouldn’t work out if they met later, but now that he’s got the idea in his head he doesn’t want to let it go. Joe would love to spend the entire day with Marlowe, debating where to put the ornaments—a ritual that if Joe’s parents provide any example means that all good couples that will last have small tiffs over, like a badge of honor to denote that they’ll last forever.

Just as his message settles, the team’s rounded up—the plane ready for them. Joe pockets the device, and settles into the line, waiting for the shuffle up the jet bridge and into his seat. His phone shakes again, a soft vibration against his thigh and Joe’s swift, pulls the device back out now that he’s tucked into the seat.

I would love to.

“I know you’re here to pick up Auntie, but can I get—hmm—two minutes of your time?” Korey questions.

She’s positioned in front of Marlowe. The front door peeled open to reveal them both waiting for him. Joe laughs, stepping over the threshold. He nods at Korey’s question. “Yes, I have five if you need them. But can I get two minutes to say hi to your aunt first?”

Korey nods, but her lips are quirked into a smile, the kind of smile that Joe’s learned means a tease is coming. “Yes, yes, I know the drill.” She falls into the bench next to the door, one hand braced against her forehead. “I’ll just be over here. Waiting.”

“Bug,” Marlowe laughs, the nickname coming like a soft reprimand. Then Marlowe’s attention turns, settles onto Joe as he slides one arm around her waist. “We have to act fast. She’ll die if we don’t.”

“I’m CPR certified,” Joe offers around his shy smile as he stretches down to press a kiss to Marlowe’s temple. As always her scent’s the soft citrus, that quiet floral, and the hint of that earthy depths of her hair products. The color’s still the dark black as always and Joe does wonder if Marlowe would give him any kind of warning when she decided to change it or if she’d do like him and just do it. If one day she’d be the black wispy curls he’s always known her as and then the next, within just a blink, she’d be wearing a new color.

“Hi, Joe,” Marlowe whispers to him.

“Hi, baby.” At the use of the pet name, Marlowe squeezes around his waist, head tucking into his shoulder for just a brief moment. Hardly a minute, but somewhere north of 30 seconds. Not nearly long enough for Joe, but long enough that when she peels away from him, he starts to miss her solid frame nestled into his, warm though he knows her fingers and toes will undoubtedly be cold.

“How are the roads?”

It’s a cold winter. A much colder winter than anyone anticipated. A fresh dusting of snow fell last night—nothing major, but given how the temperatures are getting lower and lower in the night there is a concern about black ice though the snow’s not melted. “Not too bad at all.”

“Good. I’ll get my jacket and shoes while Korey takes over.”

“And do not grab that bag.”

Marlowe snorts, her nod still affirmative as it comes. “Aye, captain.”

Joe let’s Marlowe go fully only after taking another inhale of her hair during the second kiss pressed to her head—a quick action. Then he’s following Korey and Marlowe’s finding her boots. A clear divide and conquer strategy. Korey doesn’t lead him far, just into the kitchen. He can see already, held by the magnet turned ornament, is a printed out copy of the picture he sent Marlowe—George tucked into Joe’s travel bag, the bag pushed just up against the window of the airport.

“I put George’s picture up!” Korey declares, her voice full of pride.

Joe wonders if it was Marlowe’s doing or if Korey requested it. But the true answer doesn’t change the fact that the picture is there, on the fridge. “He did well,” Joe offers. It feels awkward at first. Joe knows the stuffed creature isn’t real and he’s sure Korey knows that too, but there’s something in the softness of her gaze. She looks at Joe with a certain wet gaze of expectation that he can’t let go unanswered. “Wasn’t a nervous flyer at all.”

Korey beams at the answer. “I’m glad. Planes make me a little nervous.”

“Yeah? What about them makes you nervous?”

“The shakes sometimes. Turd—,” Korey laughs at herself and shakes her head. “No, that’s not it.”

Joe wants to laugh, knows that Korey didn’t actually mean to misspeak. Around his smirk, he manages a sincere response. “I mean the shakes are kind of turd-like, I guess, in their own way.”

“Joe,” she laughs. “I didn’t mean to say turd. That’s not the word. Do you know what the world is?”

Korey’s second tut of laughter breaks Joe and he huffs out a short round of laughter. “It’s turbulence, Korey. I think that’s the word you were looking for.”

“Thank you. I don’t like turbulence.”

The word comes out a little mumbled, the middle of it smashed in on itself. But it’s still a strong attempt for a three year old. Enough so that Joe finds himself even more impressed. Though, he should except this from Korey, from the way that Marlowe and her family treat Korey.

“I can understand that,” Joe starts. “Turbulence’s not fun. Planes are pretty safe. The next time you have to fly, you can always borrow George.”

“Oh, but George is yours.”

“I know. But he’ll always be there if you need him. You’re pretty tough though.”

“I try to be as tough as I can. Thanks, Joe.”

“You’re welcome, Korey. But you are tough. Toughest kid I know that’s for sure.” Joe means it more than just facing planes—should she ever have to do it again as a kid. He still remembers the kid that told Korey no one loved her and how she wanted to be brave, how Korey was brave about it. How Korey seems to understand her situation, how things have played out for her, but still faces life with eagerness.

Joe parts with a hug to Korey, quick shouted goodbyes to Trey and Regina and then leads Marlowe out into the bitter cold. The drive to his place takes slightly longer than usual, Joe driving with more caution that he’d normally take, one hand resting on Marlowe’s knee. The radio is soft in the background—a station that took Joe some playing around with the tuning to find, but he keeps programmed and on because it reminds him of Marlowe.

Their conversation is soft, mostly soft exhaled thoughts even as Joe eases into his driveway. “I’m not a fan of eggnog,” Marlowe mutters. “I can’t believe you love it.”

“Oh, wait a minute now. I don’t like dream of eggnog, but I like to indulge in it during the holidays.”

“Sounds like you love it to me,” she laughs, a soft exhaled sound. The brake lights illuminate in the stillness of Joe’s garage before he eases the car into park.

“Oh, just for that,” Joe huffs, undoing his seat belt before he stretches across the console. Marlowe’s already shrieking, tucking herself into the corner of the door, but it’s no match for Joe who manages to pin her, several wet kisses pressed to her cheek before he manages a small nip at her jaw.

“Cannibalism is not sexy at all,” Marlowe huffs, wiping at her cheek.

“Not even from me?”

“No, not even from you.”

“I’m crushed,” Joe huffs. Marlowe snorts at his pout. “Really, I am. How could I not be sexy to you?”

“When you’re trying to eat my face. That’s how. But in all other instances, you are very sexy to me.” It’s offered with ease, her lips brushing at his nose as she speaks before her teeth graze over the tip—a rebuttal.

“I would think you’re sexy even if you were trying to eat my face.” Before she can respond, Joe angles down, pressing his lips to hers in a soft kiss. Marlowe hums and the rumbles travels, quivers against Joe’s flesh. It turns into a laugh after another quick kiss. “I would,” Joe reiterates.

“I know, baby.” It’s uttered sweetly, her palm cupping his cheek. Her tone lilts into a softness, melts under the three words. It’s not placating as much as it understanding, her words brushing over something that sounds like: I know you mean it because I know you. Because I love you.

It’s not the same, Joe knows that. He’s already had the pleasure of of hearing what those words sound like, how they make his stomach flutter and how he wants to hear them again, if he’s honest. Neither one of them has said it since his birthday. He’s much too afraid to taint the phrase, to use it carelessly with Marlowe. She’s cautious too. Marlowe doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean. He knows she never wants to say the wrong thing, never wants to give off the wrong impression.

Though Joe wants to say that three word phrase, he settles for another kiss. A proper kiss that leads to exhaling into each other’s mouth, an exchanging of breathes, fingers threading through hair. A kiss that steals oxygen, and even then, when there’s the echoing of their open mouthed labored breathing, Joe still goes in for more pecks as he inhales.

“I did not think I was on the menu for lunch,” Marlowe laughs.

“Were my earlier attempts at cannibalism too subtle?”

Her head tips back, the punch of her laughter brushing over Joe’s face before it echoes in the quiet and still car. The sound vibrates through Joe’s chest and he finds himself only able to watch. He takes in the way Marlowe curls up in on herself when she really laughs, a boisterous cackle the falls into a wheeze. The way she brings one leg up, arms pressed into her chest, head extended back. Her eyes are swallowed up in the folds of her skin, her full cheeks round out even more with her laughter. And though Joe’s not a fan of the beach—the sand is a thing of his nightmares, along with how bright and unforgiving the sun is—watching Marlowe laugh feels like the kiss of the cold ocean on his sun warmed skin in his first dip into the ocean. It feels like relief.

“I love the way you laugh.” Joe offers it only after they’ve crossed the threshold into the laundry room and Marlowe’s leading the way deeper into the house. Joe is right behind her with her bag slung over his shoulder and the sound of her laughing rings still in his ears.

“Yours is cuter than mine.”

“Well, I didn’t realize we were in a competition for cutest laugh, because I do agree you would lose. But—ow!” His sentence is interrupted by the back swat of Marlowe’s hand against his arm. A hit that doesn’t actually hurt, but does shock him.

Marlowe’s eyes are lit up with fire, a smile dancing at the edges of her lips but is clear she’s trying to hold back on. “You’re supposed to say I have a cute laugh.”

Marlowe has a loud laugh, a laugh that demands to take up space. A laugh that doesn’t care if it’s intruding, when she’s really laughing, when she feels safe not to worry about it. Joe loves that laughs, knows it comes from a feeling of security. It’s full, feels like an exhale when he hears it. Makes his toes curl and his stomach warm because it’s a reminder—he’s made her feel safe and at ease. “I’m sorry, babe. I have to be honest. I love it, but I wouldn’t quantify it as cute.”

“Joseph,” she hums, grinning now despite the use of his full name. It’s a warning that he most certainly won’t heed.

“Would you rather me lie?”

“No, of course not.”

Joe closes the gap between them, the step and a half ahead Marlowe was before she stopped gone. Her fingers are a tad chilly, but mostly warm against his palm and threaded through his fingers. “Your laugh is beautiful, and I love it. Just like I love you.”

“But not cute?” Marlowe retorts, a slight huff behind her words that gives way into indignation.

“Unfortunately, God as my witness, no.”

Marlowe gives his head a quick squeeze, stretching up just a few inches. “Be glad I love you too.”

The ghost of her breath brushes over his lips before hers do and Joe hums, “Trust me, I am,” as he eases out of the kiss. “I’m going to go put your bag upstairs and then I’ll be right back.”

The exit isn’t long by any means, a couple minutes at best. He halfway expects Marlowe to have perched herself onto the couch, a bottle of water on the coffee table as she scrolls through the channels and his streaming options. Instead, he finds her at the opening between the kitchen and the living room, one hip hitched out as the tip of the water bottle gesture out to the bags in the living room. The only thing removed from the box and assembled is the tree, nestled up into a corner. But the ornaments, the lights, reindeer statues, stockings, even the craft supplies are still nestled inside of their plastic, waiting to be cracked open. “Are you putting me to work while you just sit around?” It’s a clear jest, a piece of Marlowe that Joe never really gets tired of now that it’s come out more and more.

“No, actually, I went all day yesterday getting this so we could decorate together. I—I mean as you’ve seen, I don’t really decorate. But I don’t know,” Joe shrugs. “I’d like to do it with you, if you’d like? Create…newer memories for the holiday.”

Joe wouldn’t be wrong in saying why he’s making this offer, about how he knows that Christmas probably reminds Marlowe of her dead sister and dead grandmother. That they loved the holiday in the same ways Marlowe loves Halloween. He just wants her to find new ways forward, new ways through. Nothing can bring them back. Not even Joe can do that. Even though he promised to walk through his fire for Marlowe, alongside her too if she wanted or needed, he is powerless against death.

“You—you went out and got all this just to decorate for, what? The decorations to be up for a week? For me?”

“They’d make it at the very least to New Years,” Joe counters. “But yes, for you. Me too, because I know I really like spending the time with you. But for you, yeah.”

“New Years is a week from Christmas,” Marlowe laughs. A wet sound and her eyes are glassy—a detail Joe can pick out the closer he gets, crossing the full length of the living room, dodging around the the edges of the the plastic bags on the floor.

“Today’s the 23rd, they’d make it 9 days. Longer than a week, technically.”

“For a man that says those stars are pesky, you sure are heaven sent.”

Joe’s not sure what it is about Marlowe’s whispered confession but the words tighten as his chest, make his throat squeeze around his inhale. He’s certainly not a man he’d consider by most marking heaven sent. Don’t get him wrong. Joe wants her to feel that way about him. Joe wouldn’t deny that. In the back of his head, he found himself hoping, praying to the gods he didn’t even believe in that he was doing right by her.

Besides, Joe’s struggled a lot with romance, with this delicate thing that previously felt so contrived. He’s been a little unsure on if he knew how to do this. But with Marlowe, when it’s for Marlowe, it’s not necessarily about ease as much as it is that Joe wants to do it. He wants to find those ways that he can show up for her. He wants to find those ways that say I love you, I care about you. I see you. Without always having to use those words.

Marlowe deserves to know that he cares about her. Words don’t really mean much unless there’s an action to back it up, something tangible and seen as the brace. So, he’s always been about finding the action, finding the ways to show Marlowe. Even with this moment, Joe could show it, he could spend his entire afternoon scouring shelves, measuring the height to his ceiling to ensure he got the right plastic tree. Joe can do things better than he can always articulate them with words. Because he knows he’s capable, Joe makes every effort to show up.

That’s what this is. To Joe, this is just him showing up for Marlowe. To Marlowe though, it’s something much deeper. An answered hope for Joe and seemingly an answered prayer for Marlowe.

“I try,” Joe breathes. Because he does, he tries his hardest.

“We’ve talked about this,” Marlowe grins.

“Yes, yes, I know. The try is the doing. Like Yoda said. But I mean it,” Joe returns, taking her jaw between his palms. “I meant it when I said I’d weather August for you or any other month on the calendar that feels too heavy. I mean it that I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing this alone.”

“I don’t.” It’s reassurance in just two words—two softly uttered words.

“Good. That makes me happy to hear.” It makes his heart soar. He swears for a small moment in time he’s on cloud nine.

A moment that extends beyond the faux picnic Joe sets up in the living room too as Marlowe digs through the bags of decor around them. She clutches her bowl of the pasta salad that Joe’s chef made in one hand and rummages, soft hums coming intermittently. Joe outsourced the meal just this once in attempts at keeping his sanity. But there’s a surge of elation after their plates and bowls are returned to the kitchen and Marlowe finalizes the plan for the tree. Joe holds onto the giddiness of Marlowe’s grin as she hooks the gold tear dropped ornament—the first ornament to grace the fake green limbs. As much as Joe loved growing up with a real tree, he absolutely did not want to have to maintain it or clean up the needles himself.

It’s much more involved than Joe ever remembers it being, but he doesn’t mind, even as Marlowe’s softly redirecting some of his placement, her palm a steady stroke over his back, A little more to the left, maybe? and The top looks a little bare, baby. All adjustments that are easy to make. That Joe would make a thousand times just so when he looks over to Marlowe—either from the corner of his eye, or a full on stare as she works to thread a hook through the next ornament—he’s met with her smile. Over and over again. Joe’s sure Marlowe’s not stopped smiling ever since he suggested they eat first before decorating.

There’s a movie the plays that neither one of them really pays much attention to as they debating which string of lights to use for the fireplace—that Joe never uses, but does want to decorate— after getting the tree curated. The stockings will be next up on the mantle—for his mother, father, brothers, and nephews. He has one for Marlowe and one for Korey too. An extra treat he’ll surprise her with, but first they have to decide on the multicolor string lights or the solid red ones.

“I feel like that’s a lot of red,” Marlowe hums, “because the stockings are red, right? But would the multicolored ones clash too much?”

It's less of a debate between them and more of a debate with Marlowe against herself. “We still have one more string of white ones,” Joe offers.

“That’s such a safe choice. What do you think?” She spins, facing him now with her hands on her hips. Her sweatshirt from earlier has been peeled off, dropped onto the couch somewhere between them stringing lights on the tree and the ornaments.

Joe shrugs after a moment of Marlowe’s stare. “I’m far from an expert.”

“It’s your house,” Marlowe laughs.

“But it’s us decorating. So rank them. 1-3, one being the color you like the best, three the least.”

Marlowe turns back to the mantle, head shaking on her neck. The options dancing most likely in front of her mind’s eye. Joe watches her less concerned about the lights and more just about the way she looks, feet tucked into black fuzzy socks, Merry Christmas etched into the threads in white. The tank top reveals the tattoo along her spine. A detail that still stands out to Joe considering he does recall her mentioning once that she couldn’t commit to tattoos and yet, her skin still holds the dark ink.

“Red, white, then multicolored,” Marlowe answers, facing Joe again. “Yours?”

“Multicolored, white, then red.”

“You do not make this easy. Let’s see how the multicolored lights look first.”

Joe collects the box from the couch cushions, popping at the tape holding the box shut. “When’d you get the tattoo?” Joe questions.

“22 after I graduated college,” Marlowe answers.

“And it’s your only one?”

“One and only. I don’t think I have it in me for more.”

The lights slip out of the box in a bunch into her waiting hands. There’s an edge to the words, something about them that makes Joe look up—and though Marlowe’s fussing with the twist tie around the green wires, Joe can spot the slight frown on her face. “How’d Malia convince you? If you want to talk about it. I get it if not.”

“She didn’t want to get one alone.” There’s a wistful sigh, the exhale that Joe can tell is Marlowe going back to the moment, recalling the conversation or the exchange that put the entire plan into motion. “So I said I’d do it with her. And I know piercings are like, not easy, but they’re over much quicker. So I will not be sitting for another tattoo.”

“You don’t have to worry there,” Joe hums, taking the end of the lights that plugs into the wall and tugging them down to the outlet nearby, so Marlowe can see how much length she’s actually working with. “I am not a fan of needles.”

“Do you still ask for lollipops when you get shots?”

Joe looks up form his crouch to Marlowe paused midway through her stringing, part of the lights hanging from the hooks already, the other portion still in her hands. “You take that back. Lollipops are essential to any vaccination.”

Her laughter bubbles from her chest, focus returning on stringing up the rest of the lights. “If you say so."

When Marlowe finishes stringing them up, she plucks one of the stockings from the pile and hangs it, sliding out of the way and then urging Joe to stand after he gets the lights plugged in. “What do you think?”

The colors do clash a little, but Joe likes it—that it feels like home, like a collection of things that are him, but that are also Marlowe. Pieces of her woven into the mere fact that he even decorated. Touches of her from the way the star is settled at the top of the Christmas tree, to the way the lights are threaded up on the mantle. It’s him and it’s her. It’s the intermingling.

“Just needs a couple of things,” Joe notes, slithering off to the side.

The bag of stockings holding Marlowe’s and Korey’s is tucked behind the pile of Christmas presents for his family assembled into bags. He’s not much of a gift wrapper and opts for the bags to save himself the embarrassment. Marlowe’s gaze is warm over his skin as she watches. He eases the ‘J’ stocking towards the middle of the the mantle and then unearths the two with an ‘M’ and ‘K’ respectively on them to go on the right and left.

“There. That’s better.”

“It does scream Joe.” Marlowe’s sentence falls in a whisper.

For a moment, Joe’s anticipating a rebuttal, some kind of commentary about how they lights need to be swapped out for another color. He’d agree—begrudgingly at that—that the multicolored lights weren’t doing any favors to the rest of the room. But the room’s heavy with gold, greens, a few pieces of red to stay on theme with Christmas. There was temptation to pick up the set of ornaments that held pink, a brighter green, and a royal blue. It took Joe several minutes in the aisle to put them back and opt for the more traditional colors. Though part of him does ache for them now. Hence why his top choice was the multicolored string of lights for the mantle.

Marlowe never utters anything to the contrary on the color of the lights. All Joe gets is the warmth of her embrace, the slither of her hands around his back and stomach. “Thank you for including Korey and I.”

“Always, baby.”

Joe would do whatever he could to make sure that Marlowe knew how much he cared. He’s a doer. “The thing left for me to do is actually stuff them. So, later on tonight, I might ask for your help again.”

“Might or are you going to pout at me?”

“Both,” Joe laughs, a huff of air leaving his chest. “Of course, it’s going to be both.”

“I’ll help. But I will make you beg for it.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Joe hangs the rest of the stockings up, and Marlowe gathers their trash, the plastic crinkling under the work of her fingers. The living room feels alive when Joe takes it in, catching the way Marlowe floats between the living room and the kitchen with ease, a plastic bag of the trash on her wrist. The soft white bouncing off the wall of the lights. Joe’s lived in his house for years, has gotten comfortable calling this place home but he loves the way it awakens now.

He’s not the kind of guy to document much. Prefers to live in the moment, but he finds his phone, the first time in the last hour and a half since they started. The pictures are easy to snap as the timer on the video ticks up and up, a quick few seconds of the tree blinking and dripping with its decorations. He goes around his living room slowly, snapping all the while. A piece that Joe hopes he can use to never forget how much he’s loved this moment.

“Baby, can we do presents next?” Marlowe’s voice comes from behind him and he turns, phone still held out in front of him. Her eagerness curls at her lips and then when she spots the phone, Marlowe ducks her head for a second before she slips out of the way, back behind the wall of the kitchen. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were recording!”

Joe tracks her movement. “No, no, stay in frame. Come here.”

“Joe, I do better behind the camera than in front of it.” Her insistence doesn’t stop her from approaching, eyes dropping to look into the camera lens. The shine of her lip gloss becoming the main focus as she steps in. Marlowe sticks out her tongue and then casts her gaze up to Joe. “I am here.”

“For someone who does better behind the camera, you sure do know how to work it.”

Marlowe’s laughter is sharp, her hands sliding around his waist and her head tipping back into the frame. Joe manages to get the angle flipped with a deft tap of his thumb. “Perhaps, at times, I can be a silly little goose.”

“The silliest,” he whispers dropping a kiss to her head. “But to answer your question, yeah, we can do presents next.”

“Excellent!” Marlowe takes off, not before she presses a kiss to his chest right over his heart.

“Be careful!” Joe calls out, knowing the bottom of her socks have no grip and his floors can be slippery. There’s only been a few times in Joe’s life that he’s been glad no one lived with him—each of those times being when he slipped on his own floors. Not on occurrence that happens often, but on the rare time he’s managed to miscalculate how long the kitchen floors needed to dry, he’s taken the unfortunate stumble.

In Marlowe’s absence, Joe stops the recordings, dig out the small bag with Marlowe’s gift and then the box he stowed all the craft supplies into. Her feet are light, practiced now with where the creaks in the floors are. But Joe still manages to catch where she is, on the stairs, then in the bedroom, before he tracks the sound of her feet back towards the hallway and down the steps.

“Who first?” She asks, hugging a perfectly wrapped box in her arms right at the mouth of the living room.

“I have…sort of two distinct parts to yours. So, if I could go last, I’d appreciate it.”

Marlowe makes quick work of the room and holds out the box to Joe. It’s got more weight than he was expecting. His brow arches, attempting to see if Marlowe’s face will give anything away. Such action yields him nothing though in terms of a hint. Marlowe settles in front of the coffee table, back facing the TV.

“The couch’s is lonely,” Joe comments, hoping to entice her up next to him.

“Want to see your face.”

The energy is infectious. Her pure joy at the gift exchange. It reminds Joe of how children are to receive their own gifts—an unbridled and bubbling contagious joy and excitement. The only thing Joe can do is nod as he slides to the edge of the couch and nods. “You know how I said you were a strange creature?”

“You wound up agreeing what I was the cutest strange creature though.”

He’s careful as he pops the edges, the tape giving in without a fight. “Yeah, I was going to say that I have to double down on that fact. Very strange, but very cute.”

The box is white, the kind of box that Joe used to get as a kid that would hold socks and underwear. A sight that usually disappointed him even if he understood the utility of the gift. Yet, this box doesn’t do that. It opens up to a CD—well, not only a CD. There’s a frame just beneath it and then the edge of something purple just beneath that. The last thing looks like a book. But the thing on top, the first thing Joe comes across is a CD. A physical CD. The cover looks like printer paper, but rather than holding a inked in image, it’s all hand drawn doodles—stars and hearts, with Song that Remind Me of You (M to J) swirled into the center.

“Did you burn me a CD?” Joe’s not sure what he feels in his chest—something tugging like awe, and the other part intrigued. He wonders what waits for him inside—if he’ll find a soulful crooning, songs that feel too heavy to pick up but demand the listener to hold onto their words for the length of the song. What would she want to convey to him that she couldn’t get quite right in words she crafts together alone?

“A lost art form I know, but yes.”

“No one’s done this for me before.” It really is a lost art, something Joe never really grew up doing, but noticed happening to some people around him when he was younger. It’s a tedious process from what Joe’s gathered. To put songs together, ordered exactly right because unlike a digital playlist there’s no reorder once it’s layered into the disc. Marlowe took the time to do this, craft something that would be permanent. No redos, no reordering, no delete button. The thin plastic feels even more fragile in his hands when he turns it over and takes note of the iridescent back. “I don’t—I don’t have any way to play it unfortunately.”

Marlowe nods in the direction of the small plastic disc in his hands. Her grin tells Joe that she’s thought several steps ahead. That she hasn’t left him totally out to dry on such an incredibly sweet gesture. “Open it.”

Joe’s careful, eases the plastic case apart with the tips of his fingers. There’s a glued down tracklist—typed in a font that nearly resembles Marlowe’s handwriting but isn’t an exact match. And tacked on in the bottom is a QR code. Spotify playlist reads the note scribbled down above with an arrow directing back down to the code. “I’ll listen to it proper too,” Joe promises.

“I know you will. But until then you’ll have the digital copy too.”

He glances back down to the CD, takes in the other notes Marlowe’s squeezed into the tracklist. Cheesy, I know, crammed in next to Beyonce’s ‘1+1’. I think you’ll like this one, pointing towards ‘Love Me JeJe’ by Tems. Some songs Joe knows, ‘Coffee’ by Miguel being one the first song that jumps out at him with the echo of recognition behind it. Others he can’t recall by their name alone, but he reads them all, chest swelling now with anticipation. Anticipation that threads through him even as he takes his time with the painting—an abstraction of a black hole, specs of gold and white at the edges. All done by Marlowe’s hand and framed away for his office.

“It’s beautiful,” Joe whispers, fingers hovering over the raised edges of the frame. But he finds himself always looking back at the CD. Feels himself called to it, knowing that each thing was made meticulously in its own right. But there’s something so intimate in the crafting of that CD that Joe can’t shake.

Though, he has to shake the awe just for a few moments when he reads the title of the book, The ‘I Don’t Want to Cook’ Cookbook. “Really?” He deadpans. Unsure if it’s a joke or if there’s something that Marlowe is truly trying to convey with the gift. She holds out well for a moment, but the amusement dazzles behind her eyes. Joe knows then she’s not being serious with the gift in the slightest. “What is this, huh?” Joe goads, wants her break now that he knows it’s a facade.

“Consider it a gift from me to your chef,” Marlowe snickers out.

“I pay well. I’ll have you know,” Joe defends, but finds himself flipping through the pages. He pauses at a one pot stir-fry recipe for just a moment, eyes taking in the glossy page but not really reading the words. He places the book down onto the coffee table, distracted by the painting and CD in front of him.

She made these for me. It’s a fact that Joe knew when he opened the gifts. But now that he looks at them again he gets to marinate in them, settle into the fact that Marlowe took precious time to craft these both. That she really did go out of her way to make something special just for me. Not something out of store, but specific. Intentional.

“Thank you,” Joe whispers catching her gaze again. “These mean a lot to me. Minus the cookbook, of course.”

“You’re welcome, baby. And the cookbook is hilarious, if I do say so myself.”

Joe can only hope now as he hands over his gifts that she feels the game. The anklet is a custom piece, not something that can be bought from a store in the exact measure it’s made. And it feels maybe too small next to her gifts. Though Joe knows he has the eye-color bracelet craft in his back pocket and the Christmas ornaments, he worries that it won’t measure up. Not that there’s a competition. Just a deep seated yearning to get this right, to do right by Marlowe.

“Joe,” she whispers, cracking open the box. A solid gold cuban link chain unveils itself from the black box, the ‘J’ charm shaking just a little. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” For all the jewelry that Marlowe does wear, he wanted something a bit more private. Joe knows in the collection of necklaces and in the stacks of rings he could’ve gotten away with the same idea, but he wanted something just for the two of them—just for Marlowe.

He waves her over and Marlowe eases her way around the coffee table and onto the couch. “A foot please,” Joe requests, stretching forward to grab the box in which the anklet’s been returned.

Her heel presses gingerly into the inside of his thigh—just a couple inches above his knee and Joe eases her sock down—doesn’t pull it all the way off, just rolls it down and hooks it under her heel. Two anklets already rest there, permanent fixtures as time as proven. He eases the clasps open of the new piece and drapes the jewelry around her ankle.

"Eight and three quarters, right?” Joe teases in a whisper, praying that the measurement is right. The hook latches and when Joe lets it go it dangles just a little, like the rest with a little extra slack. It’s not enough that he looks like it’ll slip off nor does it dangle to the point where it seems like the extra length would rub uncomfortably in shoes either at the tendon.

“Eight and three quarters.”

It’s without thought that Joe eases the joint up, presses a quick kiss her skin and then pulls the sock back up, hiding away the anklet and charm. “Just a little something to remember me by.”

“As if I could ever forget you. As if I’d ever want to now.”

Joe certainly doesn’t want to forget Marlowe. He can’t forget her. Not now. Marlowe meets him, reads the push in, hands already coming to cup his face. “I love you, Marlowe Talia Dominic,” Joe breathes, the words fanning over her lips before they kiss. Soft, assured, saccharine and tender in the way fresh snow feels when it falls but before it melts. Her full name feels electric off his tongue, like he’s taken a shot of espresso straight into his veins.

“I love you, Joseph Lee Burrow.”

His name never sounded so sweet and so full before. He’s usually only heard it when he’s been in trouble, when he’s left the laundry room a mess—a perpetual habit of his that even know he can admit he needs to get better about. But Marlowe says it with the exhale that only comes with solace, a kind of reprieve of a burden.

Joe never wants to leave this moment, though his eyes are closed, he can feel very one of Marlowe’s inhale, the light scratch of her shortened nails against his scalp. This is the kind of moment that if Joe could bottle up, he would. He’d wear it around his neck, tuck it close to his heart if he could. Their noses brush, the soft flat expanse of Marlowe’s against the sharp point of his—a plateau to the valley.

“Thank you,” Marlowe whispers.

“You’re welcome, baby.” Joe blinks the room back into focus, takes in the dots of gold still in Marlowe’s face, the dots in her nostrils, the tight hoop hooked into her septum, the clustered piece at the top of her lip. “If I were an artist of literally any kind, I think I’d paint you like a planet with tiny little moons for all your piercings.”

“Just a planet, huh? Not the galaxy?”

“I was setting up a punchline about how you’re my world too.”

“Damn it,” Marlowe giggles. A full on giggle too, not a soft exhale of laughter, not a huff, but the kind of soft and short sound that makes the room feel even fuller, even smaller. It’s only the two of them, but the sound of her short burst of laughter shrinks them in even closer together, makes Joe hold her a little closer, and a little tighter. He wants to swallow that sound down, or somehow record it, etch it into the grooves of his eardrums so he can never forget it. “I’m sorry.”

“But, you’re right, I’m aiming too low with that one. Back to the drawing board.”

“Gotta stay sharp around me.” Marlowe presses the tips of two of her nails into his chest, thumb snapping down as if she pulled the trigger. “Fastest trigger finger on this side of the Mississippi.”

“Is that so? Pardon me then. C’mon. You still have one more thing to open.”

Joe pulls them both upwards, her legs still in his lap but now they’re sitting straight up and Marlowe stretches forward towards the paper box. She tugs at the top until it releases and then tips it towards her. “Beads?”

“Keep going.”

Strings of blue and brown beads rattle against the table, then the elastic string, scissors, beading needle, and a tape measure—all spread out before she goes back for more, the felt, and glue, magnets, ribbons, not an expense spared. Joe’s unsure if he has the right color beads for the bracelets. He grabbed several strands, even had to ask an employee to help him narrow down his options. They stood huddled over the zoomed in photo on Joe’s phone. It was a photo Marlowe snapped one Friday night before a game. The two of them huddled in close in his bed, tea cups billowing in their laps. Joe was never sure why she wanted the photo, but in those moments when trying to color match the beads, he’s grateful for it.

“You do pay attention to me,” Marlowe laughs. “I love a good craft.”

“Yeah? I wasn’t sure what sort of one you’d like. I may or may not have ventured into a side of TikTok that I didn’t think could exist. There’s the stuff for bracelets and then I figured we could make some ornaments too for the tree.”

“You said you don’t have TikTok.”

“I don’t. But apparently, when you search fun date night DIY’s, Google thinks TikTok is a good source.”

“Bracelets first, please.”

“Yeah, whichever one you’d to first is fine be me.”

“Look at me,” Marlowe urges, holding up a string of blue beads.

Joe does as commanded, catches the sway of the string until it surpasses his peripheral field. The second it disappears from view, Joe keeps his eyes trained on Marlowe. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ll need to use a mixture of these and then,” she starts turning back to the options. Joe squeezes at her calves, a quick two pumps. “These.” One string is a pure icy color, undeniably blue but a softer cooler shade. The second string as a blue mixed in with tiny hints of green, a warmer color dotted with a mix of a cooler shade.

Marlowe’s careful though as she slips form his lap and the couch, back in front of top the coffee table. The TV remote, ornaments craft needs, and coffee table books are stacked neatly to one side. She moves efficiently, taking the halves of the box that her anklet came in and unpacking the foam and velvet from them. She sets one half in front her self and the other in front of Joe.

“Are we doing a mixture of both colors for the bracelents or do you want all brown and I do all blue?” Her head falls back into the cushion. And even upside down her smile feels warm, inviting, and like an exhale.

Joe’s done well. He can tell. He eases forward, picking up a couple strings of beads—ones that he thinks are just dark enough to capture the depths of her gaze, but that still have a small fleck of something gold in them too. “I think we should do solids of each color and then another one that’s a mix if there’s any beads left, so we each have two.”

“Get down here. C’mon. You’re wasting time!”

“No,” Joe laughs, cupping her jaw to keep her in place. “Let me get the right color first. We’ve got the whole rest of the day.”

Marlowe all but vibrates in his hold—a contagious enthusiasm. “Have I said I love you yet?” Joe, still torn between his options, pauses at her question. Her voice shakes against his palm as she speaks. “Because I really do appreciate you doing this—asking me to come over to decorate, and then having this planned for us to do together. I like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you too.” Joe swipes his thumb over the bottom edge of her lip, just enough to know his digit will be sticky, but not enough to think twice about the action.

Marlowe makes things feel right. This isn’t about being incomplete without her. It’s about knowing that he’d never feel fully at home without her. That every second with her is better than the seconds without her. That this—holding Marlowe in his hands, filling his space with her, marrying both of them together in the Christmas tree and multicolor string lights on the mantle— is what he wants every second of every day.

______________________

Marlowe’s almost never late.

She can count on one hand the last time her period was more than two days late in the last decade: once.

It was the fall semester of her junior year—when she was taking the max number of credits hours before it became a petition that needed dean approval. She’d miscounted her credit hours, thinking an AP Exam she’d taken gave her credit towards her program, where it had only waived a requirement. That miscalculation over several semesters put her behind unless she maxed out one semester. It hadn’t even been at the start of the semester either that caused the delay in her period. It was about a month in, when the first wave of midterms were about to descend and all Marlowe could see in front of her were the piles and piles of notes—Spanish, Principles of Finance, Personal Finance, Consumer Behavior, Intermediate Accounting I and Introduction to Sociology. They sat like mighty beasts in front of her, waiting, hungry for the the kill. Amidst the stress, the barely 4-5 hours of sleep, eating just enough food to stay alive but not necessarily nourishing herself all that well, Marlowe’s period was six days late. The only time she’d been significantly late.

A day or two’s not abnormal for Marlowe. Her period’s not exactly like clockwork, but comes pretty damn close to it. But now, more than halfway through the fifth day past the notification on her phone—there’s nothing. Marlowe sighs and her stomach churns as she drops the dry toilet paper into the toilet. The whole point of having an IUD, of using contraceptive in the first place was to prevent this, to not worry about the possibility of pregnancy when she was far from ready for it.

But it takes two to tango and she and Joe weren’t as safe as they usually are on his birthday. There’s nothing to do now, of course, but see where it all leads. Marlowe’s not sure if it’s too soon for a pregnancy test. Certainly four and a half days isn’t enough time to panic. Yet, the anxiety bubbles just under the surface. If Marlowe were at her own studio, if she were dealing with just one or two cancellations, she’d leave now. Marlowe would take her losses and debate in a CVS parking lot on if she were going in or not.

Heels click against the tile floor. The black stockings lead to black pumps that settle into the stall next to Marlowe, a stark reminder that Marlowe is not at her studio. She's in this office to meet with her father’s business advisor. At the press of the lever, by way of Marlowe’s booted foot, the toilet washes down bare toilet paper. Marlowe hadn’t even needed to use the restroom, just wanted to see before her meeting. Still, there is nothing.

At the rush of the sink, Marlowe thoroughly washing her hands, she wonders if she wait just one more day. Tomorrow she’d be free in the morning before meetings. Or should she wait until after her day, so that the news wouldn’t ruin the whole day potentially. Marlowe’s careful, using her elbow to shut the water off and then takes two, but only two, pieces of the terribly rough and brown paper towel to dry her hands.

Fretting wouldn’t save her, that much she knows. Yet, Marlowe can’t help it, the chew at the inside of her lip as she carries on back to the main lobby. There’s still ten minutes before her appointment and it’s just enough time for all her thoughts to wash over her again, to distract her from what she should be focused on.

Can you call me after your meeting? Want to check in. The text is thirty minutes old from Joe. Marlowe’s not sure what he wants to check in about, if something else has come up. The season’s winding down now. Though, in the back of her mind, Marlowe suspects her relative quietness in their text thread could be at the root.

How would she tell Joe that she’s worried about her period being late without it sound like she’s panicking for no real reason? It’s just four days, if she’s rounding down. But Marlowe knows her body and knows that this fifth day is starting to creep up into territory that’s not usual.

I’ll call, baby. Her response sitting under her fingers and then the receptionist calls her name, letting her know how to navigate towards the office. Now or never, Marlowe figures. So she hits send, gives a warm thanks to the receptionist and then starts towards the hallway, taking the patterned carpet back towards the offices.

“Hey, there, Ms. Dominic,” Scott smiles, pressed into the door to hold it open. Scott and Marlowe’s father have been collaborators for years now. Though, they keep the relationship professional, Marlowe distinctly remembers a few dinners with him when she was an early teen with the entire family.

“Oh, Marlowe, please. Too young to be Miss anything,” Marlowe jokes at the greeting.

Scott laughs but nods. “Not a problem. I appreciate you sending your plan to me as early as you did. Gave me plenty of time to read through it and really marinate on your choices.”

“Yeah, of course.”

The meeting’s not as boring as Marlowe dreaded it to be—though she knows with her background just as much as anyone else that in order to carry the salary for Nicole in the next year and a half, she’s going to need major revenue increases. But Scott’s able to help her think long term about what she wants, if she wants to stay on this scale of doing one-off appointments or if she wants more celebrity clientele and how to market herself as such.

There’s of course, if this particular avenue of work will last forever, if Marlowe will need to pivot into another line of servicing that can sustain the price tags she’d need to keep herself afloat or if she’ll eventually want to phase out of this line of work. Big lofty questions that Marlowe can’t answer in just one meeting but having someone else verbalize them helps her reckon with the reality.

Change will come. Either slowly by her hand or in a big sweeping crash if she drags herself. Marlowe’s sick of enough change. In the end, though, Marlowe knows she wants to make herself a household name—a name separate from her father, of her own hard work, and she’ll need to start putting herself into those rooms. It’s not that Marlowe’s not confident, she’s just always been much too humble to think she’d be worth the name in lights.

“You do great work,” Scott encourages. “At least, that’s what my daughters have said. I can’t tell you concealer from a tube of lipsticks. It’s more than okay to move your pricing structure to reflect that. And it’s okay to put your name out there more. World deserves to see your work.”

“Thanks, Scott, I appreciate that. And lipstick’s usually more fun colors, concealer looks like skin.” Marlowe adds the last part on with a grin, knows that she doesn’t need it, but the use of humor is habit, it’s how Marlowe disarms a room.

“Got it. I think I can remember that. I recommend talking to my finance team too. Once you get an idea of what kind of revenue increase you want to see over this next year and then they can help you breakdown where your max increases are and where to put them.”

“Yeah, that would be great, actually,” Marlowe nods.

“Perfect, I’ll walk you out and let the receptionist know and she can get you scheduled. I don’t know what their calendar looks like. But we’re here to help.”

“I appreciate that, a lot.”

Marlowe leaves with another meeting scheduled in two and a half weeks, not as much time as she’d want, but given that she’s in not much of a position to be picky, she takes it. Knows that she wants to make these changes as soon as possible. Nestled back into her car—the next meeting saved into her calendar— she sighs. Feels a surge of something like hope in her chest, that she can do this. She can get her business turned around and she can find a way to take on Nicole’s salary.

Nicole’s work is invaluable, allows Marlowe to focus on her life too. Support that if Marlowe lost she’s not sure she’d be able to continue on like she had been doing. There’s a fire, a drive now simmering in Marlowe’s gut.

Until she sees the text thread from Joe and remembers, yet again, that her period’s nearly five days late and this, this could be the monkey wrench. There’s no use in wallowing more than she had so Marlowe presses the lock for her doors and presses to dial Joe’s number.

The line rings once, then twice. “Hey, baby,” Joe answers. “How’d the meeting go?”

“Went well. I’m meeting with the finance team in a couple weeks again to look at the numbers, but Scott was nice, basically told me it was time to actually get the fire going under my ass. Be honest about what I want out my business with myself too.”

“Yeah? I’m glad that you’ve got the space to tackle that, you know? I know being fairly priced is important to you, but it sounds like Scott’s not badgering.”

“No, not at all. Just wants me to be honest about what I want.”

“Has that been weighing on you? Figuring out what you want from your business?”

It’s such a simple question. Joe offers it casually, that if Marlowe wasn’t listening to the pauses, she’d miss the crack in his tone, the way he’s careful around his wording. What’s been on your mind? His word is casual, but still direct. There’s just enough space in the phrasing that leaves space for Joe to ask, without asking it directly, if he’s reading everything right or if there’s something else. Tells Marlowe what she already knows. Joe’s paying attention.

“A little. I want to keep doing makeup for as long as I can. But, uh,” Marlowe pauses, her exhale heavy and long from her chest. No words come enough though there’s a racetrack of thoughts. Marlowe’s not ready for a kid right now. Marlowe knows the older she gets the more dicey having children gets. Yet, even that information doesn’t change the fact that Marlowe’s not ready for a kid right now—in another couple years things could change. Right now, though, was definitively a bad time for a child.

“Take your time. I’ll listen whenever you’re ready.”

She blinks back her tears, feels the tall tell of the sting and inhales slowly. She counts the seconds before she holds and exhales. “I’m trying not to panic about this, but my period’s four and half days late.”

There’s a pause, interrupted only by the faint crackle of Joe’s breathing. “And I take it this isn’t normal for you?”

“No.” Marlowe’s voice cracks on the single word. “And I know I’m like, probably freaking out for no reason—”

“Hey, no,” Joe interrupts. “There is a reason. An understandable one. We weren’t as safe as we usually are a few weeks back. So, don’t. Don’t try to downplay this. You said being four and half days late isn’t normal and it could be nothing, but it could be something too.”

“I just—I don’t want to be pregnant. Not right now. Maybe later. Just—I don’t know. Not right now.”

“Where are you, baby?”

“The parking lot still of Scott’s office. I called you the second I got into my car.” The words are hard to get out, Marlowe heaves with every breath she pushes out for the words.

“Hey, take a deep breath for me. Please.” Joe sounds desperate as he asks. So utterly desperate in the short two sentences. Marlowe obeys even with her shaky inhale. “Good,” he coaxes on her exhale. “Come home to me, okay? You’re like what? Twenty five minutes out?”

“Some—” Marlowe’s inhale is hiccuped by the last dregs of emotion still squeezing at her throat, “something like that.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m home. I’m going to out for a test, and then we can talk more when you get here. Just get here safely, okay? That’s all I need you to focus on. Here. Home to me. Can you do that?”

Marlowe nods. She times her inhale again, slow and steady for four seconds. Then holds for four before she exhales out the breath for another four seconds. The tears have started to slow, allowing her to feel a bit more confident to drive. She takes a moment to wipe at her cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.” She can get to Joe. That much she can focus on at this given moment. In the background she catches the click of keys and her chest squeezes, knows that Joe will probably hang up. But she can’t bare that thought just yet. “Can I keep you on the line?”

“I can stay on, yes.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

The drive feels more automatic than Marlowe would like. Her car speakers echo with the sound of Joe—the rumble one of his vehicles echoing gently before the blast of music hits—trap drums and thick bass. “Okay, now’s not the time for that,” Joe mutters, the bass and rattle dialing down as he does.

Marlowe can’t help the snort, easing to a stop at the red light. “Don’t you wait when that happens the mood from earlier just doesn’t match the mood when you get back into your car?”

Joe’s laughter is a short tutted exhale. “Yeah, it’s not ideal.”

It falls quiet again. It’s just Marlowe and by extension of the speaker phone connected to her car’s sound system, Joe too. About halfway through her drive, the echoing quiets and then Joe’s breathing comes back through the line. Faintly, Marlowe hears, ‘Welcome to CVS’ and she knows that he’s gotten to the pharmacy. “Don’t buy the most expensive one,” Marlowe comments, knows Joe’s most likely plan was to head straight to the aisle, find the one with the largest price tag on the principle that it was most likely the best one there.

“Well, we don’t to make sure, don’t we?”

“They’re all sort of the same.”

“I hope you know I’m not listening to that advice given the circumstances. And I’m buying two.”

“I had to try,” Marlowe counters. “I’m halfway there.”

The soft automated voice prompts for the ExtraCare Card, or a phone number. A spiel that gets interrupted all too often Marlowe is sure. The scanner beeps twice and just as the voice starts to give the second set of directions it’s interrupted again. “I’m about to head out,” Joe answers as something chimes in the background. Marlowe assumes it’s the card reader. “If this machine does not give me a mile long receipt again.”

“CVS is good for that.”

“Very tempted to say fuck it and leave this receipt behind but I won’t. I know you’ll have a fit.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Hence why I got two and why I get the most expensive ones.”

“Marketing focus groups would love you.”

“Focus groups are not my concern right now. You are. Headed back to the house.”

The question burns at her teeth, was Joe considering himself in this scenario too. A question that demands an answer, that needs one. Just maybe not one over the phone so Marlowe holds it back, focuses on the road though the lights turn and she reacts with very little thought. Instead, she keeps her focus on the turns and when to make them. Marlowe chews onto the words that she needs to ask until she’s turning onto Joe’s street.

Where Marlowe had been prepare to tell Joe that she’s in his driveway and on the way to his front door, she spots the garage door easing its way back down. Already more than halfway down by the time Marlowe gets stopped in front of his house. “How rude,” she teases.

“What?” Joe questions.

“Closing the garage door in my face.”

“What? I didn’t. I couldn’t have.”

The garage door clinks close just as Marlowe steps out of her car. “I’m headed up now.”

Joe rushes to the front door, swinging it open wide, head swiveling between her and the garage door. One hand on his hips as she works her way up. Their call ends simultaneously, phones pulled from their ears. “You got me good. I really did think I somehow missed you pulling in.”

“No, just yanking your leg.”

His embrace is warm, arms winding around her shoulders. It’s a bitter cold nipping at the thin sleeves of her sweatshirt. She hadn’t bothered fussing with her coat at all. Just wanted to get here, into his arms, burrow her nose into the skin of his neck. “I got you. You’re okay,” Joe hums, easing them both towards the door.

Just as the door closes, Marlowe toes out of her boots and takes hold of Joe’s hand. “I know you’re worried about me, but I’m worried about you too. What are you thinking?”

“Hey, no, I’m tough.”

“Joe,” Marlowe urges. “I don’t need Superman right now. Okay?”

Joe’s not a man to crumble. Marlowe’s seen him soften, when he curls up around her legs or into her stomach on the couch together. She’s seen him melt into her. She’s born witness to the tightness in his jaw when he’s in press after a loss, the disappointment painted onto his face. He keeps himself together at all turns. But Marlowe knows this isn’t ideal by any means. That this could and by some measures should make anyone uncertain and uneasy.

At her words, at the soft reassurance that as much as she was worried, Marlowe just needs to know that Joe’s human behind it all too, Joe exhales heavy, shoulders dropping with the action. His hold on her hand tightens. “I think I’m nervous too. I don’t—I mean, I pictured kids happening a lot differently in my head. A little bit later in my life too. So less than ideal if this test comes back positive.”

Less than ideal Joe code for wrong fucking time. But he won’t say it like that. “I agree, not ideal for right now.”

“I didn’t want to make the situation worse, you know? You’re already stressed and I don’t want to add to it.”

“I know you care. But we’re in this together, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it’s okay to show me when you’re stressed too. Besides, it’ll be nice to have proof that my boyfriend’s not part robot.”

“Oh, alright,” Joe huffs, a tiny grin easing at one corner of his mouth. “I know Ja’Marr’s probably talked mad shit about me and my face, but I’m not a robot, okay?”

“Pinky swear it.” Marlowe holds out her digit.

Though Joe rolls his eyes, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his pinky around hers. He even goes so far as to use that link as leverage and tugs Marlowe in even closer. The few step gap between them shrinking with each gentle tug. “Pinky swear it,” he whispers against their joined digits and then presses a kiss, swift but lingering.

Marlowe anticipates the two minutes being the longest part. That somehow waiting will feel like hours. Yet, she never gets to that point. Between the shimmy to get her pants down, there’s a dampness that makes her hackles raise. And there, resting in the cotton line of her underwear is the faint start—a mixture of discharge and a light red.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” She swipes and there, in undeniable proof against the white toilet paper, is the blood. “For fuck sake.”

“Everything okay?” Joe asks from just behind the cracked bathroom door. He’d been the one to close the door behind her, after she asked for a tiny bit a privacy. An act she knows she doesn’t need given the circumstances needed to be in this position.

Marlowe can see the shadow of his figure closer now, not quite crossing the threshold, but navy blue t-shirt is hard to miss in the gap. She plops onto the toilet, her laughter bubbling up from her chest devoid of true humor. “If blood doesn’t make you squeamish, take a look for yourself.”

Joe disappears from the door for just a second, his steps taking him deeper into the bedroom before he eases the bathroom door open further. Marlowe looks up from her work to get her pants down, fighting to keep her socks on in the process. It’s not a large stain, but if she’s not vigilant about it now another pair of panties will be sacrificed to the period Gods, a war that Marlowe’s not sure there’s any real winners in. Yet, she continues to fight against the crimson wave.

“I guess the silver lining is that we don’t have to worry about the test,” Joe hums, a fresh panties in his hands—from the stash Marlowe’s left behind. He crouches down in front of her, one hand resting gently on her knees now that she’s safely free from her soiled panties and the pants. “A cruel trick by Mother Nature though.”

“I’d say,” Marlowe whispers. “Sorry for making you worry for literally nothing.”

“No,” Joe mutters, a head shake no paired with the word. He holds out the new pair of panties for her to thread her feet through and eases them up to her knees before releasing the elastic band gently. “I’d rather know. I could tell something was on my mind over the last couple days.”

“I thought I was being paranoid. And I guess I was in a way.”

“Still,” Joe returns. “You’re not alone because you have me. Would rather be paranoid with you than you paranoid by yourself. Do you want a pad or a tampon?”

“Pad for now, please.” In another few hours she’ll swap, but for now the pad will do. Joe pushes up and continues to her side of the sink, the doors to the cabinet easing open under his gentle pull. “I guess like you didn’t want to make things worse for me, I didn’t want to make things worse for you.”

“A noble idea, but I think if I have to listen to you cry over the phone again—in a situation that I know I should be there for—it would be a test of my sanity.”

The green plastic is well known, a pop to the small white tape holding it shut before Marlowe peels it open. Her eyes aren’t really paying attention to the task at hand though. Instead she’s looking up at Joe, who watches—some part in intrigue, another part of him though in thought. Marlowe can tell by the pull of his brows, how they knit together in the center of his forehead. “If I didn’t grow up around football, I’d say your sanity levels were already low.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Joe retorts.

“You take hits for a living. And throw a ball, but still. Not really the sign of someone sane.”

“There are worse things.” His gaze is almost shy when he finally takes in Marlowe’s face. There’s an uncertainty that’s not usually there. Something that could be easily missed but Marlowe doesn’t. “Just—please don’t shut me out. I know that’s easier said than done and I don’t need perfection. I just don’t want you trying to spare me if you think it’s inconvenient.” Marlowe arches her brow and Joe grins, easing his palms back into the counter to hold his weight. “Yes, in return, I’m promising to prove my humanity and not my allegiance to the robots when they come for us all.”

“Deal. At least now I know that you’ll back stab me when the robot invasion comes.”

“Cool. And I’d pledge myself to spare you, you know? For heroic purposes.”

“Yeah, heroic,” Marlowe laughs.

“Do you want to run those through a quick wash? I have some other laundry that I can add to in too. Two birds one stone.” Joe gestures toward her pile of clothes.

“Oh, yeah, that would be nice. But I can rinse them first before tossing them in, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“First, I don’t mind waiting. But second, it’s nothing gross. It’s just a little blood. Not the end of the world. Cold water, right?” Joe’s fetching the soiled garment from it’s entanglement of her pants before she can stop him.

There’s no changing Joe’s mind. Not about this, even if Marlowe can feel part of herself wishing desperately that he’d let her handle this part. “Yeah, cold water.”

Joe’s unflinching. A fact that Marlowe’s seen in action on the field. And now again, as he works at the sink. A fact that Marlowe can’t refute anymore. That as much as she wanted to carve and bury, to shadow away the things she wasn’t necessarily proud of, Joe would always dig and brush aside every worry with the action too. “I’ll have some tea ready for you downstairs. And don’t put those pants back on, steal something more comfortable from my closet.”

“It’s not exactly theft if you tell me to do it.”

“I’ll count it as theft just this once.” Then Joe disappears behind the partially closed door. There’s not even a shadow to dance over the floor as he goes.

Marlowe heeds the command though after finishing in the bathroom. She slips into his closet, unearthing a pair of gray sweatpants and slipping into them—part of her uncertain that they’ll fit, but they give more than they look like they would around her hips and thighs and she leaves her pants folded on the bench in his closet. As promised, when she ventures back down into the kitchen, the kettle’s going, a mug pulled down already, honey out too. The tea bags are lined up, as if waiting for her to select the one she wants—the honey vanilla chamomile calls out to her so she pucks a bag from the box. There’s a soft thud, followed by the a stretch of silence before Marlowe catches the rush of water, the machine filling up now for the cycle.

“Do you have anything else later today?” Joe asks, snaking his arms around her waist.

Marlowe eases back into his chest and shakes her head. “No, kept my schedule clear after the meeting.”

“Good. We’re taking a nap together in that case.”

“I do have emails. There’s another hair and makeup show that I was asked to be apart of. It’s bigger than the others that I’ve done.”

“Would it put you in front of other opportunities on the other end of it? Like open other doors?”

“It could. Definitely has the possibility too,” Marlowe answers just as the kettle clicks off. She goes to reach for the handle but Joe’s there, fingers wrapped around her wrist and easing her hand out of the way. Before Marlowe can protest she’s gingerly scooted out of the way, placed to Joe’s right—out of the way of the kettle and mug.

“You can answer yes to that email and then after that we nap.”

“I didn’t take you as someone that napped at all. Shocked you know the meaning of the phrase.”

“Well, I don’t really care if we actually sleep or not.”

“So you want a cuddle?” Marlowe teases, pushes in to tease her fingers over his hip. But there’s a flex, the quick quirk of his jaw and she presses in deeper into Joe’s side.

“Yes.”

“Hey, you okay?”

He nods, but there’s still something just under the surface. Marlowe can’t name it, doesn’t know where to place it disappointment, worry, something between the two? Either way, she can see it. Watch it in the way his lips press together on his face, twisted up a fraction of sadness. His words are slower than usual as he speaks, “Yeah. I’m glad you’re not pregnant right now. Right now is not a good time at all. I don’t disagree with that. And I have thought about a future with you, but that always felt like it was deep on the horizon. Then it almost wasn’t, and I—I sort of wanted it sooner. Maybe, I don’t know. I want more time to chew on it, I think. Sort out what I’m feeling. But I am okay.”

Marlowe’s not shocked to hear this. That Joe’s thinking long term about their relationship. The more time they have together, the more Marlowe thinks she can see it going far too, that it’s not just about months or weeks, but about years between the two of them. There was more than just the sparks and the attraction between them, that’s for certain. But, Marlowe didn’t think she’d be facing the beginnings of such a conversation here, now, six months into the relationship. If Joe felt some sort of mixture of grief, and contemplation over a false alarm, then there was something much more solid at their feet, a foundation stronger than she originally accounted for. Joe felt something deeper than even his words had previously conveyed.

Joe roots into Marlowe’s touch, the slide of her palm over his head, until her fingers are wrapped at the side of his neck. “Look at me please,” Marlowe whispers, doesn’t want to shatter the fragile moment that’s hanging between them. The bracelet of all blue beads slips down her wrist, clicking against the bracelet of blue and brown, nestled at the top of her golden stack. The same blue in the beads reflects the shine in Joe’s irises. “We can talk more about whatever it is that you’re feeling when you’re ready, okay?”

“I just—I know I care about you a lot. I do love you. And this—whatever emotion salad I have right now is new. I just don’t know what how to piece it apart.”

“That’s okay. Being human is a messy process.”

“Very,” he hums in agreement.

“Take your time on that. I’ll still be here.”

His lips are a feather light press against her palm, but he looks at her through the storm with fondness, a warm and thick syrupy gaze. Like it could leak from him if such a look could become a liquid in his blue eyes. “I appreciate it,” Joe mumbles against the lines of her palm.

“Of course, baby. Also, emotion salad is an interesting metaphor. I think I’ll have to steal it. But I’d like mine with a side of condoms, please? Until we’re both clear on where we want to take things. Where this relationship’s going to go.”

Joe’s laughter brushes over her fingers, a soft exhale. A sound that makes Marlowe’s toes tingle just a little, a rush of relief buzzing at her skin too. Joe nods all the same. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing feels as good as safety and caution right now.”

“Besides a cuddle of course.”

Joe hums his correction, “Nothing besides a good long ass cuddle.”

_______________

No one really talks about the hollowness that comes with a season ending.

Even if it gets far, even if they make it into the playoffs, even if they do well, there’s the hot twist of a knife in the tug of the helmet off his head when Joe knows it’s the end. That the final whistle’s blown. The final snap’s been taken. There’s no redo’s, no second takes.

Maybe this ending cuts deeper because it’s the ending came in January. He undid the strap for the last time, under the bright lights, had a crowd roaring in his ears, the ache of muscle at work and the burn of his chest as his lungs fight for a good inhale in fucking January.

The field’s a place that Joe feels at home. This is where things make sense for Joe. And he won’t be back here, behind his center, for months on end. Joe won’t be scanning the defensive line anymore. It didn’t even come to an end in February. That kind of loss is bitter too, if the season made to the Super Bowl, and the confetti was not black and orange. That loss still cuts hot and deeper than the one he has right now. And both losses still still behind a bitter taste.

A fight week in and week out. Without much to show for it in the end, or so it feels to Joe. He doesn’t have the thing he wants, no Lombardy this year. Again. It’s how it has to go—for every winner, there is a loser. The losses carve at him, prod at the soft tissue of his chest and heart with a stinging heat. It’s been two weeks and Joe should be over it. Yet, he’s not. The sting’s still there. Not as sharp as it was before, but Joe can feel it. Probably because in just five days the Super Bowl will be on every TV in town, even his own.

It’s a dream cut short—like a blaring alarm ringing in the deepest parts of his sleep. A jolt. The same feeling of stepping into ice cold water. It’s all heightening, and cutting at the same time. He’d feel less cranky if he could sleep too. Tonight’s shaping up to be like the last two—restless. The sheets are too hot so he kicks out of them, then it’s too cold so he wrangle them back up.

Then the house is too quiet. Joe will try to find some kind of white noise, the hum of his fan not cutting through the noise in his mind. Yet, that won’t stop his tossing or turning either. Besides, Joe knows when he looks to his left, the bed will be empty. There will be no hair scarf providing a slight sheen in the darkness. There will be no soft snores from Marlowe, when she’s dead tired and out the world. There’s just simply no Marlowe there. A sight that aches more than it used to.

Joe pushes off the mattress and reaches for the handle of the drawer. The action comes with more force than he intends. He reaches with his left to catch the drawer should it come flying, and thankfully it doesn’t. In the darkness, Joe finds the the portable CD player and the thin metal foam wired headphones with ease. For a moment, he feels teleported back to a youth that’s not fully his, but a youth that he did experience in bits and pieces. Each time he reaches for the older technology, there’s a little piece of him that thinks about his childhood, the mp3 player he used to have. He’s not sure where it wound up, now that he’s recalling it. If it somehow got lost to the sands of time or if it’s packed up somewhere.

Not that it matters now. Now Joe has the circular CD play. He doesn’t even think twice about it. Just slips down to the floor, back resting against the edge of his mattress and using the thin metal of the headphones to push the front of his hair back. The soft foam press against his ears, muffling the soft whir of his fan. Even in the dark, Joe knows where the play button is. There’s no need to double check inside the player either to make sure it’s the right CD to play. Joe’s not once changed out the disc since Marlowe gave him the burned playlist and the player arrived in the mail.

Most nights, Joe listens to the burned playlist to unwind. Let’s the soft opening vocals of Frank Ocean lay claim to him as he dims the bedroom lights. There’s usually nothing else but the music. He keeps his phone face down and keeps the TV off. Just to let himself sink into the music—the songs that carry him tenderly. Though Joe’s favorite tracks are towards the middle with Cleo Soul’s ‘When I’m In Your Arms’ and ‘Every Kind of Way’ by H.E.R., he never skips any song. Never rushes through any second of it.

Joe let’s himself stew, walks through each and every song for every second they play and is comforted by the knowledge that in each of these songs Marlowe saw something of him in them, of their relationship. There was something that resonated with her about him. He does wonders at times what it was specifically for some songs, what called to Marlowe for cuts like ‘Shades of Cool’. Did Joe have a strange weather? Did Marlowe look at the way Joe devoted himself to football and worry about the fates that were bestowed upon her father could be similar to the fates that wait for Joe? That nothing would take him from the sport except a bitter end? Such a fear isn’t too far off. Joe thinks about that himself. When will he know that enough is enough? Would he shatter like Trey did if he didn’t find that line and instead had it thrusted upon him before he was ready? Would Joe truly every be ready for the end of it all?

The first play through ends before Joe realizes it, but can tell he’s been sitting for the entirety of the 55 minute playlist because his ass has gone numb just a little. Joe presses play again, still not tired though it’s almost one in the morning. But as ‘Pink + White’ opens again, Joe stretches for his phone. He misses Marlowe—in a way he’s not yet experienced. Unnerving, and hot, like the walls of his own home could crush him if Joe’s not careful.

I know it’s late, Joe starts. And I’m sorry to do this. But can I call? I miss…you, miss your voice.

Marlowe’s not likely to respond. Though she stayed up later than him on average, she almost always was asleep by 11 at the latest. Joe’s got to try though, on the off chance that something woke her, or that she was up working on something and lost track of time. It’s a long shot, a truly and utterly desperate attempt.

The seconds tick by and Joe stares down at a dark screen—nothing to light it up. He stares as Miguel’s voice comes and goes. There’s an ache, settling deep into his bones and Joe caves as he opens his phone again. He doesn’t have a ton of photos and videos, so it’s an easy swipe as scrolls back up to October, from the dinner Marlowe attended with him. The photograph is really of the table, angled to captured the team and their significant others during the bye week. A photograph that, according to Tee, was taken twice. Because in the first one Joe’s too busy, cupping Marlowe’s jaw, their kiss quick but seemingly not fast enough to miss the shutter of the lens.

Joe hadn’t even realized someone was up to take a photo, but he’s grateful to have this frozen frame, to be able to see the squint on his own face, the way that the two of them are so wrapped up in each other. Tucked into a small bubble of their own. This is the only copy of the photograph. It’d been texted to Joe and then deleted off the phone of the person who took it. Yet staring at it now, taking in the way that Marlowe stretches up into him, how they gravitate towards each other makes Joe want to share some part of it, give just a small snippet.

He’s just worried about the backlash—not that he hasn’t talked about Marlowe in passing. When he first showed up with the painted nails, he’d mentioned that someone special did it for him, that he wanted to carry a little piece of them around. Each time the color or design changes, he’s asked if the same person is doing them still, still that special someone and all Joe can do is nod in the moments.

Marlowe exists as a concept, a vague outside force that’s not yet penetrated through the veil. But there’s some part of him that does want to love on her out loud. Their dates are strategic and fun. People have certainly noticed his presence around her studio, faces that familiar enough that they greet him as he passes by their doors. But it’s all still pretty under wraps, still keeping the thing safe and away. Joe knows he doesn’t owe anyone access into his relationship, that it’s just for him and just for Marlowe too. It just never ceases to amaze Joe that in just the span of a few months, he’s managed to find someone that fits so well in his life.

That makes him want to do better but not just about football, in life too. Makes him want to show up in all the ways that matter. She’s just not here, with him, right now. She’s over a few streets, just a couple neighborhoods removed from him. Joe just wants Marlowe here though, next to him. Just before the next song plays, his phone shakes. Joe tears the headphones off his head, letting the metal loop around his neck. He doesn’t even pause the CD just answers the ringing line that reads of Marlowe’s name.

“Hey,” he whispers into the receiver.

“Hi, baby.” Marlowe’s voice is deeper than usual, filled with the thick grip of sleep that’s clear she was in.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Don’t be. I had to pee anyway. Another emotion salad?”

His head bounces just a little when he drops it back into the edge of the mattress. Joe’s not sure if’s a new one or the same one from weeks prior that’s got a fresh layer to it now. If somehow he still hadn’t fully teased out exactly how he feels, just knows he feels it deeply—to the core of him deep.

“Maybe,” he offers instead.

“What’s the lettuce?” Marlowe asks.

Joe knows what she’s asking, what’s at the base of this feeling. “Disappointment. I really wanted this to be be season. It really felt like it. We weren’t clambering like we’ve done previously. We were playing well. It just hurts to know that we were doing just about everything fucking right and we still didn’t get to the SuperBowl.”

“It’s okay if it hurts. Dreaming big means that the fall’s just that much steeper. Does this salad of purple cabbage in it?”

“Missing you,” Joe confesses. It’d been easier to let the ache of Marlowe go on in the background when he had other responsibilities, when life was churning over in on itself. Perhaps, it’d been helped too that he had a routine. Marlowe would come over the Friday before, sometime the Thursday before, a game and he’d always have that little small piece of her to cherish.

Now, her visits aren’t as standardized. Things are picking up for her again. She’s gotten into the hair and makeup show—which will be hosted at the end of February—and due to that, Marlowe spends a lot of time, sketching, plotting, practicing. With Trey now up in Columbus at Ohio State, Marlowe’s picking up a bit more of the responsibilities with Korey too to help her mother out as well. Joe volunteered to be a face to practice on—to get any amount of time with Marlowe— but that has yet to come to fruition. It leaves Joe in a free fall, as if nothing will catch him and he will just fall forever. Football is done. Marlowe is busy. Some of Joe’s friends from Athens have texted him too. He’s not totally alone. But he’s wanted Marlowe, he realizes. He’s been filling his time because he understood she was juggling a lot, but Joe just fucking wants her.

“I’m sorry about that, love. I know we haven’t seen each other like usual because of this show. We have the plans you put together on Friday for my birthday.”

Joe knows that, but that’s not soon enough. But he can’t really force her schedule open if it’s not. “And I look forward to that. Just, I still missed you, that’s all.”

“Do you want to do something Sunday too?”

“That’s the Super Bowl.”

“Yes, it is. Unless you wanted to watch it?”

“I do.”

“Mom’s been talking about throwing a Super Bowl party. I think some family that’s still in Ohio is coming. Care to join?”

“That—that would be nice, yeah.” It’s something and at the very least, he’d be with her. Then Joe remembers the plans he had with some of his friends—all loosely planned to also maybe host something. “Shit, well, I think some of my friends are trying to plan something too.”

“Bring them too, baby. Just,” Marlowe yawns, “excuse me. Just make sure none of them are allergic to cats.”

“I thought all of the fosters found homes? Unless there’s more fosters?”

“I adopted Pepsi.” Marlowe offers it a bit shy, words stumbling into each other. There’s a shuffle, something crackling through the receiver just after the sentence finishes.

Joe laughs, all an exhale. “And I thought I was his favorite. How rude of him.”

The seconds fall longer that they have been before Marlowe responds, and Joe’s positive that he’s losing Marlowe until her voice breaks through a little clearer now with use. “He’s…well, he’s quite the creature. But our crazy’s match.”

Just behind the sentence Joe catches a sharp meow. “No, you’re in the box but you’re running like you’ve done drugs. One modicum of patience, Pepper.” There’s another meow in the background. “Yes, I did use your government name,” Marlowe retorts.

“Wait, so how did Pepper becomes Pepsi?”

“Korey. And because he doesn’t answer to anything other than Pepsi now.”

“Except for when he knows he’s in trouble.”

“Yes, exactly. But like I was saying bring your friends over to mine—we’ll have an excess of food and will need help clearing it out for the Super Bowl. And we can also plan for something just the two of us too later. That sound good?”

Joe nods, knows that Marlowe can’t see him but likes that they have a plan now in the works. “I’ll let them know. Thanks.”

“What else is in this salad? Carrots?”

“Tired. I haven’t slept great the last two nights in a row.”

“Sounds more like tomatoes to me.”

“Because you hate tomatoes whereas I enjoy them.”

“They’re slimy.” Marlowe defends.

“They’re refreshing.”

“Slimy.”

“Refreshing,” Joe hums, grinning to himself. Know they can go back and forth like this for at least ten minutes. A playful exchange as neither one of them will necessarily back down from their positions. Joe will continue to retort with refreshing for every hot slimy that Marlowe tosses out.

And they do, a soft laughed fill volley of ‘slimy’ and ‘refreshing’ for minutes that Joe doesn’t keep track of. He only catches the starting strings of ‘DO 4 LOVE’ rattling against the headphones and knows they’ve been going at it for a while.

“Okay, so tomatoes have the potential to be refreshing depending on who’s eating the salad. Cucumbers?”

“Um,” Joe inhales, trying to figure out what’s the thing he’s been circling that he hadn’t actually confronted head on. The truth behind the ache he had for Marlowe is that since the false alarm, Joe can’t get the picture out of his head—marrying Marlowe, starting the family. It’s not the right time, but just because the time wasn’t right didn't mean that Joe didn’t want it. He very much did. He does want it. More than he’d even realized he could want a thing. “There are cucumbers in this salad. But it’s—it’s better if I talk to you in person about that.”

Over the phone is not the place to confess such things, to say that Joe’s picturing marriage with Marlowe. Even if Joe does want to confess it, even if he feels a smidgen more comfortable with the thought of bringing that conversation up way too soon, he wouldn’t do it over the phone, over such an impersonal form of communication.

“Well, good news for you,” Marlowe states.

A knock rings out—over the phone and through the quiet of the house. Joe spins towards the bedroom door, breathe frozen in his chest. There’s no way. Joe peels the phone down to see the timer’s ticking up near the 40 minute mark, that it’s almost two in the morning. It’s more than enough time for Marlowe to get dressed and to drive to his place. But somehow Joe can’t believe it. Can’t compute how Marlowe would’ve managed to do that.

“Is that you at my door?” Joe asks, his voice a hushed whisper.

“It’s fucking freezing, baby, please answer this door.”

Joe’s up, leaving the CD player and the headphones on the floor. His feet move before his brain seem to catch up to the action. But he’s quick, taking the stairs with practiced ease down and when Joe swings open the front door, his front alarm disarmed somewhere between Joe leaving the bedroom and him getting to the front door, Marlowe stands there, bundled in a long puffy coat.

Joe tugs her inside, and into him. She’s right there, right here actually. Then a soft disgruntled meow hits the air and Joe laughs into her scarf covered head. “Is that Pepsi?”

“Had to sneak him out too.”

Marlowe unzips a bit more of her jacket and the tiny kitten peeks his head out. Joe scratches along at the top of his head. “Get dressed for me, okay? Just enough to stay warm.”

“Why—what do you have planned?”

“Just get dressed,” Marlowe urges, pushing him back towards the steps. “You’ve got ten minutes or I carry my ass back home.”

Even in the thick dark, with just enough of the outside light trickling in, Joe can see something shiny and knows immediately it must be lip gloss. He cups her cheek, lips meeting hers without hesitation. The scent hits him before the taste crosses his lips. “Watermelon,” Joe laughs into the kiss. “That’s all of them. All six”

“Certainly is.”

Joe goes in for another kiss, lips parting a little bit more, wanting to take in this kiss slow and savor every second. A kiss that doesn’t last nearly as long as he hoped when Pepsi interjects again—his noise less of disgruntlement and more like he a command, a plea not to leave him as the odd man out. It results in both Marlowe and Joe reaching for his tiny frame, their hands brushing as they try to pet him.

“No one’s forgotten about you, Pepsi,” Marlowe huffs. “Ten minutes, Joe. Or I mean it, I carry back to my house.”

“Okay, okay, okay. That’ll give me time to close ranks,” he mutters, tongue darting to get another taste. He likes it more than mango, but not as much as the wild berry. Then Joe takes off, up the steps, two at a time. He doesn’t bother with new pants—the plaid pj pants will do just fine. But he does snatch the first sweatshirt he gets his hands on off the hanger and tears it over his head, spinning towards his jackets—knows he’ll have to go with his gray puffer given the time of year it is.

Joe throws open the drawer his socks are in and finds a pair without much thought before slipping them on. There’s just enough time to get the CD player back into the nightstand drawer before he swipes his wallet and then clambers back down the steps to grab his phone and his keys. His Ugg slippers are by the door and will suffice for the occasion.

“What’s my time?”

“5 minutes, 30 seconds.”

“No shot, I was quicker than thought.”

“I wasn’t really counting. Shoes, keys, phone, wallet.” Joe points out each item as Marlowe rattles it off. He wonders for a moment if he’ll need something else for this ride, if he should ask for more indication. But he doesn’t, doesn’t really care either now that Marlowe’s in front of him. “I look forward to your final rankings. You’re in charge of Pepsi while I drive.”

“Aye, captain.”

Normally Joe would insist that he should drive or that they just stay in. But the idea of getting out feels nice too. Perhaps it’s the fact that Joe knows Marlowe has something planned, that she didn’t get out of bed and throw on clothes to drive to him for no particular reason, kidnapping her cat along in the process. There’s a reason. There would always be a reason with Marlowe. She is always paying attention, taking notice of the small things. She is here after making the trek to him and Joe would always open that door.

The inside of her truck is still warm, having not been left idle too long in the cold for the heat to seep out. In the night now, the rest of the city asleep around them, Joe feels the pieces of his chest relax. There are no cameras here. There’s no expectations. Marlowe’s not interested in him being strong, or being the quarterback. She just wants Joe—the guy who’s cradling her small kitten between his t-shirt and the sweatshirt, sharing body heat to keep the small guy warm.

“I’d make a promise to get you back before you turned into a pumpkin, but we’ve passed that hour. So just enjoy the ride for now.”

The drive is almost entirely silent. The vents blow back warm air, steadily enough that Joe, about fifteen minutes into the drive, works his bigger coat off. The movement confuses Pepsi who slips further down into Joe’s sweatshirt and down into his lap. “Bud, what are you doing?” Joe laughs, fetching the small creature out from the folds.

It’s just them, and the streets. Until the streets become highway. Joe watches the exits pass them by, doesn’t really care where they go. Just wants to go wherever with Marlowe. It’s a little strange to be here with Marlowe, in her car and to not have a single horn, or voice crooning over her speakers. Music is almost always going but the silence is welcomed. It allows Joe to feel the moment, feel what he’d been hiding away from previously.

The signs seem to be pointing them towards the lake. Joe’d bet that they would all be closed and much too cold to enjoy right now, but perhaps tucked into the woods is just the place to be, right at the water’s edge, or in the car in the lot close enough to the water. Another ten minutes pass in the soft blue glow of the infotainment center in the middle console before Joe finds anything to say to fill the silence. “Cherry and chocolate are tied for first. Strawberry third. Wildberry fourth. Watermelon fifth. Mango last.”

“Final rankings?”

He nods, curling his fingers into Pepsi’s fur. The tiny kitten’s settled now, wrapped in around himself in attempts to converse heat. “Final rankings.”

“Which days does chocolate win and which days does cherry?”

Joe huffs out a laugh at the question. It’s such a Marlowe question. Sounds nonsensical on the top but just underneath Joe wonders if she means it like if those two scents/flavors are tied is there anything specific about them or the context that would make one win out over the other. “The only difference there between cherry and chocolate is the day you wear them.”

“Good to know.”

The exit takes them off highway and onto the streets, a long winding that Joe only watches for, until the density changes in the trees and soon, Marlowe’s easing into the gravel that separates the parking lot from the shore of the lake. The water’s dark, glistens just a little in the soft white light of the moon. The lake’s technically closed, but just as long as they’re not caught then it doesn't matter.

The car rumbles, keeping the heat pumping around them. Joe turns to find Marlowe staring out to the water straight ahead, hands resting against the bottom of the steering wheel. The collar of her coat’s obscured her jawline, but Joe knows its there. “I love you,” he confesses. Knows that it’s not the first time he’s said it. But now he means it deeper. Marlowe turns, he can tell by the shuffle and swish of her coat. “And what I really mean is that the cucumbers in my emotion salad are that I think I want forever with you. Like I want to live with you, want to be with you, for as long as I can get. For however long forever lasts.”

Because forever’s not guaranteed. Joe knows that. Has seen how cruel time can be someone, but how gracious it can be. Time stops for no one. It is unforgiving. It takes no prisoners. It holds no allegiances except to the continuation of itself, that time will continue on with or without someone. But that doesn’t mean Joe doesn’t want every possible second with Marlowe. Even if they don’t get many.

“Let’s find out how long forever is together then.”

Joe blinks, uncertain he’s heard what he has until the slight chill of Marlowe’s fingers brush along his jaw. “You mean that?”

“Have I said anything I didn’t mean?”

No. Marlowe hasn’t said anything she didn’t mean. But Joe’s expecting Marlowe to be a lot more cautious about this, to want to slow this down, to want to think through what this really means. Because Joe thinks anyone sane would say that. Marlowe was right about his sanity, how he’d already been laughing in the face of the term with his profession, and even more so now that he’s said the thing he’d been circling around, afraid that it would blow up in his face and yet, they’re siting in her car, at an ungodly hour in the early morning, or late night.

Joe’s pushing forward, unsnaps the seat belt from around his torso and presses up against the middle console, finding her nose in the dark with his lips. “I expected you to say that it’s too soon, too fast.”

“It is,” Marlowe states. His heart thunders in his chest. Marlowe’s parry is exacting, unflinching in the face of the conversation. Joe holds his breaths, feels the roll of her lips, the press of them together but not against his as she speaks, forming the start of her next thought. “But I think I’ve spent the last three years hiding away, afraid. Nothing protects you from grief. It’s always there. It’ll always find you. So if I can’t hide form grief, why would I keep hiding from everything else? There’s grief in love, love in grief. And I don’t know. I’m tired of hiding. I think a lot about what our relationship could’ve been like, would’ve looked like if I didn’t resist to much at the start.”

Joe shakes his head, halfway noticing the way Pepsi’s shifted in his grasp, his tiny head falling forward into Joe’s forearm, the softest headbutt Joe’s ever endured—as if to say Stop moving, I’m comfortable. “You needed that time. I don’t regret it at all.” How else would Joe have learned about the sunflowers, or about The Little Rascals. How else would Joe have learned about the spam of text that Marlowe is capable of sending him—pictures of baby ducks to silly little video’s she’s managed to find on her internet wormholes. Would Marlowe have still sent the little video of her recording her pocket singing ‘Pocketful of Sunshine’ if they’d been dating then? If the intention from the start was dating, which was it always was, but if Marlowe hadn’t asked to take things slow, would Joe have gotten the glimpses into her life as she did Korey’s hair? Would their calls gone as long as they had?

Would any of this been the same?

“I don’t think I regret it. I just think, I don’t know. Those few months of us being slightly more than friends, I cherish them. But at the same time, I wonder. I think we all do about certain things.”

“It’s like you said, there’s grief in love. Sounds like you have an emotion salad now.”

Marlowe’s laughter exhales over his face. Her lips peeling up into a smile that brushes over Joe’s lips. “A side emotion salad. Not the main course.”

“Lettuce?” Joe probes.

“Anxiety.”

“About?”

“The future. I know I want to do it right with you.”

“I don’t want perfection. Just want you. Any purple cabbage?”

“There’s no purple cabbage in a side salad, Joe.”

“Fine, tomatoes?”

“I think I’m scared for Korey. She’s barely four and I don’t want to do anything that would harm her. But I also think I’d enjoy life too if we made plans for me to move in. I want change but don’t want to do it too fast.”

“I can be patient. Even if it feels like it will kill me, I know it won’t. At least in theory,” Joe jokes, a soft smile cresting his lips.

“You’re very dramatic. We’re talking what? Six months more to wait?”

Joe falls back into the passenger seat. The sigh falls heavy form his lips. “God, I waited six months for you and I can do it again. But it will be torture. But that puts us at exactly the year mark. And training will be starting up again soon around then.”

“Hmm, well, we can always make a five look like a six so I can catch you right after mini camp.”

“Perfect timing if I do say so myself. Any cucumbers?”

“Not this time. We got croutons and some onions, excited that we have a plan. That we could talk this out.”

“Yeah, I’m glad we could talk it out too.” Everything is out in the open now. There’s nothing hidden away. “You’re wasting gas, you know?” Joe lulls his head to the side, to catch Marlowe push her cheek off her knuckles.

“It’ll get cold.”

Joe peers into the back. Marlowe keeps it relatively tidy. There’s Korey’s carseat that consumes the last section behind Joe in the passenger seat. But it should do. Scooping the kitten up again, Joe cracks the door open. “There’s just enough space in that backseat for us to cuddle together for warmth. And I know for a fact you keep a blanket in the truck.”

The shuffle is relatively easy—Marlowe pops the trunk before she cuts the engine. Joe finds the crate and locates the blanket by touch and the slivers of the moonlight he’s afforded. By the time they reconvene, Joe letting Marlowe into the back before him, it’s only been a couple minutes. Enough time that the some of the heat’s seeped out, but not enough for the bite of the cold to cut through. Marlowe takes Pepsi and settles him into Korey’s carseat, her jacket draped over to keep him warm, her soft giggles filling the back of the car as she tucks him into the folds of her coat.

“I don’t think we’ll last long,” Marlowe warns, knows that it is a harsh winter.

“That’s okay. Just long enough.” Joe wraps her up first, tugging her between his open legs. Marlowe rests against his shoulder, head turned so her nose is at his throat. “Have you heard from your dad about how it’s going up in Columbus?”

“He seems to be enjoying it so far. He’s really just getting settled. I think in March, Mom and I are going up to help him get the last pieces of furniture for his place. He’s struggling on that front, has all the basics but according him, he cannot pick out art decor to save his life, so we’re going to take a weekend.”

“Why not sooner?”

“Not sure. I think they’re trying to work out on if they’re going to commit to everyone moving to Columbus or not. I’m like him; always trying to the waters before committing. Cautious. Until we’re not of course.”

“I can respect that.” A particularly harsh wind howls against the thin glass, cuts in ice cold at the back of Joe’s neck, but Marlowe’s hands creep up, a soft and steady stroke. The friction warming the spot that was once chilled.

There’s nothing by their soft exhales and the wind. Occasionally Marlowe marks Joe’s skin with a kiss. To which Joe responds with a squeeze, his fingers slipping under the thermal long sleeves she’s covered in, and dancing over the skin of her spine. The closeness and the weight of Marlowe against Joe grounds him, reminds him that he’s still tethered here to Earth. He’s not going to flap away into the wind. Even if it feels like he could sometimes.

“We should come up with a handshake,” Joe offers after a few minutes of silence.

In the lull of their conversation, in the almost sleep but not quite sleep, his mind’s wandered—from Marlowe, to his family, from his family to his friends. Somehow being tucked away in this backseat at an ungodly hour reminds him of his days before the fame. Perhaps, it’s the security, being tucked away in plain sight. Joe is ordinary here, with Marlowe. Like he felt in the bars. Sure he knew then that people were watching, but he didn’t feel any different. With Marlowe, it feels like he’s just Joe, the guy who had backup plans he never spoke of, who called his mom every Thursday before a game. Just Joe—as boring as it could be sometimes.

But it’s this feeling, the mundane rhythm of breathing and nostalgia, that reminds Joe somehow of the small things—the looks, the glances, the things that are just shared between two people and between two people only. Like a handshake.

Marlowe laughs into his neck. “Care to share where that came from?”

“My brain. Just now,” Joe answers, eyes closed still from when he slipped them closed, to soak in the stillness of the moment.

“You irk me,” Marlowe hums, her lips grinning against his skin.

“So is that a yes on the handshake or?”

“It’s a yes.” Marlowe relents with a sigh, but Joe can only grin as she pulls out of his neck.

There’s only a small moment of awkwardness, of Marlowe staring at him and him staring at her. “So where do we start?” Joe questions.

“It’s your idea!” Marlowe laughs. “All I know is that I need to do a finger gun somewhere.”

“A finger gun, why?”

Marlowe shrugs. “Because.”

“Okay, we can implement that, somewhere,” Joe snickers.

The cold’s cutting in deeper now. Though they’re laughing, pausing at various steps, starting over, changing, even Joe can feel the nip of the night cutting in around them. “I liked the two finger tap start better,” Marlowe hums, her pinky hooked around Joe’s. “Felt cooler.”

“Okay, okay, do you remember what we did after the two to the front and two to the back?”

“Nope,” Marlowe answers with a laugh.

“You’re supposed to remember.”

But they start over pointer and middle fingers pressed together before they tap twice pad to pad and then tapping fingers together on the inverse, knuckle to knuckle. Marlowe slides out of the tap and fires, a soft, “pew” leaving her lips, as she swipes her thumb down—one eye closed as if firing a real gun.

“Okay, no, I like that,” Joe laughs. “Very cute.”

“I winked too. In case it was hard to see. Let’s try it again, but when I fire, you snap.”

Joe nods as they go in for another attempt. Two taps to the front, two taps to the back. Marlowe slides out, Joe snaps just as she ‘fires’ and without much thought Joe takes his other hand to his heart. “Bullseye,” Marlowe laughs.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

Joe motions for them to run through it one more time and it’s flawless, each move moving seamlessly to the next. But at the taps, Joe can tell how much the harsh January night is for Marlowe. “We should head back. Your fingers feel like icicles.”

“I feel like an icicle. Let alone my fingers.”

“I can drive back, if you need.”

“I’ll be fine to drive.”

“Will you stay with me tonight?” It’s not that Joe can’t stand the thought of going back to an empty house. It’s that if he doesn’t have to, he doesn’t want to. There’s a few more months of an empty house. A fact that will wait for Joe in the morning, once he’s had more sleep, once he’s gets to lay with Marlowe tonight. He can deal with all that later. Joe just wants tonight.

“Yeah, I’d be happy to stay the night.”

Relief floods Joe’s veins. A feeling that covers him head to toe at her easy agreement. In the return back to his place, the radio plays softly, a collection of songs Joe hasn’t heard before, but that sound so utterly Marlowe that it doesn’t matter if he has heard them or not. He thinks back to that photo of them, at the restaurant, and his stomach tugs, the kind of lurch that Joe knows he can’t ignore.

“You know how I do a photo dump at the end of the season?” Joe questions just as Marlowe eases back onto the highway.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen one or two of them.”

“There’s a picture of us, the one from the bye week,” Joe starts. “At the restaurant. There’s one of us kissing and one of the group where we’re just talking.”

“I’m following.”

“Can I include that photo in my post? The one of us just talking.”

“So you want to do a hard launch?” Marlowe teases, her gaze cuts over to him quickly but her eyes are bright.

“Well, I—I really like the photograph. And you have been a pretty integral part of my season and life too now. If that’s a hard launch, or whatever that means, I mean, sure.”

“Can I see this photo first? I know we’ve been keeping things pretty quiet. But if it’s just the one photograph and it’s not of us kissing, then, that sounds fine to post.”

“I like to keep things pretty private,” Joe agrees. “And I know for you too that matters. But I don’t know. I also don’t want to keep you a secret.”

“I think we can find a good way to strike the balance. But we can worry about that in the morning,” Marlowe suggests. “Or like, later in the morning. We need sleep first.”

Joe can’t help but agree. They should sleep first. His bones are tired now, limbs heavy as he carries himself into his house, Marlowe just behind him. But he feels much calmer now. It feels right, when they settle under his sheets and Joe tugs Marlowe into his chest, tucks her in close to himself. The part of his brain that ran circles around him earlier, that longed, is quiet now as he inhales the scent of her hair products off the back of her neck and holds Marlowe as close as he can.

When Joe wakes, he nearly doesn’t believe the sight. That Marlowe’s still tucked up under his arm. Her back rests perfectly against his chest. Pepsi’s nestled up onto his arm too, his tiny body resting in front of Marlowe, but it’s a chain of them. He’s certain he hadn’t hallucinated any of it. But he almost didn’t believe it, that Marlowe called him, that she picked him up, that they spent far too long at the lake freezing their asses off in the backseat of her car.

Yet, all that is true because Joes waking up to her here, now, still in his arms. A reality Joe is beyond grateful to wake up too, beyond relieved his actually the reality he is apart of. Joe’s as careful as he can be as he attempts to peel himself out of bed.

Pepsi’s the first one to notice the disturbance, peeling open his eyes to look up through the narrowed in slits. “Sorry,” Joe whispers and just as he does Marlowe stirs.

“You’re fine,” she mumbles, but lifts her head just enough for Joe to slide out from behind her. Then she settles right back into the the spot she’d been in. Pepsi takes a few cautious steps, alert now and settles his front paws onto Marlowe’s ribs to hold himself up.

His gaze feels watchful in a way that Joe’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but Joe continues on to the bathroom. He make quick work to turn on the lights, brighter than the light in the bedroom and it momentarily stings against Joe’s eyes until they adjust and from the bedroom there’s a squeaky screech—tiny, but feisty. “Pepsi, what the fuck are you doing?” Marlowe huffs and Joe turns to see the tiny kitten, righting himself to his feet on the floor. “He has a death wish. My son has a literal death wish.”

Pepsi continues on towards Joe, his steps more like stomps—a soft and hardly audible saunter. “Did he jump?” Joe questions, looking back towards Marlowe.

She’s still pushed to up by her arms, body half covered by the sheets. The bewilderment is clear on her face, shock widens her eyes still.“Yes!”

Joe laughs and looks down at the tiny kitten. He seems fine, his strut normal from what Joe’s seen before. “Buddy, you can hurt yourself that way.”

But Pepsi doesn’t seem to worry about that as he steps into the bathroom. He releases another squeaky meow before he swats at the bottom of Joe’s pajamas pants. Then Pepsi settles back onto his haunches, his voice still not quiet more than a high pitched squeal.

“Let Joe pee in peace, Pepsi,” Marlowe hums, pushing out of the bed now.

“It’s fine,” Joe reassures. Though, it does feel a little strange to have a feline companion in the bathroom.

“No, it’s rude,” Marlowe hums, and collects Pepsi into her hands. A punishment that he finds too cruel by the way he wiggles in her hold. “Stop,” she warns, her voice stern with the command. One single finger points at the tiny creature and Pepsi settles down at the warning.

“Pepsi’s a wild one, that’s for sure,” Joe laughs.

“Too wild sometimes. Sorry about that.”

“No,” Joe grins. “It’s fine. He was a fan of me first.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marlowe huffs and turns out of the bathroom back towards the bed. Joe can already imagine the pout on Marlowe’s face even as she storms out. This is what Joe missed, the easy laughs, the shuffling sounds of her in this shared space. He knows it’s technically his, but he wants to share it with her. Wants Marlowe to feel at home here too.

When Joe’s finished in the bathroom, his hands dry, he makes a beeline for his phone. Marlowe’s resting against the pillows, Pepsi at her feet and swatting at the digits beneath the sheets. A game that clearly Joe son’t know the rules for, but they seemingly do. Joe finds the second photograph he’d told Marlowe about last night and holds the device out to her. “That’s the photo.”

Marlowe doesn’t seemingly look at it long, but she nods a grin taking over her face. “You never told me you had that. I knew of the individual ones, a few selfies that I was suckered into, but not these.”

Joe’s not sure why he hadn’t mentioned them, if somehow he had plans too and then just never did. But he takes his phone back from her fingers. “I’ll send them to you. But that’s okay to post?”

“Yeah, it’s okay to post. You can only see about half of my face because of the way the table arrangement is set.”

“Thank you,” Joe whispers. It’s a step that he knows could reopen a can of worms that they’d just gotten back under control.

“I like the idea though. Of being private, just not secretive. I have some photos of you that I’ve just been saving up.”

“You’ll do a photo dump of just all my most unflattering angles.” Joe’s not above begging Marlowe to spare him. He’s seen the photos she’s managed to snap of him: with his mouth full, attempting to dance in the backyard in early September when the weather was still warm enough to sit outside, when he managed with Chris to take on the title as reigning champs in Spades at Thanksgiving his mouth agape in the shock.

“I’d never do such a thing, baby,” Marlowe giggles as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

Joe knows better though. He knows his Marlowe and in the sigh as his fingers work over his phone’s screen, Joe prepares for the worst that Marlowe could unleash on him. Should she post anything. When the post loads, he turns his phone over and wraps his arms around Marlowe’s waist, a hold tight enough to tug her down and she yelps, her laughter bouncing from the high ceilings.

“Joseph! You could’ve killed me.”

“I would never and could never,” Joe hums. He peppers kisses over her face, across her cheeks, over her nose, across her brows. His fingers dance over her ribs and Marlowe’s flail is well controlled even if she laughs loud enough that Joe is sure he’ll carry the sound of it in his ears for years to come.

“What sin have I committed?” Marlowe screeches. “Pepsi, save me!” Pepsi joins the fray, his tiny paws pressing at Joe’s shoulders though rather than intervening. It’s clear he’s less interested in stopping the tickles and cares more about witnessing them. “Pepsi, baby, please. Help, Mom.”

“He’s got the best seat in the house,” Joe hums into her neck. “Why would he stop the show?”

_________________

'@joeyb_9: Year 6 done. Might not have gone like I wanted it, but pretty blessed to have some great people around me, and an even better good luck charm this year too.’

That’s right, folks. The Joe Burrow, QB1 for the Cincinnati Bengals, took to Instagram to confirm that the ‘someone special’ he’s been hinting out for months now is here to stay. The Bengals ended their season 11-6, but failed to make it through the playoffs, ultimately thwarting all of the hopes to see the orange and black back on the Super Bowl stage again. A strong tide shift though in comparison to seasons prior. (Ahem: perhaps, where ‘and an even better good luck charm’ goes into the play).

Burrow, back in July of last year, was caught up in a pretty scandalous 24 hour ordeal. A salacious tell-all was released by the quarterback’s former lover, Paige McAllister, before she promptly apologized for outing their arrangement. The original article has also now subsequently been deleted, though screenshots and excerpts are not hard to fine. Burrow provided a statement and a rather sincere apology, where he took ownership of his actions, recognized that he caused hurt but made it very clear that he would be handling the issue privately. Since then, it’s been rather quiet for the quarterback.

Unless you know where to look.

Burrow was spotted just three months prior to the July article, grabbing dinner with someone while out in LA. Photos made it hard to tell who he had dinner with, but rumors circled that the mysterious other and Joe seemed ‘smitten with each other’. The quest to identify this person went mostly cold, minus for a singular comment left by Burrow on an Instagram post for Marlowe Dominic, a Cincinnati based makeup artist and daughter to all star running back legend, Trey Dominic. Trey medically retired at the end of the ’98 football season and has been quiet every since. Except in recent weeks, Trey’s been spotted up in Columbus, working intimately with the OSU Buckeyes football team now as a coach, according to recent staffing changes at the university. However, we’re not hear for that—his comeback story, you can read more about Trey Dominic in our Sports Column.

We’re here for the juicer parts. We’re here because of one singular comment Burrow left under Marlowe Dominic’s personal photo dump of her and some friends out on a boat as they celebrated a birthday. Burrow writes, and I quote, “You’re telling me this is what I missed out on in Miami?” This provides us with a smidgen, a crumb of evidence to hypothesize that Burrow and Dominic are in a relationship.

And now, we have a slightly less blurry photograph in our arsenal as proof of the couple’s relationship. The photo is tucked in at the end of Burrow photo dump, as if to tantalize in combination with the caption. His photos carousel through shots of him running out onto the field, action shots of him delivering damning blows against his opponents with perfectly thrown balls, him taunting the crowds, and nestled right at the end: a group photo of the team out for dinner, zoomed in just a hair, Joe and who we speculate is Marlowe, as part of the face is obstructed, face each other. The pair are captured lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes, with grins from what looks like laughter on their faces.

When comparing the photograph from April to Burrow’s latest dump, and pictures from Marlowe’s own page, the evidence just continues to pile up. The close cropped pixie, the skin tone, the many piercings—all paint pretty strong and damning conclusion to Marlowe Dominic as Joe’s ‘good luck charm’. We hope that she continues to bring luck, and happiness to the quarterback.

There’s no official word on how Burrow and Dominic met. However, photographs from Burrow’s early 2025 charity event suggests that Marlowe’s father was an invited guest. Perhaps Trey Dominic’s legendary status applies to realms beyond the football field.

“Took less than four hours,” Joe mutters to himself.

Marlowe’s long gone now—though both of them shared a shower, working to actually get clean and not create more of a mess and Marlowe stealing a change of clothes from Joe, she did need to head back home to prepare for the rest of her day and take over for her parents with Korey as they were headed out. Joe’s not sure where, or for what, though from the way Marlowe talked about it, it seems to be a long standing ritual that her parents still have a ‘date day’ just for them.

The last text Joe has from her is about her safe arrival to the house, but nothing since. Justine, though Joe hadn’t asked her, sent him the article the second it surfaced. But he was already reading it—the Google alert on his phone for Marlowe’s name pinging for the first time in months.

So far, nothing severely negative has cropped up. Marlowe’s comments seem to be tame. Joe can’t help but reread the closing sentence, “Perhaps Trey Dominic’s legendary status applies to reams beyond the football field.”

Trey would love that line, Joe knows and specifically for that knowledge he exits the tab and does not send it to Trey. There are some things Joe must do for his own sanity and giving Trey ammunition against himself is not one of them.

Joe links the article to Marlowe, They found us less than five hours, he adds underneath it.

Marlowe’s bubble pops up, the light gray to dark gray dots cycling and cycling for a brief few seconds. Damn, I was hoping it’d take at least eight.

Still thinking about that post? Will you spare your love the embarrassment?

Marlowe’s name lights up his phone a few seconds later and he swipes to answer. “Hi, Marlowe.”

“Hi, Joe. I need both my hands for Korey’s hair.”

“I don’t mean to intrude. I can always wait.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s a simple style, just needs both hands that’s all. I don’t think I will post anything right now. I have plenty of material but would like to keep that just for me right now. Maybe I’ll make a post eventually. But I don’t know. I think the world has enough an answer for now.”

“More than fair.” Besides, Joe can’t lie and say he doesn’t like the idea that there’s still parts of this that’s just for them, that they’ll hold close that no one else needs access to. Private, but not inherently a secret. “What’s on the agenda for Korey’s hair? Is it too cold for cornrows?”

“Hmm, no, not too cold. But she’s requested to ponytails that have two braids each and to leave some curly pieces out. Lord knows she’s got enough hair to make me a wig.”

Joe laughs at Marlowe’s exasperated tone. Korey’s hair does appear to be quite thick. He’s watched long enough now to pick up on some things, but Joe will never get over how long it can take to do Korey’s hair. “Can you send me a picture once you’re done? I’m intrigued by this ponytail into braids situation.”

“Yeah, baby, I’ll send you a picture, no problem.”

“Ow, Auntie! That hurt.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, bug. Did I brush too hard?”

“It was my skin,” Korey answers.

“Let me kiss it to make it better. I’m sorry for brushing at your forehead and not just your hair.”

Joe settles into his couch, phone propped up against his shoulder and just listens for the moment at the exaggerated kisses that Marlowe places. Korey and Marlowe laugh at something that he cannot see, but the sound makes Joe’s spine shiver just a little. A sound that Joe knows he could listen to forever.

[arisaavena-deactivated20240707]

REBLOG IF I CAN WRITE TO YOU AND SIMPLY START A FRIENDSHIP

[smallgatheringnextdoor]

✔️ust do it

[stonerfae]

reblog to give the person you reblogged this from a little pumpkin 🧡

[heyydolly]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 13: Slake

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

CW: 18+ Content [Smut, Mutual Masturbation. Disgusting Amounts of Yearning. Do you y'all remember this post? You're welcome.]

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________________________

Distance is said to make the heart grow fonder, or so that’s what Joe’s been told. Yet, the distance feels especially deeper, especially aching. Part of it is the season is taking its toll, like it always does. There’s no way around that, really. The hits lead to soreness, the wins feel high. The losses sting when they do come. Joe tries to ride it all in the middle and tries not to worry about the tallies too much. Instead focusing on the game in front of them. Tunneled vision by design and with intensity. It is his job to be objective, to see it all for what it is and exactly what it is. Not what it could be. Not what he dreams for, but to see it exactly for what it is up against what their goal is and how to get there. 

All the while, distance stirs at Joe’s lower gut in ways that he can’t articulate. He’s used to traveling, had to get used to it due to the job. But there’s an ache, something that feels a little hollow in Joe’s gut when he looks up into the crowd Sundays now. Perhaps having Marlowe at the Broncos game spoiled him. Joe managed to spot them even during the warmups. Two dots shaped generally like humans side by side, Marlowe’s skin just as dark as Trey’s. It helped, too, that everyone was looking in that direction, and it let Joe know it was Trey and therefore by extension, it was Marlowe too. Even if she was slumped in the seat, cap low and hiding her striking eyes, a wide and sharp set, like she could cut him if she wanted too. Marlowe’s not done it yet, not yet cut him. Makes Joe wonder if she ever wants to. What the sharp pinch of a razor edge from her might feel like. 

This hollowness isn’t helped either by the fact that the time Joe and Marlowe have together is sparse. Phone calls only help so much. Joe’s always going to take what he can get with Marlowe, savors the sporadic text messages, the bouts of silence as the phone’s timer ticks up and up. The half heard conversations of Marlowe with Korey, the laughter shared with her parents. Joe holds those moments in his fists, tight, so they can’t leave him. 

However, at the end of it all, Joe misses Marlowe. It’s as simple as that. The Fridays that Marlowe can stop by, can spend the night with him, feel like they’re growing shorter. Like the evening’s rushing itself. As much as Joe is keeping present, hunkering down in the moment, it’s still moving too fast around him. He’s not greedy, knows he can’t assume that she’s not giving him everything she can give. Joe just wants more. He wants her head tucked into his shoulder. Joe wants to laugh with her about God knows what, and truly who fucking cares about what. Joe just wants Marlowe. Wants to feel the pregnant pause as she chews over his questions that let him know she’s really thinking through what’s presented, even if it’s a silly, What does a Crunch bar have that’s so much better than a Snickers? Joe wants to witness Marlowe barefoot in the kitchen, deftly pulling cabinets open and never fully closing them, tugging at the fridge door, knife clicking against the cutting board, the rattle and thud of bottles. He wants noise, Marlowe’s noise of living. There. With him. 

The grainy and sometimes staticky echo of her laughter through the phone is not the same. The bubbling of her text response is not the same. But for now, at present, on the bumpy roads and orange hazard lights of the construction zone, Joe will take the gray bubbles at the pop up. 

Interestingly enough, in a very quick skim about fossils, I have discovered there are trace fossils sometimes referred to as burrows, given the fact that they are the imprint of what once was. Or something. Again, quick skim. So, I think I have to choose that one. 

Joe grins down at the reply. He’d been scrolling through his photos during the drive, itching to send one to Marlowe in response to the video she shared of her grandmother and sister, and the dance lessons with Korey, but felt like none of them were interesting enough to share. Until, Joe came across a couple from his trip back in 2024 to the Natural History Museum. Joe recalled how softly Marlowe asked if he cared about the constellations—a question he finds himself toying over occasionally, still intrigued by what seems to draw Marlowe in—and felt prompted to ask Marlowe if she had a favorite fossil when he sent the photo. A silly question, but he wanted the buzz of her reply, wanted to know that if she wasn’t thinking about him currently, that she would eventually when she came across the text. 

That initial text had been two and a half hours ago, but Joe’s learned that doing makeup right takes a while and the creations from Marlowe take even longer. So he bears his patience and settles in for the long haul each time he hits send.

That’s cheating, Joe replies. 

It is not.

It’s basically my name and you’re choosing it because of the affiliation. So, cheating. 

But think about how cute burrow fossils are when you consider that was some critters’ home millions of years ago. Just a little fella burrowed into the earth, his residence art and history forever. 

“Damn you,” Joe whispers, grinning. This is a fair counterpoint. 

“I know you not talking to me like that.” The teasing retort comes from behind Joe. Ja’Marr’s cackle is softer than usual as the bus carries them over more bumps. The entire bus is pretty quiet, a steady hush and unspoken agreement. Everyone is trying to savor a few extra minutes of calm before they’re off in the city, some to explore just for a few hours before their evening meetings and the game tomorrow. 

“It’s Marlowe,” Joe answers, mind distracted as he types at the screen. But how much did that influence your answer prior to my rebuttal? 

“Oh, shit, please keep that phone brightness down then. My eyes are much too young for allathat.”

“It’s not even like that,” Joe starts and then shakes his head when he peers around the seat. Ja’Marr’s covered his eyes with his hands, the band of his headphones resting at the top of his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only a little,” Ja’Marr grins, pulling his hands down. “Y’all good though? Because I like her and I ain’t standing for no disrespect on her part.”

“We’re good. It’s nothing serious. She’s just—,” Joe pauses, a little unsure on where to take that thought. It’s not that Joe doesn’t trust Ja’Marr with this information. It’s just that Joe’s not sure how to put it into words, how it gives him a thrill every time Marlowe gives him even the slightest run of his money. That every push back feels less like defiance and stubbornness and more like a game, more like just how Marlowe is. “She’s a lot more eloquent than me sometimes. And I’m losing bad right now.”

“Losing what? Like a debate? What the fuck could y’all be possible debating about?”

“It’s going to sound strange.”

“Joe, you actin’ like I ain’t known you for eight goddamn years and known the whole time that you a little strange.”

That part is true. There is only so much talk during practice that can be about football. There is also the fact that their lives have become inextricably woven together. That story of one of them could not be complete without the other. “Fuck off,” Joe laughs. “But I asked her what her favorite fossil was.”

“Not you and them damn fossils again,” Ja’Marr huffs, falling back into his seat. “What she say?”

It’s not as easy as an exact answer, so Joe reclines against the window a little, the two of them still looking around the edges of bus seats, at each other in passing, taking in the passing highways too. “So, there’s like different categories of fossils, I think? I don’t know. I haven’t fact checked her on that yet. But there are some fossils called burrow fossils.”

“Did she say burrow fossils were her favorite? Because if so, it will make me sick.”

Joe shrugs, his grin dancing along his lips. “She has sound reasoning.”

“I bet,” Ja’Marr huffs and then pretends to gag just a little. “I’ve heard enough.”

Joe glances down back to his phone. A new message from Marlowe has come through but his eyes dance back up to her earlier text, “And I quote,” Joe starts, “‘But think about how cute burrow fossils are when you consider that was some critters’ home millions of years ago. Just a little fella burrowed into the earth, his residence art and history forever.”

Ja’Marr hums, hand rubbing at his chin in thought. Joe can only stare back, one brow raised at the other man’s contemplation. “She’s kinda smooth with that one. I cain’t lie,” Ja’Marr agrees softly. Both of them still talking low and hushed to maintain the sacred silence.

“Exactly,” Joe laughs again. 

“I hear some yappin’,” Tee’s voice is soft but he settles into the seat next to Ja’Marr—recently abandoned Joe figures considering before Ja’Marr’s interjection there was a shuffle of a bag. “And I’m not ‘bout to be left out. What we talkin’ about?” Tee grins.

“These fools being lovesick for each other over some damn fossils,” Ja’Marr relays. 

“I don’t even know why I asked. It’s hardly never not about Marlowe or football now.”

“You like her,” Joe defends. 

“Ain’t say I didn’t. Just saying I should’ve stayed my ass over there,” Tee grins, thumb thrown over his shoulder back in the direction of his original seat. 

Marlowe’s latest text shakes Joe’s phone again. How about we both have a homework assignment? I have to research fossils. You have to research constellations. What’s a fair deadline? Your bye week?

I’ll need a tutor, Joe types back. But yes, that’s a good deadline for me.

No. You’re a whiz all by yourself. Who else could teach Korey about gravity?

Joe’s not sure he really taught Korey anything. But he certainly can’t say that Marlowe. She would refute him at every turn, push back with her own assured stubbornness, a confidence that never feels like it could waver. Korey’s a smart kid without me. But sure, two weeks, and I’ll try to have some kind of answer about those pesky stars. 

Marlowe’s reply is swift. The stars will remember that.

Another quiet conversation starts up between Tee and Ja’Marr—football in nature as Joe catches bits and pieces about routes, pre-game rituals and where to get dinner for the evening. Joe stays wrapped up in his phone, in his own circling thoughts that should be about the game too. But instead, they are drifting away from that to Marlowe.

Joe is sure that Marlowe will be the first to hear the star’s rebuttal too. It lingered in the back of Joe’s brain though that Marlowe and he never did make it to the planetarium. After Korey got sick and life catapulted Marlowe into her busy schedule, Joe asked the coordinator if he could save her information to reach out at a later date for something. And surely, he couldn’t get the place on a two week turn around notice. 

Do you think you could find a telescope and have it at the house in the next week and a half? 

Joe doesn’t want to impose the task on Justine if it feels like it’s a bit too much for her plate. The last thing he wants to do is be overbearing. Absolutely, Justine replies. I’ll have a couple options in your email by Monday morning for you, so that there’s still enough time for it to be delivered.

Thanks, Justine. I appreciate it. 

You’re welcome. 

Joe drops his head, knowing now he should focus up and zero in and he can. He will. Joe always does. He lulls his head to the side to catch more of the hushed murmurs between Ja’Marr and Tee–though it does seem to be winding down anyway–when another message shakes at his phone. Marlowe’s name lights up the bottom of the screen: I know you’ll know when it happens. But I’ll be watching. 

Marlowe never wishes him good luck. Never says anything about the game itself, just that she’ll be watching. And Joe’s not sure if she’s scared to say something and have it not come to fruition—like her words would be a promise that she couldn’t guarantee the outcome of. Joe knows she could never influence the game. She can’t predict the future. Can’t change gravity, or physics, or even their humanness—miscalculations and improbable and gambled plays and all. But Joe always takes the fact that she says she’s going to be watching as Good luck out there, I’m rooting for you. Joe takes it as if Marlowe is saying that she’s always hoping for the best. Because he knows he is. With a heart reaction, Joe turns his phone face down in his lap, eyes drifting close and gives himself over to the bumps and rattles. Knows in just a few hours it will be another fight on the battlefield that everyone needs to stay sharp for. 

But the dull hollowness is a persistent nag. Joe doesn’t spend too much time exploring the city. After a few years now, Joe’s learned what he wants to see from Wisconsin and what he doesn’t. There’s a couple local spots he likes to venture, but he doesn’t do anything too crazy. Yet, none of that helped, getting the city’s air into his lungs did not dampen his ache. Not even the voice note left mostly from Korey, but with Marlowe’s voice floating in at the beginning, eased the ache. 

After the sun slips behind the horizon, and after the few meetings prior to the game, the dark seems to only magnify that ache, a microscope over his chest in the thickening night. It’s ridiculous, Joe knows it, but he can’t logic himself out of this. Can’t stop the ache. So when the door clicks close behind Joe after the nightly headcount at curfew, he drops his head into the hotel door and reprimands himself, “Get it together, Joe.”

It’s not a harsh reprimand either, just a plea. His fingers don’t behavior through, as they fish his phone out of his pocket. Joe stays up against the door, like his feet can’t carry another fucking step without hearing her voice. In the slight fumble to get the phone out and Marlowe’s text thread up, he hits play again on the saved voice note. 

“The phone’s not ringing,” Korey murmurs. 

“No, bug, it’s a voice note, a recording for Joe to listen to later. Like when I call PopPop and sometimes he doesn’t answer and I leave a recording. But we don’t have to call to leave this one,” Marlowe explains, her voice floating in the empty and chilly hotel room. 

“And you’re sure Joe’s going to get it?” Korey questions. 

“Yes, I am sure.”

There’s a shuffle and then Korey’s voice is louder. “Joe, if you can hear me, Auntie Marlowe says you can. But, I don’t know.” Her uncertainty is palpable and Joe grins again listening to the hesitation in her small voice. “Anyways, can you teach me how to do the griddy, please? I’m a good dancer. Good luck at the game! Go Bengals!”

Marlowe’s laughter is guttural, a cackle as the phone shuffles again. “She’s fist pumping right now, just so you can have the full mental image. Talk to you later, baby.” The recording ends on the soft inclusion of Marlowe’s voice calling Korey’s name but Joe never hears the rest of it. He likes to think it’s about dinner or maybe it’s about cleaning up her toys.

The first time Joe listened to the voice note he felt embarrassed. He hadn’t even meant to do the griddy—as in, it was not a conscious decision that if he managed the touchdown run that he knew he’d do it. But in the heat of the game, the sharp gaze of Marlowe above him in the stands, his blood pumping with the adrenaline of the game, the griddy felt like the only appropriate response to finding the hole in the Broncos defense. Perhaps, Joe should’ve known just like Marlowe’s watchful gaze was there, that Korey was watching too, at home with Regina.

Thing is: Joe’s not qualified enough to teach Korey anything dance related. Yet, she trusted him with the kind of openness that little kids have. So Joe agreed in his quick text response, Please tell Korey I’d be honored to teach her. However, Joe’s not going to lie, if Marlowe hadn’t also sent her attached text of, She’s been scared to ask since she saw you do it after that touchdown run a couple weeks ago. But I’m proud of her doing it while scared, Joe knows he would’ve found a nice way to say no. He couldn’t let Korey’s bravery go without reciprocation. 

Maybe that was Joe’s undoing. Maybe he would’ve been stronger than his ache if Marlowe’s sweet melodic voice hadn’t put the idea in his head of them talking later. There wasn’t even a specified time. Just a vague sense that when the window opened again they’d talk. The thing about Joe is that he’s always going to find the opening—football field or not. He is always assessing, always looking for the crack to take advantage of. The night’s never been a better crack in the cover.

Marlowe’s not asleep or at least, given her recent string of 11 pm texts, there’s a strong likelihood she’s awake. She’s a bit of a night owl, manages to catch more hours in the night awake than Joe can, especially not now in the thick of the season. The line rings in his ear, a bell tolling for Joe. He just hopes Marlowe answers. The third ring passes and just a prickle of concern raises on his hackles. Marlowe, usually, at this time of night, answers on that third ring. 

The fourth ring echoes out and then cuts off. “I’m starting to think you might be a little obsessed with me,” Marlowe answers. “Hi, stink.”

Joe exhales at the petname, hears the grin around the word and it eases the squeezing at his chest. “I am obsessed with you.” He should probably think twice about confessing that, should probably take longer to unravel with that means but he doesn’t. The words fall and Joe doesn’t care what comes next. 

“Hm, the way I like ‘em.”

“You say that like you’ve got options,” Joe laughs, finally pushing off the hotel door. 

“No. I say it like I know what I like.”

Her words are plain, but there’s something to the tone, the way the words fall. Joe kneels down onto the bed, heart thundering in his chest as he lets himself fall, eyes closing as the bed catches him. Her hair’s gotten curlier over the last few weeks. He’s not sure if she’s curling or if she’s stopped straightening, but Joe does like it, the touch of something wispy to the ends of her hair that makes resisting the urge to play in the strands impossible. More than once he’s gotten fussed out for ‘messing around’ in her hair. Marlowe always laughs though, gazing up at him with a softness that cuts through the annoyance. He never does it when they’re out in public, only in the sweet confines of home, tucked away under the sheets or bundled under blankets. Joe would tease her scalp a thousand times over, let the short strands tickle over his palm, even if each attempt resulted in a verbal lashing. 

It’s not hard to conjure this image of Marlowe, next to him, full lips glistening with gloss, eyes dancing in amusement even if they are a little dark. Which Joe imagines is how she might look now, minus the gloss given the late hour, and probably with her scarf secured tightly around her hair too, if not yet, it will be soon. 

“What else do you like?” Joe prompts in an exhale as he blinks the hotel back into his vision. There’s no Marlowe here, though he desperately wishes she was. 

“In any particular order?” 

The quip causes both of them to laugh, an exhaled sound. Joe toes himself out of his shoes but remains stretched out over the crisp white hotel sheets. “I’ll take whatever order you’d like.”

There’s a pause, hangs just long enough between them that Joe swears he could catch it as it drips out of his phone’s speakers. “Could’ve sworn you’d be half asleep by now,” Marlowe finally offers instead. It’s a tease, a pause breaking up the phrase into two distinct parts. Like she’s silently begging Joe to give away his true intentions.

“No, we need to go back to you saying it how you like.”

“We do?” Her voice lilts up, not in defiance but in a quiet and calm purr. “Why do we need to do that?”

Sweet honey laced with cocaine, that’s how her voice sounds in Joe’s ear. It makes his bones hot. His blood rushes southward in trickles. It’s only been a couple weeks since they last shared each other. Or rather, it’s been three weeks to be exact and Joe isn’t necessarily counting so much as he is craving. The passage of time, only marked by games for Joe, is just further proof of his body’s own punishment. A self flagellation that Joe doesn’t really want or need, but can’t help doing. 

Joe’s exhale is shaky. He’s taking too long to answer but his brain feels like it’s buffering or blue screening. “Angel.” Whether it’s a warning or not, Joe’s not sure. But the petname falls desperate all the same from his lips. 

“Joey, you can’t leave me hanging. Why do we need to go back to what I know I like?”

Fucking Christ, Joe thinks to himself as he closes his eyes again. The semi hard on solidifies his sweatpants in a rush. All that he manages to get off his tongue at first, pushed out from his chest harshly, is a choked out groan. Joey sends a ripple down his spine and though it should feel trivial and childlike, there’s just enough of a dip and whine to the nickname that sends his body into a harsh and thick heat. It’s a warning, like she’s not going to let him get off the hook. 

His lips are chapped now thanks to the wind and cold bite of winter’s promised edge, and of course, the lack of any of Marlowe’s sticky lipglossed kisses to keep his lips moisturized. It doesn’t matter that he has a tiny tube of chapstick, at Marlowe’s recommendation, tucked away into his bag because it’s not the same, even though it is scented vaguely like mint. Joe darts his tongue out to wet his dry lips. And with the action, he recalls just how heavenly Marlowe tastes. The ceiling is blurry as Joe peels open his eyes, unfocused because he swears he really can taste her. 

“Because I need to know, if you were here, if you’d let me do what I want to you. Because I need to know if you’d want me too,” Joe whispers.

It’s the faintest of hitches, an inhale so softly cut off that Joe swears it gets swallowed up in Marlowe’s own moan, but Joe’s waiting, brain slowing down each sound, each second, so he can savor this moment as Marlowe speaks. “I will always want you.”

A promise. A declaration. A fire. It makes his cock jump just a little, stomach tensing with anticipation. “Give me permission then.”

Because this is always about going at Marlowe’s pace and if she doesn’t want this, if she doesn’t want to take it there, Joe’s not going to force it. That and he wants to hear her say the words in her thick honeyed voice, wants it to fill his ears and stop up his hearing, a muffled echo ringing back to himself. 

There’s no hesitation as Marlowe’s voice rings clear, “Tell me what you’d do to me, if I were there, with you, in that hotel room.” Each word is deliberate, carrying equal weight down until the last of the hum around the ‘m’. 

Joe’s fisting himself, lazy enough not to fully work the sweatpants down, hungry enough not to care. Both hands tightly wound around their respective item: phone and cock. “I keep thinking about the way you taste,” Joe exhales, thumbing over the tip of his own cock. “So I’d start there. Or, well, I’d start first at your neck, kissing you right in that dip where your collarbone dips down around the base of your throat. Would you like that?”

Marlowe’s first response is a hum, a crackling sound but it’s enough for Joe. Let’s him know that she is listening, undoubtedly holding onto every fucking word. “Yes, I do.”

Present tense. Not a hypothetical. Joe wonders for a moment if she’s reclined back against her bed, if her cow print decorative pillows are holding her up or if she’s flat on her back on the other side of the phone. Joe grins just a little. “Good. I’d start there before easing you out of your clothes. Leave a trail of kisses in my wake, down your breasts, stomach, all the way down. And when I get you totally naked, I’d leave you there, stretched out on the mattress beneath me. Just so I could take you all in. How wet you’d be for me.”

The moan fights its way over Marlowe’s throat. Joe’s not sure if she’s worried about being too loud, but he can’t find it within himself to care as his body starts careening towards the blossom of warmth. The head of his cock leaking down his shaft now, spilling to add more lubricant to his tugging. “If this is any indication, I think by the time we got done, new sheets will be needed.”

Joe inhales and just as the hum of the unit in his room kicks on he swears he can smell her—the heady and earthy scent of Marlowe. He imagines now how she must be glistening, an almost glassy sheen Joe is dying to have on his tongue again. “Yeah,” Joe huffs. “New sheets is the goal.”

“But I’m there. Naked. Spread out. Soaked. What next?” Marlowe lists them with a pause, the two second silence between words emphasizing the image as it builds back up again behind Joe’s eyes. 

“Christ, hearing you say it like that. Jesus.” Joe can’t halfway think anymore. Naked. Spread out. Soaked. Naked. Spread out. Soaked, plays on a loop in his mind, interjected only by Marlowe’s deep and short tut of laughter. 

“You like that? Hearing me talk filthy like that to you?”

“Shit,” he exhales, fist moving just a fraction faster now. “Yeah I do like that. Love it so fucking much.”

“I like it too—hearing what you’d do to me. You make it sound…sweet. Think I could listen to you all day like this one hand on your cock while you talk to me. So is that it? You’re just going to tease me?”

Marlowe’s going to kill him. Joe knows it. Maybe she knows it too. “No,” Joe pushes the word over his teeth in equal parts pleasure and pain, equal parts desire and desperation. “Not through with you yet. After I was done admiring you, taking in every inch of you,” Joe exhales, wetting his lips again with his tongue, “and I need you to know, I’m not kissing you directly, not on those perfect fucking lips. Not yet. You need to wait for that. But after I was done, I’d start in reverse. At the bottom again. Fuck.” He’s gotten greedy, starting barrelling towards his orgasm, chasing it like farm dogs do coyotes—furiously, and with laser focus on their goal. 

Take it slow. He’s got to take it slow. 

“The bottom?” Marlow questions, breath hitching on the word before another moan dissolves on her tongue. 

“Are you touching yourself?” It shouldn’t be a shock. Yet it is. Joe never considered that just as needy as he was, Marlowe was too. Anguished and overcome with need that she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t help but let her fingers dip into her wetness, teasing over her clit just at the sound of his voice. God, Joe would kill to watch that, her perfectly manicured fingers circling her clit. Legs bracketed and hips hitching in search of more. 

“Yes,” the word comes high and tight and whispered still. “But it’s not the same, Joe. Not anymore. Not the same as you.”

Put him in a casket now and bury him twelve feet deep. There’s no coming back from that. No way to reclaim dignity after how utterly shattered Joe sounds at Marlowe’s plea. Joe pulls his hand away from his aching cock, hips thrusting involuntarily at the loss but also the perfect fucking whine in Marlowe’s voice. She’s ruined. Just like he is. They’ve taken the knife to each other, carved themselves into each other, and left nothing the same. How fucking awful, how fucking perfect. 

“Joe, please,” Marlowe begs. A pathetic sound. The most angelic sound Joe’s heard in weeks. 

“No, my angel, it’s okay. Just listen to the sound of my voice okay. Going to talk you through it. I’d start at the bottom.” The exhale is just as deep as the inhale and when his lungs can’t flatten any more, Joe breathes in again, hand finding his hard length again. It’s not the same for him either. Having to stroke himself, after he’d gotten so sick of it before. But now, Marlowe’s there, just on the other side of the speakers, not some hope, not some dream. Actually her. That makes all the difference. 

“I think I’d spend forever between your thighs, if I could,” Joe laughs. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so pathetically true he can’t fathom anything else he can do besides laugh at how vulnerable he’s being. Laughter to break tension before it can build. “But I wouldn’t stop, not after you came. Not even if you begged me to stop. I’d stay there, eating you out, tasting you, until I was done. Until I was satisfied. Then I’d work my way to the top. Slowly. Just to hear you whine.”

“Shit,” Marlowe exhales, harsh, hot, and desperate. Behind the rattle of her breathing Joe catches the softest squelch, a sopping wet sound. Her hum falls deep and long from her throat. “God.”

“Just like that,” Joe hisses, his stomach tensing, the approaching orgasm steadied with the timing of his palm’s slide. He pictures her, fingers dipping in and out of herself, like it could be enough to soothe the ache. But now they both know it’s not. Because Marlowe’s fingers aren’t the same as Joe’s. His palm isn’t the same as hers. “Yeah, just like that. I’d kiss you so slowly, over every inch. And once you were begging, but only once you were begging, I'd finally kiss you on the mouth so you could taste yourself.”

That’s not even everything he’d do to her. He’d pick her a part, tease over her skin with the tips of his fingers, make her squirm. Joe would give himself over too, fuck her senseless, until she was just putty beneath him. Or is it better to say make love to her? Hell, Joe would do, would call it, whatever Marlowe needed or wanted, so perhaps naming it correctly matters less here.

But those words never get breath behind them. All Joe can do is grunt, working his palm over himself, teeth bared and jaw tight with the snarl of his pleasure ripping over his throat. God, oh, fuck, oh, God, punching out over his teeth. Hips hitching into the empty air, into his fist, imaging it’s Marlowe’s fist, and mouth, and body. Not quite the same, but just enough to quench the fire for now. His inhales syncopated to Marlowe’s exhales. Her soft Please, please, scratching at the most primal part of Joe’s brain. They fall into cacophony of the most carnal arrangements. 

It leaves Joe cumming into his own hand, hot and sticky, and hard, body arching up. “Marlowe, God,” he exhales, back meeting the mattress again, chest heaving.

Marlowe grunts his name before she falls apart on the other end. Her words cut off and Joe knows how her neck tenses, head thrown back into the pillows. In the image of Marlowe floating behind Joe’s closed eyes, he licks the trail of sweat up off the column of her throat. It’s salty like her tears, but somehow filling that Joe knows is more than calories, or jules, or macros. 

“Oh, shit,” she laughs, the tail end of it curling up less into amusement and more into actual pain. “My hip is cramping up.” Joe sucks in air, knows how awful the feeling can be. Marlowe’s grunt is softer than the others, all mostly an exhale and then she mutters, “Okay, there,” and Joe exhales too. 

“We’ll make sure you’re fully hydrated and stretched first next time.”

“No, next time, I’ll make sure you’re fully hydrated and stretched first.”

Joe’s face falls, shock making him sputter around his laughter and blinking the boring white ceiling clearly into view. The room feels too bright for what they’ve done. There’s no way he’s left the overhead lighting on. But his vision proves that assumption false. He in fact has left the room fully lit. “Me?”

“You.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“I don’t make threats,” Marlowe hums. “I only make promises.”

Joe’s acutely aware of his own cum, growing cold now over his hand and hips. But he lingers in the sweetness of her voice, of the warmth that’s fading out, how his body relaxes and gives in to the crashing wave of post orgasm bliss. “Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” he laughs. “That does not sound like the Marlowe I know.” 

The Marlowe Joe knows is still shy about sex not in a way that tells him she’s uncomfortable but in a way that’s always seemed more she’s much more reserved in that aspect. He told her that she didn’t have to hide and Joe hopes this is her taking that to heart. 

“I can’t let you have all the fun. I’m experimenting. We can match notes for the results and discussion once we’re done,” Marlowe’s voice holds her grin.

“Well, pardon me. I was quite unfamiliar with this part of you clearly. I look forward to those results.”

Their shared, but still separate, clean up echoes through speakers that no one is really around to listen to. Joe hums that he needs a minute, for Marlowe not to go anywhere, before he lets the phone drop to the mattress and carries on to the shower. The water is warm, and his work is rather quick, covers the necessities and doesn’t worry about the frills, not right now at least. 

When Joe returns back to the main part of the room, the call’s timer is still going, seconds ticking up. Joe fishes the device out from the sheets and listens for a minute. Marlowe doesn’t appear to be directly on the other end, there’s no rhythmic exhales. But he can hear her, the handle to a dresser drawer clacking against the wood, her soft humming that drifts in. Joe places the device back down as he finishes getting dressed for the night, the plaid flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt that’s really more holes than shirt anymore. 

Beneath the sheets, it grows warm with his body heat shared, the room casted in darkness minus the pieces of the city that float in around the lights that Joe turns off. “Angel?” Joe probes softly, eyes fluttering close the longer he lays there. 

“I know, baby, it’s late for you. Hope you sleep well.”

“Hope you sleep well too.” And even in the tug over into sleep, even in the beeps that signal the end of the call, Joe wonders if Hope you sleep well too conveys the same sentiment as I love you. 

__________________________

“I need your help, bug,” Marlowe informs Korey, as the little girl settles in the gap of Marlowe’s knees, still facing the TV screen. 

After Marlwoe and Joe agreed to research on their own, Marlowe figured a visit to the Natural History would also be a good way to get Korey out and about too—the two of them to have a little time together. Though, Marlowe’s not sure how she’s supposed to tell Joe her favorite fossil or anything about them that he might not already know. Maybe it was silly to ask in the first place. Probably how Joe felt when she asked if he cared about the constellations.  But Marlowe’s willing to sit in the discomfort, willing to do the thing that seems unnecessary if it means she gets to share in the joy with Joe. 

Korey nods. “Listening.”

“Gotta sit still for this,” Marlowe warns, reaching now for the scissors. Korey complained about the tag being itchy, how it kept scraping at the back of her neck. The shirt is new and though Marlowe would prefer to keep the tag in tack to make it easier for when Korey inevitably outgrows the soft yellow t-shirt, Korey’s comfort matters more. So, that leads them here, to Korey waiting patiently, Marlowe holding the tag between her fingers and the sharp blades more than happy to cut. “When we get to the Natural History Museum, I need your eyes to help me look at fossils, okay?”

“Fossils? What are those? I thought we were looking at dinosaurs.”

Marlowe grins and the snip release the thick tag from the back of the shirt. “We are looking at dinosaurs but fossils are there too. Fossils are sort of like rocks, but they’re special because they usually hold the shape of an animal or plant from a long time ago, before humans walked the earth, when the dinosaurs were alive.”

“Dinosaurs are cooler.”

“The fossils would like their chance to shine too.”

“Are the animals in them alive?” Korey asks, voice peeking with curiosity as she turns back around to face Marlowe. 

“No, not anymore.”

“How do we know what kind of animals they were then? How do we know what dinosaurs are which?

Marlowe slips the scissors back to the coffee table and hums a laugh. “Science is never perfect the first time. We learn more and more. It takes time. Scientists spend a lot of time matching what we do know to what we want to know and seeing how to get the best answer. Fossils help with that. We listen, or at least we should. Science tells us some. But there’s more to learn from unsuspecting places. Just make sure you’re listening.” Marlowe wants to convey that they can learn from plants, animals, the way the breeze whistles. But she worries that part of this is fear too. That Marlowe is demanding Korey do something out of a worry, a fear that she doesn’t have, or need. “And you’re a smart girl. You’ll know what you need to listen to and when you need to listen to it.”

“Becuase I have a smart auntie,” Korey grins. “Should I be nicer to fossils?”

Nicer isn’t quite the phrase Marlowe would use. But it’s a good sign. It means at the very least Korey understood some portion of what Marlowe was attempting to convey. Marlowe’s just grateful for the brimming inquisitiveness in her niece. “You don’t have to like fossils. But they do have a job. Do you think you should be nicer?”

“I don’t really care for rocks. But I guess I can see about them. I should respect fossils.”

Marlowe nods, teeth taking a chunk of her lip and chewing at it, a tactic to help keep most of her grin at bay. But God, Marlowe can’t help it. She’s so astounded by watching Korey grow up, learning how to operate in the world with kindness and grace. “Yes, I think respecting fossils is a good idea. Do you want to help me?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just tell me what you notice about the different fossils. That’s it. You can tell me if you think it looks not how you thought it would look, whatever you see really.”

Korey’s nod is definitive. Her barrettes click against themselves with the action. “I can do that.”

“Thank you, bug.”

The October weather is stiff and chilly, but it doesn’t slow them down in the slightest, not as Korey skips ahead of Marlowe, but only for a couple steps before she pauses, turning back around and bounces on the balls of her feet. “See, I didn’t go too far.”

“You didn’t. Thank you, bug.”

The steps are low and flat, but even on the early morning weekend there’s a thick crowd--families with strollers and toddlers on hips. Teens hanging a step and a half behind, eyes casted down to their phones, clearly only here because they’ve been dragged along. A couple look more happy, enthused to be at the doors. Though it’s fall, and the school year’s underway, Marlowe still spots some sort of camp here too. The neon blue shirts are dotted in the crowd, only on a few, but then when she crosses inside of the building with Korey in toe, Marlowe spots the remaining crowd of the blue t-shirts. Maybe it’s a trip. But a Tuesday in October feels much too soon for a school trip. 

Marlowe tugs at her cap again, bringing it down low to her brows. It’s different from her Wilberforce one. This cap rests on her head in an acid wash gray that reads Dead Inside in white embroidery. Which isn’t true, but Marlowe liked the other two the most out of the set more than the alternative. This hat’s companions are a solid black hat that reads Currently Overthinking and a muted green one that states yeah, no. Two sentiments that Marlowe knows all too intimately well. 

“Can we do the rock stuff first, auntie?” Korey asks. 

Marlowe glances down, her hand still wrapped around Korey’s. “Sure. Are you saving the dinosaur exhibit for last?”

“Yes, of course!” It comes out in a way that Marlowe can explain as, duh, why would you ask that. But it’s not the exact same. Related, but still distinct. There’s a gentler, could I be more obvious underpinning the words. 

Marlowe laughs all the same, shuffling up when the line moves. “Okay, sounds like a great plan.”

The plan is simple though, to duck into the fossils first, gather intel and then to move on. Which seems to be a rather easy task to take on. But about halfway through, the disinterest from Korey is starting to grow. Marlowe can see on the little girls’ face the moment the wonder leaves. Korey’s soft, “It’s brown. Again,” is the first glaring red sign to move on and to do it fast. Korey’s not prone to meltdowns, but Marlowe knows her niece well enough to know that it’s best not to tempt fate. 

The cave exhibit had been a strong start to their day, Korey’s eyes widening when she saw how large some of them were and how deep and cool their venture through one had been. And now, as Marlowe pauses to inspect the diagrams of the Ancient Worlds exhibit, tries to commit to memory the different eras, scans over the plaques about various animals and plants, she’s always got one eye out for Korey. Who at times clings to Marlowe’s legs, peering up as high up as her little legs allow Korey to see, but her eyes are flat.

“Let’s try somewhere else, bug,” Marlowe offers, turning them towards an exit. 

“But did you get everything you need?”

“I’ve got enough. C’mon. Let’s try the Nature Gallery.” 

Korey nods, but reaches upwards. “Can you carry me for a little bit?”

“Sure, bug. I can do that.” 

They read signs together, Korey scanning the pictures from her perch on Marlowe’s hip, picking out a word here or there before Marlowe gets to it. Yet, not even this seems to fix the boredom’s that’s started to brew. Korey’s not too thrilled anymore. Her gaze drifts, head ducking into Marlowe’s neck every so often. Her chubby cheeks fall and her pout feels like it might become permanent. “I think I need a break,” Korey murmurs after a minute. 

Yeah, I think you might need one too, Marlowe thinks to herself. They got here just before 10 and now a whopping hour and a half later, it might be as good of time as any to rest their limbs. 

“Okay, we can do that.” Marlowe finds an exit to the exhibit and settles them both onto a nearby bench. “Let’s reassess,” Marlowe offers. “How do you feel? Did you get bored with that exhibit or want to call it a day?”

“I’m hungry,” Korey pouts. “And I’m sorry to fossils, they have a job. But it’s just a rock. Can we get a snack? Please?”

The brutal honesty is comical, makes Marlowe snort. If only Joe could hear that, she thinks he might be crushed. Though, Marlowe anticipates the furrow of Joe’s brow, the deep insistence in his voice as he tries to convey to Korey just how cool fossils could be. But Marlowe’s not Joe and finds herself tending to agree just a little. They are in some ways, just rocks. But rocks with purpose and jobs and there’s still respect in that, to them for what they can tell humans now.

“At least you understand that they have a job. Let’s find you something to eat,” Marlowe laughs. 

“And then reassess again?” The ‘s’s all slur together, the word warbled and not quite itself from Korey’s lips. But it’s close enough for Marlowe to understand the intent. “I can’t leave without seeing the dinosaurs.”

“Yeah, bug, then we can reassess again. We won’t leave until you see dinosaurs.” 

Thankfully, they’re not too far from the food court so Marlowe hoists Korey up again and carts her off, eyes darting around the thicket of people, slipping around and through pockets as they form. Easier to do if it were just Marlowe but with Korey on her hip, Marlowe’s mindful to find larger pockets. She shimmies and whispers out soft, excuse me’s, until Marlowe settles into the line. 

“Alright, what do you want? They have a hotdog, a tender sandwich, or mac’n’cheese.”

“Tender sandwich, please. Only your mac’n’cheese tastes good.”

“You got it. I’ll have to set you down once we get the register, okay? So I can pay and have my hands for your food.”

“Okay,” Korey nods her understanding. “Did you learn anything cool?”

“Yeah, I did.” Marlowe recounts her fun fact in a whisper about horn coral and then shuffles up as the customer in front pays and slides over to wait for their food. “Did you learn anything fun?”

"Stalagmites might make you trip. Stalactites cling tight to the ceiling,” Korey beams. 

“Yeah, you got it down. Look at you. Next thing you know, you’ll be working in caves.” Another customer orders, pays, and moves on, bringing Marlowe and Korey one step closer to the counter. “Gonna have to set you down now, okay?”

“Okay.” Korey doesn’t fuss, just settles next to Marlowe and reaches up, already knowing what’s coming next. 

It would’ve been smart to at least bring Korey’s stroller, but she does well most days without necessarily wanting to be in it, so Marlowe’s learned to manage without. It means backpacks and a trunk stuffed with spare clothes, coloring books, snacks, drinks. It means that Marlowe usually gets a decent upper body workout too, hoisting and setting down Korey’s 31 pound frame. 

Yet, the museum feels so much bigger now to Marlowe through the lens of Korey’s perspective. The steps are bigger, and more uneven sometimes, the crowds feel bigger and thicker. Korey’s tough, but Marlowe can’t help the pang of fear that sometimes things are too big for Korey to tackle. Nor can she fight the pang of guilt for at times overestimating Korey. But they always course correct. Marlowe would never be immune to being wrong. But Marlowe’s worry and Korey’s bravery would continue to work in silent tandem, finding every milestone they can together, getting it not perfect and finding the best ways to take a break and reassess.

Marlowe steps up next to the counter, ordering the tender sandwich box for Korey and the turkey wrap for herself, keeping Korey between her body and the counter for safety. A tactic she’s picked up from her parents. And when the card reader beeps, and Marlowe gets her bottle of water into the mesh opening of her backpack, they carry on, to wait for their order to be called. 

“Hmmph,” Korey huffs, tearing the bread away from her mouth. “Too much bread.”

Marlowe adjusts Korey on her lap, closer to the table so Korey’s less likely to make a mess. “Do you not want it?”

Korey sets her sandwich back down—which is just one chicken tender between the halves of a hotdog bun. Her tiny fists work at the top portion of the bun and tear it off. Marlowe knows that she could intervene but she withholds, watching Korey solve the problem instead. The half of the turkey wrap that Marlowe intended to bite into hovers in the gap above the plate and before her mouth. 

It’s a long process, but Korey manages to remove half the bun and then picks up the remainder before going in for her second bite. The little girl nods around her bite. “Better.” 

Her fists are a massacre of the ketchup she wanted drizzled, but that’s not a mess some baby wipes and a good hand washing can’t fix. Marlowe’s just glad there isn’t mustard involved. “Good job, bug.” Marlowe finds a napkin from the pile and holds it out to Korey who takes it with a soft, ‘Thank you’ before wiping her hands onto it. 

Marlowe spends half of their lunch break watching Korey eat, anticipating messes before they happen, and shoving bites as Marlowe can steal them into her mouth. “Oh, you’re doing an amazing job, sweetheart.” The voice is shaky and when Marlowe looks up from her second to last bite of her wrap, she finds an older white couple sitting across from her and Korey. The woman smiles at Marlowe. “With your little one, I mean.”

Marlowe’s long since learned how awkward it is to correct people, to say that Korey’s not her daughter. Though she makes sure to follow up that Korey is her niece, it never seemingly works out right. Everyone stares a little bit harder as if to parse out the details of both their faces and prove Marlowe wrong. Like Marlowe’s playing a joke on them. So she smiles, a tiny nod with the action and offers a quiet, “Thanks. Doing my best.”

Because that part is always true. Marlowe is always doing her best. “Oh, you’re doing well. Trust me, had three kids myself. I know a thing or two about that.”

Marlowe’s reply gets caught, latching onto her throat as she watches the couple stand up at the sound someone’s deep bellowed, “Ma, do you want anything from the gift shop?” Probably one of her kids and when Marlowe scans the crowd, a man carries onwards meeting the older couple. He carries a baby in his arms, one arm supporting the child’s chest and torso, the baby’s butt pressed into his ribs, draped over his forearm, like he’d been carrying the baby and doing airplane effects along with it. Behind him, a woman brings up the rear. The stroller is full of a half asleep toddler. One day, Marlowe thinks to herself, her life might look like that. Even if it’s only Korey toting a family of her own, and not the two other theoretical siblings. That still will be precious, a sign that everything they went through now was truly worth it in the end. 

“Can I try a bite?”

Korey’s question brings Marlowe’s attention back down to earth and Marlowe nods, turning her last piece so that Korey can get a clean bite of the wrap and the turkey with all the fixings and not just tortilla. “What do you think?” Marlowe asks. 

Korey smacks her lips together, lips pursed as she takes in the taste. “What’s that sauce?” Her nose wrinkles a little under the question as she swallows down the bite. 

“Honey mustard.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Noted, bug. Want water to wash the taste out?”

“Please.” Korey’s grip is tight in the plastic bottle and Marlowe keeps one hand at the ready in case she looses her grip. The sound of Korey’s slurp though crude is a good sign before she finishes and places the bottle back onto the table. “When we get done, can we go visit the dinosaurs?”

“Yeah, we can visit them after we finish eating.”

The lunch break is just what was needed. Once Marlowe collects their trash and tosses it, Korey seems much happier to walk back towards the exhibits. They work in tandem around the edges of strollers, around families huddled until a break appears and the mouth opens into the dinosaur exhibit. Korey speed walks, taking a moment to ensure that Marlowe’s keeping up once the T-rex comes into view. “Auntie, look!” Korey shouts, her tiny little arm pointing upwards. 

“Big isn’t it?”

“Huge!” Korey laughs. “Does Joe like dinosaurs?”

The question makes Marlowe’s stomach lurch for a moment. But the name Joe could be anyone to anyone outside. It’s a common enough name. Yet, the sound of it makes Marlowe take a quick glance around the exhibit opening. There are a few other adults smiling at them, mostly at Korey’s bright enthusiasm. Aside from them, no one else really seems to care. Still, Marlowe adjusts the hat again, bringing it back down on her brow, though the item can’t really go much lower before she closes the gap between them. “I don’t know for certain, bug. We’ll have to ask him.”  Marlowe suspects the answer will be yes regardless. 

“Can you take a picture of me in front of the T-rex?”

“Absolutely.” 

Korey takes off at the affirmation and immediately strikes a pose, both her hands on her hips, her smile giant across her face, showing off the teeth she has. Marlowe snaps a few photos, laughing as Korey cycles through more poses, a peace sign with both hands, pointing up at the dinosaur in awe. Marlowe’s even roped into a few selfies before they set out through the rest of the exhibit, a cool dim pathway with all the remains brightly lit. Korey pauses at most of the plaques and Marlowe reads them, slow and without a hum of impatience when Korey interrupts. 

“Bug, can you let me finish reading first?”

“Why?”

“It’s rude when you cut someone off when they’re talking. It’s disrespectful.”

Korey appears to chew over the explanation but Marlowe knows better than to think this silence means she’s agreeing. This is the face of someone attempting to understand deeper. “Why is it disrespectful?”

“Cutting someone off when they’re talking can be a sign that you’re not listening to them fully. It can be interpreted like you only care about yourself or what you have to say.”

“Oh, no, no,” Korey shakes her head. “I’m listening. Promise. I don’t want to forget my question.”

“If it helps for today, while we’re with the dinosaurs and other exhibits, you can raise your hand when you have a question and I can pause, that sound okay? That way I know you have something to say.”

Korey bobs her head. “Yes, sorry, auntie.”

“Apology accepted. Now, let’s try this again. Do you remember your question?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m going to start the sentence over and you’re going to raise your hand after I get a few words in, so we can practice.”

Marlowe starts over, eyes casted sideways to the plaque but still keeping Korey in her periphery. She’s slow, and once she reads about half the sentence she notices Korey’s hand creeping up. Marlowe reads the rest of the sentence and then stops. “Yes, Korey?”

“So dinosaurs were like in the air like birds and in the ocean like sharks?”

Marlowe nods. “Yes, there were different kinds of dinosaurs that lived different ways so there were ones on the land, in the air, in the sea.”

“Whoa,” Korey murmurs. “Can I be a dinosaur?”

The tuft of laughter escapes Marlowe softly, all mostly an exhale. “I don’t think humans can turn into dinosaurs. But if you want to look like a dinosaur, I can do that.” Marlowe’s got some face paints in her room somewhere, kept them from Korey’s 2nd birthday party. They should still be okay. But if not, Marlowe knows where to get more too.

“No, no, I mean be like dinosaurs? Be strong, and fast or light and fly or swim really well?”

“Bug,” Marlowe starts, crouching down to her level, one hand settled onto Korey’s side, “you can be strong and fast and swim well. You can be whatever it is that you need or want to be. Anytime. Any place. And I’m going to cheer you on from the sidelines. Always.” Korey may not even understand what Marlowe really means. Because it’s not just about dinosaurs. It’s about whoever Korey is meant to be, whatever shape and form that takes. But for now, it’s more than okay if it’s just about dinosaurs too. 

“I want to be like a dinosaur when I grow up.”

“Excellent choice.”

___________________________________

The bye week is going to be heaven sent. 

First though is the grueling reality of the short turn around on the schedule of games. The break gives them just a few extra days to recoup. A few extra breaths to ensure they don’t get too winded. The thing Joe’s looking forward to the most is that on the other side of the pads is Marlowe. If Joe’s going to be honest, she’s always on the other side. Marlowe’s always been just a phone call away. Just on the other side of the crackle of their devices. But the promise of more lingers. It’s a group dinner. A coordinated effort, spearheaded by Ja’Marr, who claims that he just wants to get to know Marlowe better, to assess her himself considering the cookout had been rather limited with her working the grill the entirety of the time she was there. Though, Joe suspects it’s more likely to be Ja’Marr gossiping about him to Marlowe. 

Joe doesn’t mind either way. Just as long as she’s there, and he can take her hand, feel the warmth of her seeping in through his skin. That’s what Joe really needs. That’s what he’s craving, which is all happening Saturday evening, still two days away. Right now though, is the last of the short week. The game, against the Steelers, is already fading back in Joe’s mind. There will be plenty of time to review, to reassess, realign. 

For right now, in the growing quiet hum of Paycor, Joe leans into the back of the elevator, wrapped in the sweater Marlowe got for him. A wild collection of colors, in various blocked orientations, a quadrant of a fair baby pink at the V neck and collar, orange that takes up about half the left sleeve interjected with slivers of red rectangles up through the bicep up to a soft baby blue torso. The right sleeve is balanced with a quarter of navy blue near the wrist just before it turns into baby blue again. It’s a busy sweater, one that even Joe took a second to settle in with. But he does like it. A lot. And who it’s from certainly only aids in the adoration.

Marlowe beamed at him when she slid the bag over to him. “I think you’ll like it,” she said. “And if not, I can exchange it.”

There’d been no occasion for the offering, no birthdays or anniversaries on the horizon. A just because kind of gift. Something she grabbed just because she thought of him. As Joe dug in, pulling the white tissue paper off the top, he laughed at her giddiness. “Are you meaning to tell me that you’re just out there thinking about me all the time?”

“Most of the time,” Marlowe corrected. According to Marlowe, the goal had been to get additional sweaters for Korey who was in the midst of a potential growth spurt. Though Korey was the main objective, Marlowe poked her head into one of her favorite streetwear shops. There, hanging on the first rack facing the entrance, rested the sweater. “The sweater screamed Joe.”

And scream Joe it did. Enough so that even Kyle noticed it on Joe’s torso the next day paused, head titled to the side. “Oh, that’s a cool piece. I don’t remember picking this one up.”

“Marlowe got it for me.”

“I knew I liked her. She’s got quite the eye. We could do something with this if you wanted. For the season.”

Joe nodded, his shrug commitment enough. “Sure, that’d be cool.”

Now he’s in it again, knowing that just early when he arrived at Paycor several photographs would snap a series of photos of him in the sweater, balanced with matching orange cargo pants, topped off with black sunshades that are secured now in their case and tucked into his backpack. Only he, Marlowe, and Kyle would know where the sweater came from. But the thought of carrying her in something as simple as a sweater makes it all the more special. That she’d always be between the threads, neatly tucked in.

The elevator doors open and Joe sighs, carrying on to the suite. The game continues to fall off in pieces behind him as his feet carry him forward, one step at a time echoed with one piece at a time. Joe wanted Marlowe there, in the crowd again. But with the eyes still on her, it was smart for her to keep her distance. Her physical absence didn’t stop Joe’s intuition though. Somewhere after the last of the warmups and before the coin toss he felt when she’d tuned in. It could be hope, could be imagination, but it never feels like it is. Even when he’s miles and miles away, it feels the same, a whisper of air that brushes against the back of his neck. Feels like a kiss, where Marlowe sometimes kisses him when she’s wrapped around the back of him, her arms wound around his waist and her kiss pressed onto the back of his neck, just under his hairline, at the base of his skull. 

Joe would rather Marlowe be safe and comfortable for right now, while their relationship is still fresh and young to them both, than push for too much too fast. Eventually, he’s hoping things settle. Justine’s referral interviewed well and now both Joe and Marlowe are just waiting on the final receipt of the transfer for the salary. There’s more that he’s sure is happening on Marlowe’s end, but right now, there’s more light at the end of the tunnel than originally estimated. Soon, Marlowe will have someone else to help manage her business page, generating content ideas, shooting content for her and the like. Distant enough that Marlowe won’t have to deal with the nasty DM’s, but still close enough that it will still feel like Marlowe. 

Joe’s parents greet him in the hallway, his mother popping off the bench the second his visage becomes clear from around the corner. “There he is.” Her embrace is warm and Joe’s grateful for it, grounds him back into reality into himself in ways he thinks she’ll always be able to do, that only she’ll be able to do. 

“Hi, Mom.”

She rubs at his shoulders. “Oh, this sweater is so soft.” Her words come wrapped in laughter, surprise painted into the spaces between words. 

“It is pretty comfortable,” Joe admits, grinning as he pulls out his mother’s hold. “Marlowe got it for me.”

“Did she now?” Another round of laughter. “She’s got a great eye then. But I mean, she dresses so well anyway, so we’re not shocked.”

The embrace with his father is shorter, but still welcomed. Joe’s been wary since they exchanged phone numbers that Marlowe’s slowly been replacing him as the potential favorite. There are times when he tries to call Marlowe only to get her voicemail and a busy signal and he then goes to follow up and call his mom and her line is busy too. He’s not specifically asked anything to confirm the suspicion. Just the possibility alone makes him elated.

“The two of them are planning a shopping trip I think, here soon,” his dad offers with a pat to Joe’s shoulders. “The two of them can talk for hours.”

His body warms, chest puffing with pride at the way his mother and Marlowe are getting along. “Is that true?” Joe questions. He hadn’t heard anything of the sort about a shopping trip. He’d gotten the heads up on a lunch date, but that was well before the season started. “Another hang out?”

“Perhaps,” his mother grins with a shrug. “She’ll help keep me young.”

“Oh, I don’t think you need Marlowe for that,” his father teases. “But let’s go inside. I’m sure Joe’s ready to sit down for just a second.”

Joe waves his mother to walk ahead of him. “I’m just glad you like her, Mom.”

“Oh, Marlowe’s a treat. Lovely girl. Her niece is such a cutie pie too. So sweet and well mannered.”

“So, you know about Korey too, hmm?”

“Yes. We’ve even had a little chat once. Cute little girl. Full of life.”

“Yeah, Korey is the life of the party. Until her bedtime hits and then she’s out like a light.”

His mother glances back, one brow arched just a hair. “And how would you know about that?” The door to the suite is cracked open. She hovers between the room and the hallway, but her guess is zeroed in on Joe. “How serious is it getting?”

“Mom,” Joe groans. He doesn’t want to do this right now. Not that he’s embarrassed but he knows the second he starts gushing about Marlowe he’s subjecting himself and others to a minimum of a thirty minute lecture. Something he’d rather avoid for now if he can help it. “We can talk tomorrow, promise. But I’ve met Korey a couple times.” 

There’s definitely more than a couple, but what his mother doesn’t know right now won’t hurt her. Though sustained interactions have been pretty minimal for the time being. 

“Oh, you’re so gone,” his mother grins. “You don’t even need to say much else. I can see it on your face. Would Marlowe and Korey be the reason for that upgrade to your collection in the garage?”

“Everyone can see it,” Joe hums, the smile cresting his face damn near involuntarily. He’d be shit at hiding it anyway that’s for sure. “And I upgraded because I just need more space in my vehicle. That’s all,” Joe shrugs. It is part of the truth, but not all of it. 

“Oh, buddy, she’s got you hook, line, and sinker.”

His mother is not wrong either. Even if Joe’s cheeks fill with heat, there’s no sense in trying to prove her wrong. The efforts would be futile. He is utterly head over heels. There’s no hope for Joe. And he doesn’t want any saving either. Not from Marlowe. Never from her. The relationship they have is the kind of thing that Joe’s dreamed about, wanted for himself like he sees that others have. Who in their right mind would want to be saved from a love like that?

His mother’s tease, this realization that there’s no other place for Joe to get is further solidified when he pull pulls to a stop in front of Marlowe’s house on Saturday, noticing her SUV sitting in the driveway and the mere sight of just her vehicle is enough to make him feel a new fresh wave of calm. A sense of relief and Joe’s really not sure if there was anything he was waiting for, waiting to escape from. Or if it's more like relief to finally know the one person he’s wanted to see again is only a few feet from him, only behind a door. Either way, Joe’s not going to waste another second. He cracks open the driveside door after double checking there’s no coming traffic on the street. 

“Joe!”

The voice is tiny, but full, as the door creaks open and Marlowe laughs, gaze cast down. Yet, Joe takes a moment to take Marlowe in, the simple black dots on her white flared pants, paired with a simple cropped black boxy long sleeve. Her fingers are still covered in gold, but Joe manages to note the bracelets on her wrist too as she tugs the sleeves up on her forearms. Joe travels up over her face, the slope of her nose and then down and away from Marlowe when arms wrap around his legs. 

“Hi, Korey.” Joe laughs, hand briefly resting on her tiny shoulder. 

She takes his hand with no hesitation and tugs, attempting with all her strength to get him inside. “Do you have a few minutes? I need to tell you about the dinosaurs.”

“Sure, I have a few minutes.” He wasn’t sure if Korey would be there with Marlowe, but he arrived with about ten extra minutes just in case she was. 

At Korey’s next tug, Joe steps over the threshold into the house. Next to the door is Marlowe’s staple overnight bag and her backpack. They’re not hard to spot—with the orange and yellow pattern etched into them both. Joe grins, heart hammering at the ability to have more than just dinner with Marlowe. It’s supposed to be a clear night too, so Joe’s hoping he can still break out the telescope. He has notes in his office, prepped for whenever they managed to steal a few minutes away to themselves about the constellations. He has no favorite, no real allegiance to the mythos behind the gas bodies in the sky. But Marlowe does and for one night he can indulge, just for her.

Korey leads the charge into the kitchen and pats at the stool for Joe. “Thirsty? We have the good juice now.” 

“I’m good, thank you, Korey.” Korey has the mannerisms of someone much older and Joe figures it’s all the time she spends with Marlowe, Trey, and Regina. The things she picks up on never cease to amuse him though. Like her offering of a drink though he’s sure the fridge door could knock her over with ease. 

Marlowe slips in next to him between the barstools, lips pressed gently to his cheek in a rather silent greeting. “I need to get my phone, bug, for the photos,” Marlowe warns. 

“Okay,” Korey nods eagerly. 

There’s something dark, a soft muted color from the corner of his eyes when Joe cuts his gaze up towards Marlowe. She’s already halfway turned away from him. But, before Marlowe can slip away totally, Joe stretches and hooks one finger into one of the belt loops of her pants. “Just a second, there,” he laughs. “Is that lipstick and not lipgloss?”

Marlowe laughs as she turns back around, her hands sliding across his shoulders. And there’s that soft wispy press again at the back of his neck when her sharp gaze lands on him, inky brown gaze so dark that at times in the evening twilight it’s hard to separate iris from pupil. In the sun, the brown is easy to parse out, flecks of a lighter umber flecks refract in the light. The whispered press—that’s not real this time, yet still felt—is paired with the scratch of her nails in the same spot and it makes Joe’s toes curl in his sneakers. 

Her lips are painted in a soft burgundy, reminiscent of the polish she seems to be partial too. Joe catalogued the appearance of the color three separate times between her polished toes, and her fingernails, and now a fourth with the lipstick. The color almost seeps into her skintone, but there’s just enough red in the mixture to make it stand out against her full lips. “And if it is?” Marlowe giggles. 

“It looks good,” Joe whispers in return. He wonders if his cheek is a little purple now too, if some of it transferred to him. Some part of him is hoping so—that she can make good on that threat from months ago to leave a stain much worse than that of a gloss. Joe can carry another piece of her even if it’s only temporary. “You look gorgeous.”

“It’s nothing fancy.”

Joe shrugs. “Did anyone say anything about fancy that I missed?”

“Well, no.”

“Exactly. Care to try it again?” Because Joe will be damned if Marlowe doesn’t take the compliment. He’ll say it over and over, a thousand times if need be, until he’s lost all his oxygen. Marlowe’s smile is shy but she doesn’t look away. Joe takes it as the affirmative to continue. “You look gorgeous,” he whispers again. 

“Thank you, baby,” Marlowe returns. 

“There we go.”

Marlowe’s eyes fall to his cheek, one hand cupping the flesh. “I left behind a little lipstick.”

He nearly says leave it, but her thumb is already stroking over the spot. “Should’ve left it.”

“I don’t think you want any of the guys to comment on it,” Marlowe grins and her eyes dance away from him. “Yes, bug?”

Joe turns to spot Korey with her arm raised. She drops it upon Marloe’s acknowledgement. “Are you guys done being in love for right now? I know you two have a date and I don’t want to be rude. But I would like to talk about dinosaurs.”

Marlowe’s jaw drops, her shocked laughter leaving her in sputters—false starts and tripped middles before beginning again.  “Where did you learn that from? Huh? That Joe and I are in love?” There’s no hesitation in her voice around the question but the phrasing does nearly choke Joe. Joe risks a glance towards the living room’s direction, wondering if any other eyes are watching, but it’s just them. 

That Joe and I are in love?

It doesn’t count. It’s not the same as her and him saying the phrase. Yet, hearing Marlowe say it after Joe’s had the thought floating in the back of his mind makes the words burn his tongue, itching to be said aloud. Certainly four months is much too soon. However, it wasn’t just the four months of them dating either. It was the six months prior, the friendship phase that included the silly video she recorded of herself with her pocket open in that dress. Joe sent her the wrist rehab videos he had saved. The dinner and movie that Joe fell asleep on, that Marlowe actively chose to let him sleep through. It’s the phone calls, the laughter they shared well before that make the phrase feel more than right. 

Love is there, in all of that; there’s care too. But Joe shouldn’t say it right now. There’s no shaking the desire though, the craving to know what the phrase tastes like on his lips and tongue.

“PopPop,” Korey answers with a single bob of her head. 

“Dad!” Marlowe hollers, turning out from Joe’s hold. There’s a deep rumbled laugh from the living room and it’s clear Trey’s listened to most of the exchange. It’s the last she says before she disappears from the kitchen. There’s just a few seconds of silence before Trey’s laughter blossoms into the air. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m an old man,” he calls out. “Be careful with me.”

Marlowe’s voice is a soft whisper, but the low rumble sounds threatening enough. 

“They play wrestle a lot,” Korey offers around her giggles. “PopPop tries to teach me some moves, but I don’t like it. Auntie Marlowe, she’s really good at it!”

Joe parts his lips to respond but Trey’s voice interjects, “I’m not saying anything inaccurate, sweetpea! We all see it!”

Oh, God. All the parents are in on it. Everyone sees it and Joe has to agree but it still doesn’t make the embarrassment flash less hot across his face. His parents were easier to handle. Joe knew what their teasing means, how to dodge their insisting gazes. They’re all adults. Joe’s done his best to be respectful but damn it still feels like being caught red handed stealing snacks from the kitchen after being told no.

“You’re instigating,” Marlowe hisses out. “She’s three.”

“Going on 33 because of you,” Trey counters.

“Yeah, Marlowe mentioned to me she used to do martial arts,” Joe answers Korey's earlier statement. Part of him does wonder what is happening as Trey choruses out ouch, hey, hey, watch it, but Joe doesn’t dare go peeping. Instead he keeps his conversation with Korey going, even though he’s sure his face is red. “And I heard you’re looking to learn the griddy too.”

“Yes, I saw you do it and it looked like fun.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t ask your aunt to teach you. I know you have dance lessons with her.” Joe’s not trying to get out of it, but he is scared. Wants to make sure that Korey actually wants him to teach her. He hadn’t thought that they were close enough for that. 

“Well,” Korey starts shuffling closer to the barstool next to Joe. “Can I have some help please? To get up there?”

“Of course.” She’s light, easy to pick up and place onto the stool and Korey sits cross crossed, pushing at the kitchen island to start a spin in the stool. She doesn’t look unstable, but it worries Joe so he scoots his chair over just a hair in case she loses her balance. 

Korey manages to stop her spin with practiced ease and restarts her earlier thought. “Well, I thought about asking Auntie Marlowe, but then, I like it when we can hang out. I asked you because of that. But I was scared because I know you have work too. And I was scared you say no.”

Joe’s not sure what is, if it’s the soft uncertainty in Korey’s voice or if it’s the confession itself, but he swears there’s the early sting of tears behind his eyes not enough to actually cry, but to know he could. Joe’s chest tightens with a tug of warmth before it unravels and he wonders if he’ll actually come undone. Korey asked merely because she liked him. A feat Joe figured he’d have to face sooner or later. But that had been a thought of something that was further away. Joe figured that things were still too new for those strides.

But it’s all happening now, from the tiniest voice he’s ever heard from Korey. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” Joe questions in a whisper.

Something settles onto the counter behind them but Korey keeps her focus on him, eyes shining with curiosity. “Yes,” she nods. 

“I think you’re pretty cool and like hanging out with you too. But you can’t tell your aunt.”

Korey drifts her gaze over, towards Joe’s right, and he assumes it’s Marlowe who has returned. Korey doesn’t move her body, just her eyes back over to Joe. “Do you think she heard you?”

“If we stay still,” Joe starts, cutting his own gaze to find Marlowe grinning at them, “then she can’t see us.”

Both of them hold their positions for a moment, still as they both can be. “Oh, wherever have Korey and Joe gone?” Marlowe bellows in fake surprise. “They were just here. And now, gone. Dad, Mom, you gotta help me find them.”

The entire house dissolves into laughter, a hiccuping sound that echoes before Korey delves into her spill about her trip to the Natural History Museum. “The cave was so tall,” Korey continues on. “Taller than you!”

“Taller than me? Wow.” 

“I know! But the dinosaurs were the best part. Do you like dinosaurs, Joe?”

He nods. “Yeah, they’re really cool, I think.”

“I want to be like a dinosaur when I grow up. Big, and strong, and fast.”

“That’s a good goal. Do you know what kind of dinosaur though?”

“I’m not that picky, Joe,” Korey returns, like it’s obvious. 

And maybe it should’ve been, still Joe wanted her to know he was listening. “Ouch.” Joe rubs at his chest at her pointed stare. 

“But look, the t-rex was huge!”

On Marlowe’s screen is a picture of Korey, pointing up at the assembled remains, maybe even some of it an artistic rendition too. “Yeah, it is pretty big.”

“So yeah, we walked around there and Auntie read the stuff to me. It was a lot of fun.” She swipes at the photograph and a selfie pops up of Marlowe and Korey in front of the dinosaur. Marlowe’s face is shadowed by her hat, but her eyes are still visible, needle like gaze bright with her smile. 

Joe nearly asks for Marlowe to send him the photograph, but manages to keep the question back behind his teeth. Surely, Marlowe wouldn’t go that far to send him the photograph of her and Korey, not just yet. But it is striking, how similar they look, side by side reflected back, Marlowe’s face shadowed by the hat, but the similarities are so palpable. The sameness that feels a little uncanny but makes it hard to look away. So Joe tries to commit to memory as much of it as possible. By the time the screen goes dark, the close of Joe’s eyes reveals a near perfect imprint of the picture behind his lids with every blink. 

“Does Korey actually like me?” Joe asks just as Marlowe slips the front door closed. “I think her stare was near lethal.” 

Both Marlowe’s bags are on his shoulder, and Marlowe’s keys click and twinkle as she works the lock closed from the outside. True to Korey’s word, she was mindful not to keep them too long, but Joe did have to promise to come by Sunday to teach her the dance. A thing he tries not to think about considering he’s not in any position to teach anyone a dance.

“She does,” Marlowe laughs. “She asks about you randomly sometimes. One of the daycare workers stopped me a couple weeks ago when I was picking her up if I knew that Korey talks about us. Said that Korey boasts about her aunt and the football boyfriend.”

“Oh God,” Joe laughs. He tries to imagine what Korey might say about him. Hopefully it’s nice things, but he can’t fathom what the conversations might look like with the other three and four year olds amidst their shared lego block building. Was it about who could run faster or about Joe as a person? Both possibilities terrify Joe equally. The ‘Uncle Joe’ he is around his nephews and the Joe he is with Korey aren’t entirely different people. But Korey’s perception carries a tiny bit more weight.

“It’s all PG. Apparently, she tells them that she’s your coach.”

“She’s smart as a whip, like her aunt. Of course I listen.”

“I’m flattered,” Marlowe snorts but takes his outstretched hand. Joe carries on down the driveway, fishing his keys out from his pockets again. “Thank you, by the way. For the flowers for Lady Day.”

Joe had the bouquet scheduled for delivery on the 12th, so he wouldn’t miss it. Though it wasn’t her birthday, Joe still wanted to let Marlowe and her family know that he was thinking about them during the time of their loss. “You’re welcome. How are you dealing with that? The anniversary of your grandmother’s death?” The question is days late really. It seemed the worst of Marlowe’s fog was in August. Yet, Joe doesn’t want his own world to cloud over his eyes and he certainly doesn’t want to have missed anything obvious. 

“Some days hit harder than others. But we were all sort of waiting for her. Lady Day had a stroke a couple weeks prior to her passing so while it was sad, we were sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I know she’s got Malia and the two of them are just chatting away up in heaven, so most days it’s fine.”

Joe squeezes gently at Marlowe’s palm. An action meant to denote his care. A loss like that can’t be easy even if it’s expected. “If you ever need to talk at all to someone, I’m always here.”

“Thanks, baby.”

“Of course. You’re welcome. Now, who was the fan of Halloween? You mentioned that Halloween and Christmas are hard too.”

“Oh, it’s me. I love Halloween and Lady Day used to make me costumes when I was little. She’d make sure that Malia and I coordinated with the theme each year. Christmas is her and Malia’s favorite holiday.” 

Marlowe waits at the side of the trunk while Joe slips her bags inside. He’s still got his own bags that he’s been meaning to take inside for a couple weeks now. Thankfully it’s not anything with practice clothes or sweaty gym clothes. It’s a few bags and a tote that his mother insisted on dropping off of his old things. Bags that probably hold old middle school projects. He agreed to sort through what he wanted and what he’d give back to her. And Joe probably should get them in sooner rather than later. 

Just before Joe can ask about current Halloween plans, Marlowe’s voice pierces through his name laced in confusion. “Uh, Joe?” 

He glances up as reaches for the button to have the backgate closed. “Yes?”

“Two questions: Is this your SUV and did you always have it? And why is there a car seat in the backseat?”

“That’s three questions, you know?”

“A two for one special. But did you always have this? I could’ve sworn you never mentioned it before.” Her words are soft, full of disbelief, but Joe spots it the flicker of her gaze as she tries to reassess, calculating how something like this could’ve gotten past her.

Rather than answering directly, Joe leans into the side of it. “That’s the right carseat? For Korey, I mean?”

Her brows furrow even further. Marlowe’s seemingly frozen on the curb. Joe knows she catches everything, that Marlowe’s paying attention to everything. It’s why she carries so much weight about Malia. But her sister had made decisions that Marlowe’s careful attention could not undo.  “So, this is definitely new.” She blinks, eyes landing on him again. “And you went through all that heartache for Korey?”

Joe nods. “For you too. In case, well, I don’t know. In case something happened, I guess. I’m hoping not and I know that like I’m probably the last line of defense, but I don’t know. I didn’t want you or her squished in my car anymore. Because, really, how many sports cars does a guy need?”

“No, shut up,” Marlowe whispers. “Shut up. You didn’t.”

But he had. And Joe knows he’d do it again. He cracks open the backdoor and there in the soft pink is the Graco carseat. Converted already for Korey’s weight—information that seemed quite obvious to Joe as a dead give away but Marlowe answered with not so much as a second look. Joe cursed the contraception out for a solid hour but in the end, he got it hooked up correctly, with many YouTube videos later. His search history would attest to that. 

Marlowe’s face is streaked, half shadow, half kissed by yellow street lights as Joe eases in closer to her. It makes her even more alluring the longer Joe watches her, taking in the pieces of her face, left nostril illuminated, the apple of her cheek caressed and bathed in light. “But the car?” Marlowe questions. 

“Traded it into the dealership, only had it for a little bit so it was a pretty fair trade. Well as fair as you’ll get with a dealership of course. This is roomier that’s for fucking certain and I’m kind of glad for the extra space. I was sort of just living with my knees knocking the steering wheel when a slightly larger vehicle totally fixes that issue.”

“Oh, Joey.” Her voice quakes on the petname, thick with tears that Joe is sure are falling as Marlowe curls into his chest. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

His spine tingles at the echoing of his nickname from her lips. Joe presses a kiss to the crown of her head, arms winding around her shoulders. “I know I didn’t. But I wanted to. For you both.”

Because Joe does care about them both. He certainly wouldn’t be the first person they called in a crisis, but he’d like to be prepared, ready for anything when it comes. Should it come, of course. 

“Thank you.” The words shake again and Joe squeezes at Marlowe tighter. 

Joe and Marlowe are officially late by the time she gets the tracks of tears cleared off her cheek and he sets out for the restaurant. What extra time he built into his schedule quickly chewed through by Marlowe’s disbelief. Not that it matters too much for them. Joe’s not in any rush. He’s savoring every second he has with Marlowe. 

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” Marlowe offers in the quiet hum of the radio at a red light. “I just need you to know that.” 

“Only for you.” It couldn’t have been for anyone else. Joe can’t fathom it, that’s for certain. Trading in a car for an SUV is not something Joe would’ve done ten months ago, that’s for sure. But time and Marlowe have made him different. 

“I have a silly question.”

The light turns green in front of them, the color pressed into the glass by the reflection wavy and slightly distorted. Joe’s ease off the brake and down to the gas is smooth. “I’m listening.”

“Would you want to do a Halloween costume together? With me? And Korey? And well, by my extension, my entire family too. Korey and I tend to do one together. This year she’s getting everyone involved. But I’d like to include you too.”

His heart hammers in his chest but Joe’s nodding before she finishes the question. “Yes, a thousand percent.” Joe’s not a costume person, doesn’t love mascots because it’s covering people’s faces. But that doesn’t matter with Marlowe asking. Of course he’d want to be included. 

“You’re Hercules then. Just let me know what size you need.”

Joe risks a glance and is not shocked to see Marlowe grinning. “Oh, so I was going to join in no matter what, huh?”

“Well, no, but she wants to be Hades. So, I’m Megara and it just means that if you joined in, you’re Hercules. Dad’s Pegasus. Mom’s one of the Muses.”

The mental image of Trey in a Broncos jersey rather than a costume makes Joe snort, but he nods. “Trey as Pegasus is a little spot on, all things considered.”

“At least he’s consistent with his allegiances.”

“But yeah, I’d be happy to be involved. I just,” Joe pauses, risking a glance to Marlowe. She waits expectantly for him to continue. “I don’t know. I guess I feel a little awkward being Hercules though. He’s like the main guy and like, it sounds like a family costume. I’d be fine with like-- what were the little grandma looking characters again?”

“The Fates, I believe.”

“I’d dress up as one of them too, if need be.”

“See, Dad doesn’t want Hercules and there’s a group of costumes that are already in my cart. Megara comes with a Hercules for some reason. I could find a different one for myself, but this one had the highest ratings. I could try and convince Dad to be Hercules, but he is agreeing to wear a blue wing since he’s bald to be Pegasus.”

“Oh, wait, he’s going all out with the wig?” Joe probes, easing down onto his bakes for the left turn. The restaurant’s not too far, and the time of the evening seems to have threaded the needle on how much traffic is out on the roads, so they’re making good time even if they are late.

“Yeah, wig and everything. In a little like onesies situation with the wings too.”

“For that alone, sure, I’ll take Hercules.” Trey may hate Joe at the end of the day for this, but Joe’s not going to pass up that opportunity. Not in the slightest. Marlowe’s phone screen lights up the otherwise dark of the car. And Joe already knows to rattle off his size. There’s a few clicks, the sound of Marlowe’s nails working over her phone screen. 

“Ordered.”

“I’m stoked,” Joe laughs. “Utterly stoked.”

The party’s already been sat when Joe and Marlowe arrive. The restaurant is quiet aside from the group, as they’re the only patrons at the hour, in an effort to keep this as tightlipped as possible given that it wasn’t just a team gathering but significant others too. There’s two seats, next to each other saved for Joe and Marlowe, a relief because Joe’s not sure he could’ve survived sandwiched between teammates with Marlowe sat across from him. 

Ja’Marr grins as they approach. “There she is! Marlowe!”

“Hi, Ja’Marr, thanks again for inviting me.”

“Of course, of course.” Ja’Marr’s embrace of Marlowe is quick after he introduces his girlfriend. Joe’s mindful to sit Marlowe closer to her so they can chat, sparing Marlowe from the woes of another teammate as a dinner neighbor. She’d handle it with grace, no concerns there, but if Joe doesn’t have to subject her to it, he won’t. More introductions float around, though most of the people assembled should be vaguely familiar from Joe’s July 4th party. 

“Can y’all decide fast?” Ja’Marr probes once they’re settled. “We haven’t ordered yet, but I’ve heard from down yonder that some stomachs are at some backs.”

“Don’t be talking about me,” Tee calls out. “Hi, Marlowe.”

“Oh, Tee, how did I miss you?” Marlowe excuses herself to scoot to greet him. 

“I had to step out for a second, no worries.” Their conversation falls mostly hushed amongst the murmur of voices. 

The lighting in the restaurant is low but warm and inviting. Joe glances over the menu. The choice feels relatively easy for him, but he does look over to see if anything stands out to him as something Marlowe would want. “If we order from the far end down to us, we’ll be good,” Joe answers to Ja’Marr, eyes flickering between the pages. 

“Sweet. I’d ask what took y’all so long, but I already know I wouldn’t get an answer.”

“Korey,” Joe laughs. Though it’s a bit more complicated than that too. “She was pretty excited to tell me about her love for dinosaurs after the visit to the Natural History Museum."

“Oh, shit, how is my niece doing?”

Joe laughs just as their two glasses are filled with water. The ice plinks as it falls against the crystal glass. “Thanks,” he whispers to the server and then looks back at Ja’Marr. “You haven’t even met Korey.”

“In due time, Burrow. In due time. But my eyeballs work, brother. I see it all. The way you talk about Marlowe. I know someone in love when I see it.”

There it goes again. Like a beacon of light in a dark sky. Joe knows himself that he’s already in deep, but he keeps worry about Marlowe, doesn’t want to move too fast for her sake. And really for his own. It would be better to wait than it would be to scare her off.  But there’s no need to tell Ja’Marr any of that. None of it would change his mind. 

So Joe sticks to the facts, things proven, and quantifiable. “Korey’s good. Apparently she wants to be a dinosaur when she grows up, though I’m not entirely sure what that means.”

“Oh, she’s got a dinosaur phase. I would’ve suspected at the very least a princess phase. But, we can rock with dinosaurs. They cool too.”

Joe shrugs. “She’s very opinionated so I don’t argue. I think her aunt would have my head if I did.” Marlowe’s still in a conversation with Tee but Joe looks down the length of the tables pushed together. Marlowe’s smiling, her laughter cresting up just above the rest of the chatter. A sound that Joe thinks he’d follow to the ends of the earth, even as dramatic as it sounds. But he likes knowing that she’s comfortable here, in his world. 

“Yeah, I don’t think Marlowe would play ‘bout our niece. So talk to Little Miss right.” 

The warning is heeded with a nod and soon the servers return to the ends of the table, notepads out ready to take ours. It’s them that sparks Marlowe’s return to her seat, one hand slipping over Joe’s knee as she gets settled. A casual brush but it damn near makes his teeth chatter. Joe’s not necessarily one for public displays of affection, is much too hyperaware that he’s never really safe and alone. But Marlowe makes it seem so easy. She’s careful, he can tell, not to go too far, but still she’s comfortable in this setting. “Any thing in particular look interesting?” she asks. 

“They have a ravioli that I want to try,” Joe starts, slipping one arm around the back of her chair, fingers holding but not curled tightly around her outer part of her bicep. “But it’s got mushrooms and I know you don’t like those. I think you’ll like the shrimp pasta. I saw that there was garlic.”

“I do like garlic,” Marlowe mutters mostly to herself. “I’ll give it a try.”

The conversation is rather easy, pockets that draw Joe’s attention into it. A few questions lobbed Marlowe’s way that she takes in stride, handles with ease. All the the while her thumb strokes steadily over his left knee. Occasionally her nails scratch ever so gently, ghosting over the scars. Joe can’t tell if it’s subconscious or if it’s planned, if somehow Marlowe’s just drawn to him like he is to her or if she’s memorized the placing, as if measuring out the distance between the incisions. But Joe feels every brush, every scratch as it sears the nerves, all the way up his spine as well. It’s comforting to know, to feel, even in the silent brush of Malrowe’s hand on his knee and Joe’s hand on her shoulder and arm, that they’re connected to each other, still seeking each other out. 

Marlowe stretches her fork out, hovering over the edge of Joe’s plate after the food arrives. “Can I try?”

“Baby, you’re not going to like it. There’s no way to get around the mushrooms.” The fungi is rather inoffensive to Joe, but Marlowe’s never been a fan as long as he’s known her. She’s never been able to articulate why exactly, perhaps it’s the earthy taste, maybe it’s the texture. Either way, Marlowe and mushrooms do not agree with each other.

“Just a little bit, please.”

Joe sighs, doing his best to pick a piece of ravioli that’s small enough not to be missed when she doesn’t finish it and hopefully does not have too many mushrooms. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he laughs, holding out the halved portion on his fork. 

Marlowe swipes the bite into her mouth off his fork and chews for a moment, maybe two before the frown etches into the corners of her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“See!” Joe laughs. “I was trying to tell you.”

He has to give Marlowe credit, she does swallow down the bite, but immediately follows up the taste with a swig of his water. Her glass is half full. “I keep thinking maybe I’ll learn to like it. And it never works out.”

“If you don’t like something, baby, you don’t have to learn to like it. I’m most certainly not going to force you into that situation. Also, now you’re stealing sips of my water too?” The playful disbelief paints his words. “What’s next? My social security number?”

“Yours taste better. And consider it payback for stealing half my sandwich two weekends go.”

“It was one bite, angel.”

“It was half, Joseph. Half my damn sandwich,” Marlowe corrects, stern, but her eyes dancing with amusement. 

The table releases a collective ‘Ooooh’ at the use of his full name. Joe rests a hand over his chest, feigning offense at her words. “I don’t know who this Joseph fella is, but I can go get him if you want. Besides,” Joe continues, leaning in a little closer to Marlowe. “Who bought you another sandwich?”

“You did, but you also hate half of it to start.”

“But I still got you a new one,” Joe murmurs, taking her chin gently with his hand, cupping the bone and her jaw. 

The restaurant is empty besides them. Marlowe’s hand is still on his knee, rubbing at the joint. The room is dark enough that Marlowe’s pupils and irises have melted together. Joe knows where the flecks are, has studied her eyes when they’ve laid beside each other in his bed, breath stolen from him in beats at how stunning she is. Conversations have started back up around then, a silent understanding to let them have their moment, that the conversation is playful and not serious. Centimeters are such a short distance to cover. Joe thinks he could close the distance faster than he could count to one. What does he have to lose? 

Marlowe’s lips are soft, so utterly soft, even with the lipstick. Not even the nip of garlic or shrimp ruins the chaste kiss. A plush and inviting center, the bar of that lip piercing just as firm as ever in the press of his lips into hers. Joe doesn’t want to ruin her makeup, not that she ever really seems to wear much of it. And there’s still the small spike of fear in the back of his head that worries somehow, even in the middle of the quiet restaurant the moment will be snapped by someone sneaking a camera. 

Joe worries less about his teammates in that scenario, and more concerned about the staff. The brush of Marlowe’s nose over his quiets that fear though as she eases back, puts just a few inches between them. The rational part of himself churns back into gear. The staff would keep it professional. Surely.

But there’s Marlowe’s hummed laughter, a small tut before the kiss ends. “Your water still tastes better and I should’ve listened to you about the mushrooms. But it looked good.”

“How about dessert? To make up for the nasty mushrooms that I dare let you try again?”

“Anything chocolate, please.”

“Anything chocolate,” Joe affirms. “Got it.” 

Joe really did luck out in more ways than one back in February, now that he thinks about it. Sure, he got Marlowe’s number, but he had no clue then that she liked chocolate, if it was too much or if it would miss the mark. Though, something larger than Joe was at work and he managed to find the right dessert by pure chance. 

Snagging a dessert menu is rather easy. A few are still scattered on the table from their initial ordering even though it’s been too long now, Joe’s lost track of time. He just counts the strokes of Marlowe’s fingers, that’s certainly the same thing as the ticking seconds. By the time Joe finds the chocolate selection for the evening, a rather fancy sounding brownie if Joe’s understanding is correct, Marlowe’s been pulled into a conversation with Ja’Marr. He catches his name and knows given the cackle that hits the air, there’s no pausing it either. The two of them are deep into the conversation. To know Marlowe’s finding her footing, being accepted amongst the people that Joe holds as valuable and near to him, is a comfort. 

“I’m tellin’ you he has two, maybe three dance moves. That’s it. And it ain’t no shade he does them three ones well. But believe, Marlowe, I was there for some of those nights in Baton Rouge,” Ja’Marr carries on. “You need to save niecey from him. Immediately. Expeditiously.”

“It’s one dance lesson,” Marlowe laughs. 

“I just don’t want to undo all your hard work. Joe’s been telling us you’re trying to keep her cultured.”

“Trying. Dad got her started young, really. Strapped her to his chest and would just dance around the house with her to the classics.”

Joe’s laughter sneaks out of him, attempting to conjure the image of Trey with a baby Korey in the chest harness, her wide open face giggling at her grandfather’s antics. Joe’s not eavesdropping per se, the conversations around him have all settled and he’s content with sitting there, not directly involved with any conversation for the time being. Just watching, cataloguing, letting all his thoughts come and go as they need. But Joe is catching pieces, like Marlowe still has the video of Trey dancing with Korey to Never Scared. 

A song Joe’s keeping tucked away for later to listen to for the full context that Ja’Marr clearly catches immediately with a burst of laughter. “I knew he was a real one. I always knew Trey was a real one.”

The brownie is quick to come out and Joe eases it in closer to Marlowe, who’s now in conversation about something makeup related with Ja’Marr’s girl. Joe got turned around in the pieces of the conversation somewhere around Marlowe’s mention of blotting papers. It was then that Joe decided actively to shift his focus away from that conversation.  “Angel,” Joe whispers, not to intrude but just to catch her attention. 

“Oh, thank you, baby,” Marlowe returns, taking the plate though she doesn’t really need to. “Do you want a bite?”

A tempting offer just as Marlowe cuts into the dessert with the spoon, the concave silver utensil holding caramel sea salt gelato in addition to the baked good too. Joe’s stronger than the temptation and shakes his head. “I’m okay. Tell me how it is though.” Joe’s hoping that he can luck out a second time. 

It’s a rather dense looking brownie, but for the serving of the gelato it comes with, perhaps the thickness is an even ratio to help keep all the flavors within balance. Joe’s no culinary wizard though so he waits, tracks the spoon to her lips, watches the way she curls her tongue around the baked good. Not necessarily with a sexual desire, just curiosity, hope too that he’s made a solid choice. Marlowe hums, eyes cutting up and over to him before she speaks, “It’s really good.” 

“Good. Good.” He squeezes at her bicep. That makes him two for two, a track record that Joe hopes only keeps getting better and better. 

“We’ll have to come back here, after the season is over. So you can try it.”

Joe’s not sure what it is, if it’s anticipation, or respite. And it could be neither of those things too. But it hits his chest hard and steals his breath. Marlowe doesn’t sound unsure about it. Like she’s worried that it’s too fragile to make a plan. Joe loves that, loves hearing the assured hum in her voice. He and Marlowe have longevity. Joe sees it. She’s it for him. He prays he’s it for her too. 

“I’d like that,” he whispers in return, perhaps too late for Marlowe to really hear. She’s already in the mix of another conversation, though she stays mostly silent to polish off the entire cut of the brownie one spoonful at a time. 

The early evening turns into night, though the depths of the dark outside the windows doesn’t give much of any indication of that change from the earlier slightly less oppressive dark. The 6:30 dinner start has faded quickly into almost 9 by the time the car radio blinks back awake at Joe’s press to the car’s start. Fall’s grip hasn’t softened entirely. But the impending stillness of winter waits, looms in front of them with each passing day. The loss of sun is felt by everyone, the first real reminder that time has continued on and will continue to do so as well. 

Joe and Marlowe ease through the threshold, into the laundry room that attaches the house to the garage. Though Joe would normally carry her bags immediately upstairs, he sets them at the first step. “I have something in the backyard since it’s still a pretty clear night.”

The telescope arrived yesterday, Friday, though it wasn’t originally supposed to arrive until Monday. A blessing as it looked like more potential for rain in the forecast. But he catches in the gentle breeze of her walking past the scent of her perfume, not for the first time tonight, but this is the first time he’s let himself press the inhale deep into his lungs. A swirl of something warm and sweet, and familiar. And fuck if Marlowe doesn’t smell delectable. 

“The stars?” Marlowe questions. Her lips are peeled back in a grin, the lipstick’s managed to last for the majority of the evening, but it’s clear that it’s been worn away in the middle, the gelato and brownie proving to be messy opponents. 

Joe nods, bringing her in closer to his body. Another waft enters his nose. “They tell you about my plan?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Good.” 

The taste of the gelato and the brownie still coat the inside of Marlowe’s mouth, enough to make Joe almost regret not getting a small taste himself. But to have the whisper of it off Marlowe’s tongue feels like the next best thing to having it himself. Her hands curl into the collar of his shirt, the surprise freezing Marlowe before she melts, hands smoothing up and looping around his neck. It’s safe here, to collect the taste of Marlowe, in his home, to slide his palms down over her hips collecting the meat of her ass into his palms. 

Marlowe giggles, easing out of the kiss. “Stink,” she warns and Joe huffs at the term of endearment. 

“Oh, c’mon. I’ve been well behaved. And your lips have been just begging to be kissed.” 

Her press is softer than Joe’s. But she cradles his head, roots him into place. The press and release is slow, lips meeting and parting. By now they have kissed plenty of times. Yet, Joe can’t seem to get over that tenderness and confidence in Marlowe’s hold. Like she doesn’t need him to do a single thing but to just give in. Joe swears he goes a little dizzy when Marlowe kisses him like this, unafraid, and still gentle. She eases out of the kiss, a soft two press of her lips and Joe inhales again once there’s space between them. 

“Is that what you were looking for?” Marlowe teases. 

“Do you even need to ask?” Both of them giggle at the question and in the fit of laughter, Marlowe eases in closer, not even maliciously, just a casual brush up against him. Joe can’t not take the opportunity now, now that he’s more than sure she’s noticed. “Feels a little obvious, too, I bet.”

“Joe,” Marlowe reprimands, swatting at his chest. Her twist breaks his hold. He can still only laugh, watching her start on towards the backyard. “When you’re thinking with the right head, I’ll be outside.”

He’s swift to follow. Even though he’s in a good neighborhood and he’s certain it’s safe, Joe’s not going to risk it. Marlowe’s absorbed into the night again, swallowed up as she continues off the deck and into the grass. Joe knows the shape of her even in this illusion, the trick of the eye until his sight adjusts to the low light. “For the record, I’m always thinking with the right head.”

“I’m sure you are.” Her voice is soft. Marlowe takes a more solid shape and Joe catches how she stares straight up, head titled back just a little, towards the sky. “What did you learn?”

“Have you heard of Draco?” It’s probably a silly question, but he’s not about to assume. 

“The dragon, right?”

“Yeah.” Joe finds her hand and leads her another foot or so until they’re standing next to the telescope, planted ready for them before Joe left the house. He takes a minute to find the right collection of dots through the lens and then steps back to allow Marlowe into the space he once inhabited. 

Marlowe points out the general direction of the constellation, one arm looped around his waist. “If you can find the Big and Little Dipper, you can find the body of the dragon right between them. Then you just follow the tail and body up to the head.”

“I hadn’t realized it was between those two.” Joe’s not sure he even wrote it down in his notes, which are still upstairs, still nestled under his iPad. He’d tucked them there, knowing he was more likely to remember them there than anywhere else in the house. 

“Just a little trick to keep in mind. It’s how I learned.”

“There’s a lot of… theories,” Joe decides on after his pause, “about how the dragon got up there. Slain by Heracles. A Titan who died in battle. And I don’t know how to make sense of them, sometimes. It’s…it’s not like science, you know. Like where you can study a hypothesis, get data, make a conclusion.” And Joe’s not sure why the intangibleness of that grates at him sometimes. He knows there’s luck out there in the universe. Hard work, luck, timing. Some of life is divine, and the rest of it is a bit of brute forcing, the slow and tedious effort of determination. 

But the stars, see, they’re gas bodies, self gravity, particles and atoms. And they’re so far away that Joe wonders if his own desire to have exactness is a way to control the very few things in life that are controllable. If somehow, it’s compensation, or at the very least a reaction to what’s always been felt. Joe is tiny in this massive cosmos, one singular drop in the universe’s bucket. 

“It’s not like science,” Marlowe agrees. 

“It reminds me of English,” Joe starts. “When we’d get ask why the curtains are blue or some shit.” Marlowe’s snorted laughter brushes over his arm and Joe slips his arm over her shoulder, the action reminding him just a little that he’s still on earth, even as small and insignificant as he may be in the larger scale, he’s still here and that counts for something. “I don’t necessarily get your fascination with the stars in the mythological sense, I guess. From a scientific stance, absolutely, they’re fucking sick. I get it. Reading through about a bunch of myths, not nearly as exciting.”

“But did you see anything? Anything at all that stood out?”

“I mean, in a literal sense. There’s a lot of death. But, the thing that sticks out to me is the sort of remorse that comes later I guess. Specifically for this dragon, how he’d been slain for the tasks, or because there’s a recognition of the valor, the fight. So he was still put up in the sky. I don’t know. I’m probably not making a lot of sense.”

“Keep going,” Marlowe breathes. “I think you’re almost there, to what you really want to say. What is it about that remorse?”

“I guess it was interesting to me the way people treat the dead, really. We bury, or do whatever, hold funerals and wakes and we honor people who aren’t there anymore, but once were, because there was something there. There’s, like, something we recognize in ourselves in the dead or something. A dragon just doing its job like Heracles was doing his. An opponent in battle, a hypothetical foe, that at the end of it, was still a life, a breathing thing once. It’s the fact that we matter enough to be remembered even by our enemies. And I guess I was thinking about you, and your sister, and your grandmother too. How much you care about them, how much they matter to you. How I think if you could put them in the sky for everyone else to see, you’d do it too. And I think- I think taking that perspective makes things make more sense. The stars aren’t there to be made into something they’re not. They’re there because of byproducts and creations and gases. But we, humans, I mean, we can ascribe more meaning and maybe that helps people feel a little less alone? The world’s kind of a big place. A lot to see, a lot we haven’t seen and that’s sometimes hard to comprehend. But it is fascinating, I guess, to try and understand life down here,” Joe points to the ground before pointing up towards the sky, “with the stories up there. I still prefer, like, lizards to do this with though. Lizards make my head hurt less, that’s for sure.”

“That makes a lot of sense to me, Joe.”

“I lost the plot at least twice in that whole thing. You don’t have to be nice.” His laughter is short lived.

Marlowe shakes her head, pulling him in even closer to her side. “You did great. Besides, what if losing the plot was the point all along? What if we’re meant to give ourselves over to the randomness of the cosmos from time to time?”

“Yeah, is that what we’re supposed to do?” Joe questions, giving Marlowe’s shoulders a small and quick squeeze. 

“How else do we make meaning in life?”

Perhaps, it’s the human condition to ascribe something greater to a thing so far away, so physically disconnected from them. Maybe for some, it’s the only way to make sense of life. But Joe’s not one of those people. “You make meaning like you do everything else, with the work, with time, with dedication.”

Her laughter escapes her first before she squeezes back at his waist, just above his hips. “What else do I expect from the man that I think could make fire melt if he was determined enough?”

“Fire isn’t a solid, so it’s not possible to do that. That’s, like, basic 5th grade science. But, I will accept that as a compliment rather than an insult.”

“I would never insult you. But sometimes you are impossible, you know?”

“I have a feeling if I said I didn’t, you’d make sure I’d never forget it.”

“I surely would.”

“What did the fossils tell you?” Joe asks.

“The same thing the stars tell me. All our stories are new and all our stories are old. The way I like it,” Marlowe teases. “As messy and simple as it is.”

“And you say I’m a hopeless romantic.”

[heyydolly]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 12: Communion

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

CW: 18+ Content [Smut (finally, i know), Oral fem receiving, penetration, please wrap it before you tap it. Do as I say, not as Joe and Marlowe do].

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

_______________________________

All the lights are on from what Marlowe can gather. 

The living room lights are the most obvious and so are the kitchen lights. Where Joe is in the house, she’s not sure. But he’s at least home. Marlowe’s supposed to call first. Or rather, she would call well before pulling up in front of his house. It’s not hard to guess where Joe might be now that the season’s officially dawning in just two days. She doesn’t want to interrupt his pregame rituals, knows that Saturdays during the season are sacred from the way her mother used to talk about them. 

Marlowe’s hoping Friday evening is a window for her. And if it’s not, she’ll try again next week, find in her schedule where she’ll have a late Friday morning start to spend a Thursday night with him. Marlowe ensures to accept her fate, however it plays out, well before she presses onto Stink—the update to Joe’s saved contact record now. The line rings throughout the speakers of her car, a warped warbled sound that bounces back to her. 

“Yes, angel?” Joe answers. 

“Hi, stranger. Are you home by chance?”

Joe’s still laughing from her greeting as he answers, “I am.”

Marlowe peers back up towards the house through the passenger side window. “Care for an overnight visitor?”

A curtain shakes loose from the second story. Joe’s head is clear now in the warm yellow light. She thinks it might be his study, and tries to picture Joe, holed up, peering over an iPad. One she’s seen him pictured with outside of Paycor. A picture she ran across by ‘accident’. In the midst of her distracted stroll while editing the job posting for her position for a social media manager, Marlowe meandered her way towards the Bengals Instagram. In retrospect it’s much less of an accident, but Marlowe won’t admit to that. 

“How long have you been out there?” Joe asks, his voice swirling in the small confines of her vehicle. 

“Two minutes. Wanted to call first before I knocked.”

“I put on fresh sheets today. You have incredible timing.” Joe disappears from view, but she can catch the rustle of him moving through the speakers. The curtains remain open in his haste. “I’m on my way down. I believe there is in fact space for an overnight visitor in the schedule.”

“Excellent news.”

Neither one of them has to say goodbye, as if they somehow both know the plan. Marlowe’s to collect her bags, Joe’s to be at the front door. A synchronicity to them that doesn’t have to have words. By the time Marlowe can sling her backpack on her shoulder the front door creaks open, the light from inside casting a halo over the light wash front steps. Joe jogs down the driveway, his smile stretched wide across his face. 

“You can park in the driveway. No one else is coming by.”

“But you have to get out in the morning, right?”

“That’s a morning concern,” Joe returns, hand shooing her out of the way. It’s a reluctant step back, but Marlowe takes it. Joe grabs the second bag, a duffle meant to hold gear for working out that Marlowe uses for her short trips. He drapes it across his body, the bottom hitting just above his hip. “Next time, park in the driveway, okay?”

“Next time, I will.”

It’s dancing on her tongue that she hopes she’s not interrupting, that she’s not in his way. Joe would certainly tell her otherwise. He’d been honest just a couple weeks ago—when he wanted her to have lunch with him that he’d surely get distracted with work and that her call would be his alarm. If he can say that and mean it, Marlowe hopes Joe could and would communicate in the opposite direction if he needed space to focus. It’s easy to still want to say she’s sorry, for dropping by like this, with a heart full of assumptions and desires. But what kind of life would she be living if she apologized all the time? 

Joe takes her hand, fingers laced through each other, after he eases her car door closed. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say it’s you who likes to feed people.” Marlowe doesn’t mind the concern for a second though. Likes how it washes over her familiar like slipping into a well loved t-shirt. 

The headlights blink in the settled evening as they start up towards the house. Joe’s squeeze at her hand is quick as he speaks, “I like making sure you’re fed. That is the difference.”

“I haven’t eaten yet, no. I was going to drop off my bags first. Steal a kiss and then run back out.”

“Is it robbery if it’s consensual?”

“Perhaps not, but this gloss is strawberry flavored.” Her confession makes her cheeks hot and Marlowe’s grateful that they’re inside now, the front door slipped closed and locked as Joe spins back around to face her. 

It was a dangerous swipe the second she put it on. Marlowe herself doesn’t wear much makeup in her day to day life. Gloss, or something else on her lips, a dusting of eye liner when she remembers, and a couple swipes of mascara at most. But Marlowe collected the flavored gloss off her vanity in the morning in her rush and paused long enough to realize she was really making a potentially dangerous choice once Joe discovered it was flavored too. The possibility stirred at her lower gut. Marlowe tightened the hold around the tube before leaving with her backpack over one shoulder. Joe wasn’t the only one that looked for a little trouble sometimes too. 

Joe looks gobsmacked, jaw dropped before something heavier settles over his features—a mixture of a desire and delight, with shock accompanying their pair of emotions too. He slips the bag off his shoulder, resting it at the bottom of the stairs and crosses the foot between them in one singular stride. His palms are hot—or maybe it just feels that way to Marlowe. His touch pressed so firm and so hot on her skin as if touching exposed nerves. 

“I have a feeling nothing will top cherry.” It’s a deep rumble of a whisper, his words not in competition with each other, instead slow and measured. As if reciting a fact. 

Marlowe hopes to prove him wrong, wants to give Joe a good run for his money. So she presses up the few inches, holding onto the back of his neck. The kisses always start a little tentative, like tasting something for the first time each time. It reminds Marlowe of eating cotton candy again after months or even years since the last time, the little bit of surprise at how quickly the treat dissolves against a drop of saliva. She doesn’t want Joe to dissolve, doesn’t want this in her hands to disappear on her. 

So far, it hasn't.

Joe was keeping his promise. Marlowe wants to keep hers. Wants to do this thing even if her knees buckle. Joe hums, an almost growl from his throat, hands now tight at her waist. God, are her knees buckling. His tongue swipes at her bottom lip again, the heat of their kiss leaving them opened mouth and panting. “It’s a tough call,” Joe whispers. 

“I think you like strawberry more,” Marlowe teases. Because Joe kisses her like he’s starving, like the only thing he needs is her. Maybe it’s the setting, his home as opposed to her work space. But Marlowe likes the feeling of being wanted. 

“I’m not willing to come to any conclusion until I know for certain there’s no other flavors left.”

The secret Marlowe knows is that she has plenty more: one meant to invoke a chocolate shake, a watermelon one, a wild berry concoction, and mango. They’d come in a set Marlowe received as PR. At first it seemed too gimmicky. But the colors of the glosses are rich. Not to mention the formula is the right balance of moisturizing without being too thick and tacky. The fact that they smell really good is a bonus too. In the end, Marlowe had to give the brand their kudos. She might have to give them more too. 

“Oh,” Joe laughs, eyes crinkling at the action. “You are a devilish woman. I know what that look means.”

“What look?” Marlowe blinks. She knows she may not always say it with words, that her face does give her away. But Joe couldn’t have caught on that fast.

“You can’t hide it.” Joe shakes his head. “Not from me. I’m in for a world of hurt. But that’s okay with me.”

“You have four others to test.”

“Hmm, six total isn’t bad. Will all of them come with a warning?”

“No,” Marlowe hums, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “They will not always come with a warning.”

Joe pulls her back in, his wide hands splayed over her lower back, like he’s not ready to let her go either. “Perhaps, strawberry is winning. But I will not close ranks until I’ve tested them all.”

“I await the results with baited breath.”

“One more,” he prompts when Marlowe drops back down to the heels of her feet, voice cracking on the words. 

Marlowe can’t say no, not to such a desperate request. The brush of their lips is slow, moving like molasses from the concave spoon, unhurried, unbothered by things like time. Marlowe’s whimper becomes Joe’s inhale. The deep rumble of Joe’s groan becomes just enough oxygen to inflate Marlowe’s lungs, an exchange, a gift shared that leaves Marlowe’s skin buzzing with anticipation, with wanting. 

It’s not that Marlowe doesn’t want to sleep with Joe. God, does she, especially with his touch searing her spine. But it’d previously felt a little too heavy, like a checklist item. Like she’s been trying to prove something to herself by doing it rather than it being the swell of something more, the natural culmination and progression of their dynamic. Right now it’s bubbling in her stomach.  It’s spilling out of her, a hot rush of so much more than obligation. Marlow wants to be wanted, and she also wants Joe, a gnawing down to her core.  

All there is in her senses is Joe—the scratch of his stubble, the faint heavy edge of his body wash fresh but deep against his skin, the hot path of his palms up her ribs. Joe stops just under the bottom of her bra, fingers flexing like there’s more he wants to do, but doesn’t want to give in just yet. Marlowe eases one hand of his up, lets him hold right over the band. 

But Joe drops it and nips at her bottom lip before he pulls back. “I-I don’t want to move too fast,” he whispers. “I want you. Trust me, I really do. I just don’t-I don’t want,” he inhales deeply before releasing it. “Only if and when you’re sure about it. That’s what I’m trying to say. Goddamn, I can’t even think straight anymore.”

Marlowe snickers her laughter, a wheeze all from her chest as she takes in the slightly pink tint of her gloss smeared over Joe’s lips and chin, the starstruck awe still bright in his eyes. There’s been little certainty in Marlowe’s life recently. But she is sure about Joe, how right it’s felt around him. How she feels calmed by the sight of his name on her phone. “I’m sure, Joe.”

“It doesn’t have to be today, Marlowe. It—My feelings—okay, wait,” Joe laughs at himself, another deep inhale as if to collect himself and re-center his thoughts. 

“I like you like this,” Marlowe giggles out, stroking over his cheeks with her thumbs. “Flustered. I had no idea I could have this kind of effect on you.”

“Marlowe, baby, I can feel my brain short circuit around you sometimes.”

The thing about words is that they don’t mean much if there’s no action behind them. Marlowe can tell Joe until she’s blue in the face just how sure she is, but he’s a stubborn man. Once the idea is planted, Joe’s not one to let go of it so easily. Her heart hammers in her chest. Though she’s the one that takes the step back in initiating sex normally, Marlowe steps closer to Joe, cradles his face in one palm and stretches back up. This is still new between them. They’re still learning, but it’s comforting to have the grace, to know that Joe doesn’t want to do anything she doesn’t want. That he cares that deeply. Marlowe just needs him to not worry so much about that, not right now. 

Joe accepts the kiss with ease, exhaling around her lips like the first drop of cold water on a hot day. He’s firm beneath the drag of her left palm. Hard muscle and warm beneath the tie dyed t-shirt. It’s clear he anticipated a quieter evening, his attire topped off with dark navy mesh shorts. And this isn’t where Marlowe expected things to go either. But she can’t say that she doesn’t want this. Can’t say that she's not already trying to commit to memory the way Joe’s fingers ease under the hem of her shirt, tracing so delicately at the stretch of skin above the waist of her pants.

Because she is. Marlowe is absolutely committing to memory the way Joe teases at her skin. 

It’s all hesitant, all things they’ve done before, kissing, teases, teetering close to the ledge but never over it. Until Marlowe finds the drawstring to his shorts and traces it down, slips her hand into the waistband to trace a line into the thicket of hair. Joe gasps, mouth falling open and his fingers squeeze, body rigid and nearly frozen, except for his lips drop down to her jaw, teeth teasing at her lobe, gentle with the jewelry. “Angel, fuck, are you sure?”

Marlowe only answers with a deeper dive, nails inching closer. Joe pulls back, hard and fast, even though he keeps a hold onto her waist. Marlowe’s hand falls out of the shorts. She can only blink, lips parting to start her apology. “I’m—” 

Then she’s up, her feet inches and counting from the floor. Joe’s arms are wound tight around the backs of her knees and thighs. “Joe!” Marlowe squeals, but doesn’t thrash.

“I guess we are indeed looking for trouble tonight.” 

Joe doesn’t even stop for her bag. Just takes her up the staircase, one unwavering step at a time until they rest at the top. Marlowe’s chest blossoms with laughter when the firm tap of Joe’s palm to her ass echoes. The blood rushing to her head makes her face tight as she hangs but she returns the tap. 

Joe pauses outside of the bedroom door, his squeak of surprises further emphasized by the blind swat of his hand at her fingers. “Leave my ass alone, woman.”

“You started it, man,” Marlowe defends. “It’s a nice ass though.”

The door creaks open on the hinges and Joe lowers her back down. Marlowe blinks a few times to reorient herself. In the swimming of her vision is the twinkling edge of Joe’s blue gaze, the heat of his smile dancing over his face. His lips part and Marlowe shakes her head, though it momentarily worsens the subsiding dizziness. “You don’t get to ask a third time.”

Their noses brush. A gentle gesture as Joe walks them back into the room—Marlowe’s backwards steps are slow but steadied by Joe’s assistance, his hands finding purchase again at her hips. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“You like it,” Marlowe hums in return. 

“Only a little.”

“Something tells me otherwise.” The sentence is paired with the press of Marlowe’s palm over his erection, unable to hide in the flimsy material of the shorts.

Joe’s inhale is sharp. “Maybe a little more than a little.”

Her knees hit the edge of the bed, and in her descent, in the few feet from her upright position to laying on her back, Marlowe hooks an arm around Joe’s neck and brings him down with her. The bed is firmer than Marlowe’s but plush enough all the same. And all the same her senses are invaded by Joe. His lips track down her chin to her neck, over the hollow of her throat. Marlowe’s teasing the ripples and lines of Joe’s stomach, eases the shirt up just a little in her slow crawl, the tracking of her nails over his skin. 

Marlowe has never wanted to know what being burned alive would feel like. It always seemed too unpleasant of a thought, that just the singular fire of a neuron to spark the thought would actually catch fire and leave her burned, scarred and aching. Joe’s hot mouth feels like being burned alive. And it’s the best possible feeling Marlowe’s ever had the pleasure of feeling as he kisses down her chest. The thin spaghetti strapped top with a neckline low enough to expose her cleavage and high enough that it never feels distasteful. The shirt’s only held together by two ties in front. Joe takes one end of the ties between his teeth and pulls. 

A shiver marches down Marlowe’s spine when Joe undoes the second tie in the same way, the shirt falling open, slipping over her ribs to expose the strapless bra beneath, the swell of her breast falling up towards her chin. Marlowe hopes she can be burned over and over when Joe’s mouth latches to the tissue. He’s going to leave a bruise—as faint as it will appear against her skin, but a bruise all the same with its slightly red and purple edges. 

Joe’s shirt is tossed aside next, Marlowe gathering it up into her palms just to have the feeling of his body again, unsure what to do with her hands as he suckles at her flesh. Her body feels carved to the bone, hacked, and all they’ve done is kiss. In the seconds it takes for Joe to slip the garment over his head, Marlowe works her top completely off. Even though it’s brief, it feels much too long to be apart. Marlowe reaches for Joe again and he gives in with ease, hands greedy over her body too. 

The hooks of the bra all go in one swift motion. Marlowe can’t help the slight hum of surprise in her throat when she feels the hold release. One of Joe’s hands is busy at the soft line of her tummy. Her entire bra undone in one pinch. “Where’d you learn that trick?” Marlowe asks with a tut of laughter. 

“Practice,” he grins back, eyes still boring directly into hers. Without any straps the bra’s only place to go is down with gravity, but Joe’s pinched grip is holding it mostly up. “May I?”

The question doesn’t need to be asked. She’s already here, her pants unbuttoned as it is, shirtless, but Marlowe nods as she eases back a hair from him. Joe lets go and the bra falls unceremoniously off Marlowe’s chest into her lap. The lack of grace doesn’t stop Joe from groaning though as his eyes drag down, drinking in the sight of her—a hickey blooming under her dark hue, chest fully exposed. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?” Joe asks. He’s staring at Marlowe, in her eye when he asks. There’s a sticky blaze in his eyes as he speaks. “Because if you don’t, let me be the first one to remind you that you are. So,” Joe interrupts his words to plant a kiss to her lips, “utterly,” another kiss, “gorgeous.”

At every turn, Marlowe is full of heat, the scorch of Joe’s touch sending her further and further into the descent of the fire. Somewhere along the way, between the crawl up the bed and kisses, pants are tossed aside, underwear go with them too. Leaves them both bare, stripped to the most vulnerable state. It’s not unnerving in the way that Marlowe’s worried about what she looks like. It’s unnerving in the way that she finds she can’t get enough of him. She clings to him, kissing over his jaw and neck, mindful not to leave anything behind but the faint pink marks of lip gloss. His weight presses down into her. 

But it is not enough. And somehow, it is too much. It is everything, but never nothing. 

The weight of Joe’s touch etches into the hairs on Marlowe’s arms, her hips open but still begging for more—seeking shelter in the way he teases at her core, fingers rough but quickly softened by the rush of her arousal. “Christ,” Joe mutters. “All that for me?”

Marlowe’s cheeks burn. The words don’t feel heavy, just raw and crass in a way that Marlowe’s not sure she can handle hearing from Joe. The awe painting his words feels too holy, too reverent for the thing that they’re doing. She drops her gaze down to his chest, finds herself wanting to trace her tongue over the broad planes, and nods all the same at his question. “Yes, all that for you.”

“Marlowe, look at me, angel.”

Her gaze is slow. She does want to look at him, but she’s a little too distracted by his chest. Marlowe runs the pads of her fingers over his skin and slowly drags his soft blue eyes into her vision. “Yes, baby?”

Joe groans, eyes fluttering close. “Don’t. Fucking hell, don’t look at me like that through your lashes and call me baby at the same time again. I will cum so fast.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” It’s not about the orgasm, just about inhabiting this space with him, craving his touch, getting to see him in his most human form. No masks, no expectations, just Joe. There’s not a lot Marlowe thinks she could mind when it comes to Joe. 

His lashes look so impossibly long as he blinks his eyes back open, an exhale pushing at his chest. Marlowe can’t help but to brush the pads of her thumbs over his brows, tracing the contours of Joe’s face as he speaks, “You don’t have to be shy here. Not with me, okay? You can be as loud as you want, say what you need from me.”

Marlowe’s not sure if it’s a need, but she knows what she wants. “Okay.”

The softest agreement before their lips meet again and Joe’s fingers tease at the seam of her pelvis, a gentle back and forth before he’s delving in again and Marlowe shudders, takes both his fingers with ease. God, it shouldn’t be that easy. Usually takes her so much longer to work up to this point, but she doesn’t have to worry here. All she has to do is feel, and want. It makes her a faucet, leaking from her core.

Joe is gentle as he works his fingers, a few test pumps before he curls them. Marlowe nearly shatters at the action, head dropping further off her neck, back arched under his work. “Joe,” she whimpers, his name broken and somehow still full on her tongue. 

“Ooh, you like that?” He grins into the hollow of her throat, sucks again at the tendon before kissing it. 

“Shit—yeah, I do.” Marlowe rolls her hips to meet the thrust of his digits again, a test rock. Her stomach knots at the feeling, the ripples of pleasure crashing over it. “So good, baby. So fucking good.”

“Yeah, that’s what I like to hear. Keep going, angel. Let me hear everything you want me to do to you. Let me hear how I make you feel.”

It’s a broken dam, the second Joe kisses her again, tip of his tongue teasing at the underside of her lip piercing, Marlowe’s puddy. Broken in the best way possible, weak to the resolve she wanted to have some kind of dignity beneath Joe. But he’s so incredibly wicked with his fingers, pulling at every piece of her with a kind of restraint that feels almost brittle. When Marlowe runs her nails across his back, she can feel the shakes, how tightly Joe’s wound. 

It’s electrifying, to be whining in his ear, muttering deliriously at how wonderful he’s making her feel, and to know that he himself is wearing thin. As if Joe needs to keep it together for her. Her orgasm is winding tight in her belly, deep and all consuming. But Marlowe forces herself above the warm blanket of pleasure. “After I cum, I want you to let that control go,” she groans. “Don’t—goddamn, baby,” the heavy press of Joe’s thumb over her clit cuts off the thought for a moment. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Just as words finish leaping off her lips and tongue, Marlowe succumbs to the great heat, the coil in her belly finally snapping at the impassioned pull and circle of Joe’s fingers. Marlowe can’t say if she cums quietly or not. All she does know is that her back arches, and her breath leaves her—her body torn between the release and the tension. The only thing that brings her back, reconnects her to the warm air between them is the voracious suckle of Joe, dragging the pads of his fingers over his tongue. 

“Need another taste,” Joe huffs, voice haggard and nearly broken. “Going to have another taste.” 

A correction, and Marlowe can only let herself go, fingers tangled in his hair as Joe attaches his mouth to her. It’s gluttony in action as Joe swipes his tongue from the bottom to the top before scooping her arousal out of her and onto the tip. The sounds of her cracked whimpers laced around the lewd slurps of Joe’s work. He doesn’t care, doesn’t hold back. Works her with his mouth and fingers again, his own grunts looping around too. 

Marlowe watches as his hips rut into the fabric of the sheets, like he can’t help himself. Like he doesn’t want to help himself anymore. This is letting go. This is everything Marlowe wanted. And though she loves the feeling of him, mouth attached to her cunt, her arms feel too empty. She feels too empty. How strange it is to miss something, miss someone who isn’t even gone. 

Marlowe beckons Joe’s attention with a soft, “Baby?” falling over her lips. 

Joe drags his head up, nose bumping for just a second at her clit before he rests his cheek against her inner thigh. “Yes, angel?”

“I miss holding you.” Marlowe’s nerves are unwinding as she speaks, a rapid and erratic thumping of her heart at the words. But it’s true. Joe said he wanted her to tell him what she wanted, what she needed—if there’s truly a distinction between the two here at this moment. Shouldn’t a need be a want first? Or is it the other way around? Does even fucking matter when he’s making her feel this euphoric? 

Joe’s exhale is shaky, his free hand coming up to her other thigh—his middle two fingers still glistening with her arousal—and caressing the muscle with his thumb. “Want to hold my hand or do you want me to stop and come back up?”

His tongue is heaven, a physical form of what sin most definitely feels like. Marlowe can’t lie about that. But not even the promise of another orgasm by his tongue eases the bone deep ache of his body in her hands. “Come back to me.” 

“Fuck,” Joe exhales harshly, the whisp of his breathe ghosting over her soaked core. “How can I say no to that?”

When Joe’s back in her arms, when Marlowe is full of his rippling back and chest, she exhales. She is breathing again even if it doesn’t last long before his length brushes up against her core. And maybe it’s less of a brush and more of a rut, Joe so desperate, so needy that he can’t stop the action. Either way, it doesn’t stop Marlowe from gathering him into her palm, fingers wrapped around the meaty girth and guides him in. 

There’s no true burn, just the delicious stretch, her body making space for his body to meet like this. To come together. His descent into her body is slow, every inch and groove slow and purposeful as Joe gives himself over completely, bottomed out leaving Marlowe with nothing else to do but to choke on her gasps. 

“Let me know if anything hurts, okay? Please.”

Please. 

Please. 

Please. 

The word rolls around them, a beg of permission from Joe, an ask of Marlowe to not hide. The word drips down onto Marlowe’s lips, and once she licks it up, she recites it back like prayer. She transforms it into an homage. Begging for Joe. Thanking Joe for this devotion, for this study of their flesh. 

It never hurts. Not for a singular second. Marlowe doesn’t imagine it ever could. Not even with Joe’s thrusts growing harder, like driving home a point—perfectly punctuated with every snap of his hips. Marlowe’s orgasm consumes, leaves her hot like a fever, forehead just starting to prickle with sweat as she writhes between Joe and the sheets, powerless to the crash. 

“God, sweet angel,” Joe hisses out. Pained in a way that almost makes her worry. 

The rhythm of his hips has fallen apart, staggered out and erratic. Marlowe watches, takes his head into her hands just as Joe starts to drop it. His eyes are fluttered close, lips puffy and pink and parted. The wrinkle of his brows tells Marlowe that he’s coming undone. The strangled moan that leaves him wafts over her face. Marlowe inhales, presses the sound of Joe’s own pleasure into her lungs. A piece of Joe that can never leave her now. This is the kind of consumption that leads to possession. Marlowe knows it and doesn’t care if Joe haunts her after this. He’s already in everything. Why not give him another? Why not give herself? 

The air is hot, thick with the heady scent of sex. Joe settles into Marlowe, face buried in her shoulder, chest resting into hers. They’re still joined but neither one of them moves. Marlowe certainly can’t. Even as she trails her fingers into the hair at the nape of Joe’s neck, she can still feel the remaining tremors of her high rocking through her.

His lips drag over her shoulder, light as they go and Marlowe’s not sure how long they lay like that—seconds or minutes doesn’t matter to her. Joe brings his head back up. “How do you feel?” He asks it so softly, it nearly gets swept up in the kick of the AC turning back on in the house. 

Marlowe exhales, and blinks up at Joe. Yet it’s a little too much work to keep her eyes opened. “Brainless, but really good. You?”

His smile warms her face. Marlowe doesn’t see it exactly, just hears it and feels it over her face. “Perfect now hearing that.” It’s a long quiet moment, Joe presses careful kisses over Marlowe’s face—both cheeks, over her nose, over both eyelids, to her lips. “Need anything?”

For the moment, Marlowe can’t think of anything. Can’t think really at all, but she tugs, brings Joe back down into her. “To say thank you.”

“Hmm, you’re welcome, Marlowe.” Another smattering of kisses falls to her shoulder, Joe’s breath caressing the skin in tandem with the actions. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Marlowe finds his neck in her blind reach, drags her fingers up into his stubble and finally, after feeling the quake of his laughter in his throat, looks at him. His hair tousled, and perfectly messy from her hands. His neck and face are flushed but returning to its normal color. Joe feels like what Marlowe imagines fresh cookies do out of the oven, the edge of them hard enough but that center is so gooey and soft. To think, Marlowe almost said no to this, that she let her own grief get in the way. 

“Okay,” Marlowe hums against Joe’s lips in the kiss she initiates. 

Joe eases himself out of her, fingers caresses at her ankles before he disappears fully, into the attached bathroom. The sink runs and Marlowe’s slow to push up, muscles still a little too liquid to hold her body. She doesn’t make it far before Joe returns. 

“It might be a little warm. Just let me know if it’s too hot.” Joe’s words precede the press of the cloth. 

“Not too hot,” Marlowe answers to the lifted brow, a silent question dripping from the arch: Too much? Too hot?  

“Good.” Joe is thorough as he cleans her up first, touch gentle as he goes. Once done, cleaning her and himself, Joe stretches back down, pressing his nose into the rounded edge of her shoulder and he inhales, a deep and heavy pull. 

The goosebumps prickle at her skin and Marlowe’s more mindful now than before of her own nakedness. She’s torn, between hiding, sliping herself under the covers and embracing it. Like the come down has pulled away the hazy veil and Marlowe’s own body feels like a beacon, a light in the room she can’t ignore. But Joe’s presence is brighter, warmer as it calls out to her. Any fear she has dissipates as she cups Joe’s jaw, turns into him and kisses at his temple, all mostly a brush, but still a kiss. 

“Going to get you food, I didn’t forget. Just needed another second here.”

Marlowe’s stomach answers the sentence with a deep grumble, the kind of rumble that can be felt, and Marlowe swears embarrassment might kill her as she turns into the pillows. Joe’s laughter is deep, the one hand wrapped around her thigh squeezing a quick two pumps. “Oh, hell yeah, we definitely worked up your appetite for sure.”

“Shut up, Joe.” Marlowe wails into the pillows, unsure if he can actually hear it. He laughs, the sound trailing behind as he steps further away. There’s a tiny bit of rustling, a murmured whisper that Marlowe doesn’t catch fully, something about a ‘pit stop’, before the stairs creak down the hall. It’s quiet for a couple minutes, maybe morr, and then his steps return louder as they grow closer. And then they descend down into the sound of bags shuffling as they settle onto the floor. 

The tap to her calf brings Marlowe’s face out of the pillow. Joe stands next to the bed, shorts pulled back on. He’s shirtless, a small rectangle in his grasp, but peers down at Marlowe with a kind of concern that burns. “I got a protein bar to tide you over until we get you something more filling. Did you want anything specific?”

“I kind of want curly fries. So some Arby’s would be nice.” Marlowe passed by the establishment on her way out from her studio and it sparked the craving. 

“God, haven’t heard the name Arby’s in ages. But I can do that.” Joe hands over the protein bar and his eyes skim over his room. Marlowe watches him collect his wallet and keys after slipping his shirt back, her fingers already peeling open the packaging. “Now, where’s my phone?” he mutters to himself. 

Joe probably doesn’t utilize apps like Doordash too much, knowing the kind of privacy concerns it might raise, Marlowe figures. But the last thing Marlowe wants right now is to be left behind, not out of fear, but out of the desire to seek shelter against his presence, to keep close to him. It’s silly, probably, not to take a bit more time for her to recover. Marlowe’s already moving, already scrambling to find her panties again, the first few bites of the bar pressed against her tongue. “Can I come?”

Joe pauses the pats to the pockets of his shorts. “Of course, angel, if you feel up to it. But I am going insane trying to find my phone, so that’s, you know, fun.” 

“You check downstairs?”

“It was my next stop. I’ll look when we head down together. I know I had it when you called, but I don’t think I brought it out with me to your car? I can’t really remember.” 

The pants are easy to get back into but her fingers can’t even reach for her top before a sweatshirt, a soft mineral blue, is held out to her. “Because your shirt looks too complicated to get back on and I won’t have you starving.”

There’s something else in Joe’s gaze. A plea almost. Marlowe’s not sure what he’s asking for, what it is Joe needs from this moment, but she has a feeling she shouldn’t reject the offering. So, Marlowe takes the sweatshirt wordlessly, unashamed in the way she presses it close to her nose for a beat before finding her way into the garment. It smells deeply of Joe, a mixture of the detergent and his natural musk woven into the threads. The sleeves swallow her arms, the bottom hem slipping down to the middle of her thighs. She pulls her forearms free, letting the extra fabric billow around her elbows. “Does my hair look okay?”

“Well,” Joe starts with a shrug, “I don’t know if it looks like it normally does, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Marlowe laughs and turns to the bathroom finger combing the short strands back into place. It’s not perfect but she’s been letting the natural wave come through more rather than putting the heat on it too often. The natural texture has saved her even more time when she gets ready in the morning, but Marlowe’s so used to the pixie cut as it exists. She knows her face like this, how her brows will slant, how her nose will slope. But it’s all the same. The same thing over and over, a desperate plea to hold onto something steady in the wake of all the turmoil. Would she know herself better if she changed something? If she let her natural texture come through? If she changed the color? Or would that be pretending?  Could it be discovering? 

Maybe this is looking back, the act of turning around done just by looking forward, that she turmoiled over. In the reflection, she catches Joe leaning into the door molding, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile soft as he takes her in. Marlowe’s gaze catches his in the refracted image of them both, the mirror holding their visages almost perfectly—the lights being off makes them both darker, unclear except for the lighting of the bedroom backlighting them. I don’t know the old Marlowe. I don’t want her. That’s what Joe said back in July on his outdoor couch. Joe looks at the Marlowe in front of him in this state—body still buzzing from the last of her high, hair an absolute mess from their shared communion—like it is the answer to every prayer he’s had. 

Could she accept that? That this new chapter of herself is all that’s left, all that’s needed? The old Marlowe hadn’t come back in three years. Is it time to accept the fact that she’d never get back? That getting back is the same thing as staying stagnant? 

“I’m ready,” Marlowe states, unsure what she’s saying she’s ready too—aside from getting her dinner—but feeling in her veins that the tides had already been changing long before she could ever fathom it. 

“C’mon,” Joe offers softly, pushing off the door. He nods in the direction of the steps over his shoulder, body turning with the action, but one hand slips out from its residence in the mesh pocket. A beckoning in the way he wiggles his fingers. 

And Marlowe answers, her fingers slipping between his.  

Joe’s phone is discovered on the bookcase right next to the stairs as they descend, hand in hand, with Marlowe still nibbling on the protein bar. Marlowe grins at the discovery, the tease dancing along her teeth, but never uttered. Joe’s stare is pointed. His own mouth quivers with the smile he cannot keep back. “Don’t say a word,” Joe warns. “I wasn’t lying when I said short circuit.”

The streets are smooth as Joe glides over them, easy in the thicket of the evening. Marlowe plays at Joe’s fingers wrapped around her knees, head rocked back into the rest. “I want you to know that I did come by to see you and make sure you feel good about the first game, be there for you. Not that I regret where things went, because I don’t, not in the slightest. I just want to make it clear.”

Joe squeezes at the joint. “I figured you had a reason. But then you started talking about flavored lip gloss and I am merely a mortal man, Marlowe. I was going to crumble.” He laughs as it says it, but it feels too low, too soft for the quiet whizz of the battery in the car that purrs beneath them. “But I do appreciate it, you thinking of me like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it? What is Joe Burrow’s pregame ritual?” Marlowe offers it with a bit of levity, the wrapper of the protein bar tucked into her palm like a microphone as she holds it out to Joe. 

He laughs, taking a quick chomp at the wrapper before releasing it. “It’s really just about focusing in, you know? I usually spend nights like this doing a little work and then clearing my head. Saturdays’ usually the day that I’m not fun to be around. So, don’t worry about if you’re in the way, or anything. I’m sure you did.”

Marlowe tucks that away, that much like she suspected come Saturday, he will be a different Joe. “Yeah, I did worry a little. But then I figured if I called and you said you needed space I’d just try again next time on a Thursday. I had a backup plan.”

“Earlier, like half an hour before you called me, I almost called you. I didn’t want to ask you to come over at the last minute. Felt like I was imposing, so I chickened out. But I’d been thinking about it all day. So, I do mean it, when I say I appreciate you showing up.”

Joe’s cautious as he takes the right into the drive-thru, one palm controlling the wheel as he goes. Marlowe brings the back of his left hand to her lips, a press of her lips to the veins and tendons. “A shared brain cell.”

His laughter is bright, wheezes over his chest, inching up now after the car in front continues around towards the pick up window of the restaurant. “I mean, that’s certainly one way to describe it. What are you feeling?”

“Oh, the deluxe burger combo for sure. A strawberry lemonade too.” 

“Curly fries still on the agenda?”

“Yes, and make it a large too. That protein bar has not done nearly enough.” Out of habit Marlowe reaches for her back pocket, primed to grab her wallet, only to realize that her wallet’s in her backpack. That’s not where she normally keeps it, but in her rush to get out of the door on time, she threw everything into the backpack. “I forgot my wallet. I’ll pay you back for it.” 

“Marlowe, you better not pay me back so much as a penny.” 

There’s thick conviction in his tone. Marlowe should probably leave it alone. Yet, she’s already feeding her rebuttal over, “But I hardly ever do a large combo.”

“I don’t care if you do a large combo all the time. Well, I would care about your health, but that’s not the point I’m making here. Don’t worry about the money.”

There’s no room for Marlowe to argue about his position either. Not as Joe leans closer to his opened window and rattles off her order, reaching for his wallet in the middle console as he goes before they ease up to the first window. But his sentiment on payment does not seem to last too long. The brown bag is warm, the waft of the greasy food swells around them as Marlowe settles it into her lap.

“Actually, you wanna know how you can pay me back?” Joe questions once the windows are pulled back up tight against the groves. The question is a disguised warning because the second they’re safely back onto the street, Joe reaches his hand out, palm up. “Those curly fries smell good.”

“What happened to you focusing in for your game, hmm? Your diet?” Marlowe plucks a decent size spiral from the carton and places it down into his waiting palm.

“Well, that’s for tomorrow. Right now, I’m eating this fry. Thank you for sharing.” 

“I had no idea I’d be subjected to the boyfriend tax so soon. But I will keep this in mind.”

“Only on occasion.”

“Is there anything else you need to do when we get back?”

“For the game?” Joe clarifies. 

“Yes.”

“Pack a quick bag. But I can do that while you eat if you don’t want to eat right now.”

It’s a pointed statement and hidden beneath it is the clear directive that Marlowe can in fact eat now as opposed to later. Marlowe takes in the clean mats beneath her feet. Her car has crumbs and gravel, a byproduct of her life that she’d need to vacuum out Sunday morning as part of her weekly reset ritual. Joe’s car looks like it could still be brand new. Lived in—a collection of bags and a couple sweatshirts live in the back seat—but not nearly as messy as hers looked throughout the week. “Oh, I didn’t want to get crumbs—”

“Eat, Marlowe.” The blinker clacks around them as Joe eases over into the left lane now. “A few crumbs can be vacuumed up.”

“You’re bossy, you know that?” Marlowe quips before dropping a few small clusters of the curly fries into her mouth. She does not need to be told a third time.

“You like it.”

Whether Marlowe likes it or not—which she does—doesn’t really need a rebuttal. Instead, they settled into a comfortable silence interrupted only by the crinkle of the bag or a quick slurp of her drink. By the time they’re pulled back into the driveway, easing up into the garage, every piece of the burger and fries is consumed. Not so much as a drop of lettuce remains in the carton. 

Joe’s whistle is impressed when he takes in how light the bag is before tossing it into the bin. “Is it a bad time to ask what else you can suck down like that too or no?”

“Joseph!” Marlowe huffs, her cheeks ablaze by the insinuation. 

“At least I asked!” His defense is rather weak, unable to withstand the light slap of Marlowe’s hand against his bicep. Joe curls up in the wake of the weak half hearted blows. “You gotta give me credit for that,” Joe wails from his rendition of the fetal position. 

“No. I will not.” 

“A tough crowd today.”

The rest of the evening is relatively quiet, tuts of laughter as they shower again, Joe sitting outside the glass doors, arms folded over his chest. Marlowe catches the stance in the haze of the billowing steam. His voice carries over the rush of the shower head, but she’s not really listening. Marlowe hears him, is able to respond to his question which she know is about her Acura MDX—an upgrade within the last two years from her tiny sedan to accommodate Korey—but the majority of her mind is tangled up in awe, how normal this feels, how right it feels to have this space with Joe. To toddle behind Joe and perch herself on the bench in his closet, dressed in one of his t-shirts and fresh panties, as he grabs an outfit. Joe holds it in front of himself, half turned to Marlowe, but mostly facing the mirror in his closet. 

“You look good in blue,” Marlowe offers. 

“Was on a bit of a blue kick last year and it hasn’t left me yet I suppose.”

“I hope it never does. I was looking at the schedule of your games the other day too.”

Joe raises a brow as he folds up the blue shirt. “And what is it about my game schedule exactly you were looking at?”

“I have a wedding in September, in Denver the day before you guys play the Broncos.” They’ve yet to breach the topic of Marlowe going to games. Not that she doesn’t want to, but because it feels a little too risky. Yet, the door is wide open, begging now for clarity. 

“Don’t tell me you’ll be rooting against me,” Joe laughs. “I know you said hometown devotion, but I don’t think rooting against your dad feels fair.”

“I’m not sure I have the heart root against you. But how would you feel about me going? To the game?” The last Marlowe checked tickets were still available, more expensive than she’d want, but still doable all the same. While it is tradition for her to watch the Broncos game with her father, the idea of taking him along too, has bounced around in her head. But rather than the dullness that usually precedes the season, her dad seemed a little more excited? Marlowe’s not sure, but the house filled with the chatter of the preseason chatter, the speakers playing ESPN like a ritual more than a sacrifice.

“I would love to have you there, in the stands,” Joe whispers in return, sitting now next to her, one of his hands swallowing Marlowe’s knee yet again. “But only if you felt safe enough to do that.”

“I know self defense,” Marlowe jests, but it is true. Her parents had put her through taekwondo lessons from six to fourteen. She’s not incapable of handling herself, but certainly not the strongest around. “I was thinking of asking Dad to come with me. But I know that we’re dating and I don’t know, just wanted your thoughts.”

“What? Are you some secret black belt I don’t know about?” His eyes dazzle with the question in amusement. 

“I am.” Though now at 31, Marlowe’s not entirely sure it counts for much anymore. “You can ask my Dad.” 

Joe nods. There’s still a kernel of amusement on his face, but most of it is shock. “And not once did this come up prior to now in our conversations. How is that possible? I think I will have to ask Trey about that. What do you have your black belt in?”

“Taekwondo. Did it for eight years as a kid. I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, hard to keep track of them all really,” Marlowe’s laughing before she can finish the sentences, knows it’s silly, but she really hadn’t thought much about the martial art. She’d loved it though, fiercely once, when she felt like she didn’t have a box holding her in, when Marlowe didn’t feel like so much of herself was somehow too much.

Joe’s laughter mixes in with hers. “You never cease to amaze me, Marlowe. I can believe that you lived a thousand lives.” His lips are warm against her forehead, the kiss chaste and short. “But, would you feel safe? At a game?”

“I don’t know how I feel about the potential of people recognizing me. But it’d feel like a waste to be in Denver already and not see the game live. I can go pretty incognito as necessary. Baseball hat and wig can go a long way.”

“I’ll see what we can do. It’s not a home game, so I definitely have less wiggle room on tickets and seating, and such. But, if you want to go, and feel comfortable enough to do so, then yeah, I’d appreciate you there.”

“I’ll see what Dad says.” 

“And I’m going to get proof of you with this black belt,” Joe reaffirms, squeezing at her knee. “You’re just out here, a threat, and not telling me about it.”

“It’s not about being a threat, Joe. It’s about discipline”

“Either way, I think I’m a little terrified and also a little turned on too.”

Marlowe shoves his shoulder with a snort. “Finish packing, you dog.”

It only takes Joe another ten minutes or so to zip up his bag in finality before he continues on in his ritual, Marlowe right behind him as the two of them ensure all unnecessary lights in the house are off, ensuring everything he needs is safely tucked away or charging. It all culminates back to his bedroom, crawling beneath his sheets with him, much too early than she’d normally settle into sleep. Joe settles into her chest, head resting in the valley of her breasts, arms wound around her torso. 

It’s a comfortable quiet around them at first, even around the murmur of the TV. There is a bubble, a little piece of something blessed in the palm of her hands as they entangle themselves. A silence cracked open by Marlowe’s voice. “I’d ask you if you’re nervous, but I doubt it,” she whispers into the crown of Joe’s head. 

His TV is a soft blue hue in the otherwise dark room. The curtains are drawn tight, cocooning them away. “No, not nervous like people would think.”

“I’ll be watching Sunday.”

“I’ll know the second you tune in too.”

“How?” Marlowe laughs, her giggle bouncing from her chest. 

“I’ll feel it.” The words leave Joe slow, each one pulled out of his mouth leisurely. Like he’s about to fall asleep right there on her chest. 

“Feel it, huh?” Marlowe pauses just enough to see if Joe will respond. 

The seconds turn into minutes. There’s only the deep steady rising and falling of Joe’s chest against her body. Marlowe holds, keeps waiting and waiting for the sarcastic quip. Never ever comes though aside from the laugh track of the show, the gentle murmur of characters that do not belong to them. Plotlines and inside jokes Marlowe doesn’t understand but isn’t bothered by in the slightest because Joe grinned sheepishly, asking if she’d be okay with him catching up on it. He’d tried to catch her up, but Marlowe merely shrugged, “I’m a fast learner.”

That show now runs without Joe to watch it, merely the show and Marlowe watching him. The screen turns black as the white text of the credits begin to roll. There’s still nothing in an answer to her tease, just the soft brush of his breath over her chest, the weight of Joe’s body giving in totally to the sleep that’s consumed him. Not powerlessness, but a safety, a falling into knowing that there’s something to catch you on the other side. 

Marlowe’d wanted to reassure Joe, tell him that she’ll make sure she sends the signal to Joe the second she turned the game on, so he could feel it. But Marlowe will keep that to herself, knows what Joe needs right now is the rest before his travels tomorrow. Now in the lingering silence, after Marlowe slowly reached for the remote on the bedside table to turn off the TV to not disturb him, she prays over Joe, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, the other on his head. Her eyes slip close, words hardly loud enough to be heard under the whisper of the house’s AC. The clutches of August have yet to let go of the heat that’s palpable still in the air around them. 

“Please protect him on Sunday, dear Heavenly Father. I ask Your hand guide his. I ask You keep him calm, collected, and precise, dear Heavenly Father. I ask for grace and traveling mercies over him and the entire team, that they all arrive safely, and return safely. In Jesus’ Name, I pray. Amen.”  

————————————————

There’s a rhythm to the art. A 1-2-3 followed by a 2-2-3. 

Marlowe has learned this dance, this art form as she swipes, and taps, directs with a soft, “Look up for me,” or “Look down for me,” from all her years of failing at it, getting it almost right but still having something not go quite right. This delicate art form is well practiced now. The failures taught Marlowe well, and now she’s never frazzled, even as things go wrong, there’s very little sweat on her brows. Now, Marlowe can guarantee not just an amazing outcome, but an entire experience for her brides. 

When Marlowe arrives, her cases wheeled behind her, bags thrown over her shoulders, apron already tied around her waist, she means business. The hotel rooms are already crawling with people, an anxious buzzing already settled into the molecules of the air. But Marlowe’s quick, even as she sets up her station, with her standardized warning, “Once I grab the bride, there’s no more getting her attention unless someone is sick or dying. I always like to suggest a quick huddle when I have my twenty minute warning before I grab them.”

It’s this warning that Marlowe gives her brides before they book with her, that Marlowe’s always going to try and create a bubble, a small place in the craziness of their day that’s just for them. A space that the maid of honor will have to also protect just as fiercely as Marlowe makes it. The transparency seems to go over well; all her brides wind up doing a second consultation with Marlowe with their maids of honor present so that all of them can get on the same page. Sometimes these second consultations are also for the maid of honor to get a makeup trail run, sometimes not. But nevertheless, Marlowe knows her job the second she steps foot into the lobby of that hotel is to be of service, and to do it not only well, but to give everything of herself into it. 

Weddings, time has proven, are not for the weak. Thankfully, Marlowe’s only gotten stronger, the more and more she does them. 

The speaker plays from the adjourning room, a song Marlowe recognizes the beat of, but doesn’t know all the lyrics too. The bride, Chelsey, seems to know it; her soft hum giving away her adoration for the music selections. The door is cracked, so the signs of life are spilling in. But behind the door, surrounding Marlowe and her bride is the soft wisps of lavender, the machine in the back corner puffing out the tiniest of billows of the essential oil. 

Julie, the maid of honor, sits just in front of that cracked door, her hair and make up done, dressed too, with a clipboard and phone in hand. No one’s yet dared penetrate the wall, and Marlowe’s praying for all their sakes no one does. The second Marlowe got Chelsey squared into the chair, she sagged, shoulders rounding. The pressure of the day was palpable in the exhale Chelsey gave. Marlowe’s work started immediately, the firm but gentle press of her freshly sanitized hands into the bride's temples, easing the stainless steel roller over Chelsey’s jaw. An unwinding, truly even before they began.

So far, it seems to be working. Chelsey’s sat up a little straighter, she laughs a bit more than before when Marlowe offers a tiny piece of conversation. “You said that the honeymoon destination was a surprise right?” Marlowe questions, dabbing the concealer under Chelsey’s eyes. 

“Yeah, she’s been dropping hints though.”

“What are your guesses so far?”

“Somewhere tropical for sure. Madison packed bikinis for me. It is not a US state or territory, I don’t think. We’ve got our passports packed too.”

Marlowe grins at the excitement laced in Chelsey’s voice. There’s no more worry, just the elation, the speculation and wonder. “Do you have a place you’ve always wanted to go?”

“Spain, for sure. I’ve never traveled out of the US before.”

Marlowe nods as she taps the contour brush lightly to blend over the planes of Chelsey’s face. “Spain has beaches for sure. Would you want to do any other traveling in Europe? If it’s Europe at all.”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe. Would make sense right? Once we’re over there just to knock it all out.”

Marlowe’s hum starts out noncommittal, her attention wrapped up in making sure she’s placing the bronzer right, not too high and too low either. Once satisfied, Marlowe finds her words again, “I mean, that’s certainly an idea. Why not live a little large on your honeymoon, right?”

“Madison said it’s not a super common honeymoon destination though. So I’ve been racking my brain for weeks.”

“I’m not up to date on honeymoon destinations. But let’s see what else we can come up with.” 

It’s an invitation that Marlowe hopes distracts Chelsey just long enough to continue to forget whatever was pressing at her shoulders earlier. There’s only so much Marlowe can do to keep the realities at bay. There’s only but so long make up actually takes. Between the taps and swipes of the brush, Marlowe and Chelsey prattle off an entire list of potential places: the Maldives, Fiji, Bali, Saint Lucia. The two of them fall into cackles about travels past—Marlowe about the time her suitcase got lost and it left her scrambling in a foreign city to find clothes and Chelsey about her getting smacked in the face during deplaning by a teen’s wild collection of backpack charms. The conversation meanders as all conversations in Marlowe’s chair do. 

“Are you back in the dating world?” Chelsey asks. “Like seriously this time.”

“Oh, here we go,” Marlowe laughs, dusting away the powdery remnants of the eye make up off her cheek. “Need water or something to nibble on?”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“And I am dating someone.”

“Oh my god!” Chelsey squeals. “How long? I want the details, all of them! This whole time we’ve been talking about me when we should’ve been talking about you!”

At Chelsey’s bridal make-up trial back in Ohio, around late February, early March, Marlowe had been lukewarm on her answer. Not that Marlowe’s worried about her clients knowing about Joe, but because then, it seemed much too early to want to reveal anything, at that time Marlowe was still hiding away, convinced that her and Joe would just be friends. “It’s still young, three months,” Marlowe returns. “Since the 4th.”

“And would this happen to be the same person you swore was a friend way back when?”

“And if it is?” Marlowe teases, giving one last swipe to Chelsey’s cheeks. 

The second the brush is pulled away and settled back to the table, Chelsey’s eyes bear straight into the side of Marlowe’s head. “I would say I told you so.”

“You know what?” Marlowe huffs. Her lips are peeled back into a smile still. “You do need a sip of water, since you have all that mouth to run.”

“You’re just mad I was right.”

Marlowe wouldn’t label it anger, or anything malicious. She’s not sure what it is. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s guilt, or yearning. Or maybe it’s all of it. “You should record this now. This is the last time I will say this. But yes, you were right.”

Chelsey’s burst of laughter is beaming, a shiny high sound from her chest. Her eyes squeeze close with the action. Marlowe’s cataloguing what’s next—eyeliner, mascara, lashes, lips, blush— but laughs too. But she is glad to see that the makeup is holding, handling no doubt what will become a marathon of a day for the both of them. 

As their amusement falls quiet again, Marlowe’s pencils, and tubes clicking against each other in her hands, Chelsey’s voice falls softly in the inches between them. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Traveling all the way out here, creating this space for me to unwind. God knows I needed it. I’ve been a bundle of nerves the entire day.”

Marlowe knew Chelsey was a destination bride from the onset, an additional fee that Chelsey and Madison seemed more than happy to pay as well. But traveling isn't a concern for Marlowe, not when Marlowe knows what’s on the line is bigger than her. The wedding is work, but Denver comes with an added serendipitous bonus with Joe’s game tomorrow that Marlowe and her father will be attending. But Marlowe’s not focused on that, right now she’s zeroed in on Chelsey, on creating space for her and her needs right now. 

“Weddings are big deals. Just wanted you to be as excited as possible, feel the best about yourself,” Marlowe states. 

“Yeah, well, I still appreciate it. Ensuring that I have just a little time to myself.”

“Can I ask what makes you nervous?” Marlowe asks the question, pulling back her hand with the lip liner. 

“I just want it to be perfect, you know? I love Madison, god, do I. I just want today to be perfect.”

It’s one bounce of her head, a nod that Marlowe gives. “And it will be. I’ll help make sure of it.” 

The kind of promise that’s woven between the letters of the contract even if it’s not stated out so plainly. That is Marlowe’s vows to her clients, whether or not they understand it. Marlowe’s there for as long as the bride wants and needs. She offers, depending on the bride’s desires, add on services, but the focus of every tier is service. It’s not about Marlowe; it is always about finding the ways to know, to anticipate a need as best as possible before it comes up. To Marlowe, it means to surrender, to remove selfish aims and desires. And it is a process, a mental space Marlowe takes great care to do well. 

“And, there,” Marlowe notes with the last pump of setting. The fan in her left hand still whirs, helping to dry down the mist faster. Another thirty seconds or so pass and Marlowe swaps hands, moving the fan to her right, placing the setting spray back down and finding her mirror. The table is set up like always so it is a blind, yet, well practiced reach. 

Marlowe gives another few seconds before she speaks again, “Alright, here’s the final look.”

It shouldn’t be a shock. This is the same look they trailed months ago, but with a slightly more vibrant pink based nude underneath the gloss. Marlowe went with a more true nude to match Chelsey’s warm olive skin tone in their initial take, but Chelsey wanted the lip color to match Madison’s suit, a color Marlowe’s tied subtly into the highlighter that’s just barely dusted over Chelsey’s cheeks and nose. But Marlowe knows better and the second Chelsey blinks open her eyes, takes in her final look, there will be tears. 

“Shit, it’s real,” Chelsey huffs. 

Marlowe’s quick to the tissue under Chelsey’s eye, lowering the fan just a little to help dry back the tears too. “It is real. You’re really getting married today and you look gorgeous. Madison’s going to have a heartache when she sees you walking down the aisle.”

The tears in Chelsey’s eyes continue to well, only to spill over to the tissue. Though the makeup’s built to withstand the tears, and the day, Marlowe’s not taking any chances of mascara streaks or tear tracks this early in the day. Chelsey waves at her face, inhaling deep before she laughs. “I told Maddie I wasn’t going to blubber like a baby, and she bet me I would.”

“You won’t lose unless you tell her. Secret will most certainly stay safe with me.” Chelsey’s not the first bride to well up in Marlowe’s chair, and Marlowe doubts Chelsey will be the last one to cry either. 

“Oh, she always knows.” Chelsey’s eyes dart back down to the reflection of herself, head turning to check it out at all angles. The false lashes are sparse and not terribly long at all. Just enough to add volume without detracting from the overall soft glam. Her cheeks glow without it looking caked and layered on, the color continuing down to her neck and over her ears to ensure a seamless look. Chelsey’s dress has an illusion chest and though the foundation doesn’t carry down all the way there’s a gradual fading so the makeup looks less disjointed from the rest of Chelsey’s body. “I really do love this. It’s like you’re inside my head.”

“I have your social, last known addresses, the street you grew up on, and your mother’s maiden name,” Marlowe teases. Chelsey’s tears turn into an eye roll as another fit of giggles is exchanged between them. “But, I’m really glad you like the way it turned out. I take this job seriously. So I’m honored to do this and to get it right.”

“Talk about getting it right,” Chelsey mutters. “It’s perfect.”

The sentence jabs at Marlowe’s chest, like it always does when Marlowe’s brides proclaim their love for Marlowe’s work. Yet, the sentence never loses its impact. The sharp edge that cuts through the confident exterior to the soft inside of Marlowe that she knows is the bottled and preserved echo of Malia. 

The bass rattles around them, a shake that vibrates their teeth, as the car passes by. Malia and Marlowe are side by side, the Ohio sidewalks solid beneath their feet as their heels click over the concrete. The evening sun is just starting to fade, soon to be replaced by the dawning moon, a white orb heading towards its high midnight position when it finally crests up. For now, the evening grows darker, and cooler, but vibrant as the neon lights flicker off the bars. Ahead of Malia and Marlowe are Q and Remi, and ahead of Q and Remi are Chase and Orlando, a friend of Malia, and ahead of them is Bryson, another friend to Malia, who put together the whole outing.  

Malia and Bryson met by the fates, a mix up of coffee orders that neither one of them double checked the names on— because let’s be honest how many people order cinnamon dolce lattes, including a milk substitute and a pump of vanilla in the first sprigs of May. The answer that fated Tuesday was two. Malia’s drink had soy milk and Bryson’s had oat milk. And if not for that, Malia and Bryson’s paths would stay in parallel, lines always running next to each other but never intersecting.

Malia worked at the coffee shop some days, to get out of her routine of working from her apartment, spending days with color wheels, topography and a mountain of ‘one more tweak’ emails to send her to the asylum. Malia’s exact words, recounted to Marlowe on numerous occasions. 

And one singular drink mix up is all that had done it for them. Malia and Bryson talk seemingly at all hours. Marlowe’s attempts to get even just a minute with her sister more slippery than when they were in college. Bryson’s inclusion to Saturday dinners did not go unnoticed either, but an extra at the dinner time was never an issue. Bryson fit in. He laughed at their jokes, the tutted, ‘you make me sick’. He included Marlowe and her friends in plans. Malia and Bryson are friends, friends that feel like it could’ve teetered on to something more, but never firmly planted itself. 

Tonight is one such night, Bryson suggesting to Malia that the entire group get together, have a couple drinks, laughing the night away. A suggestion that doesn’t take more than a singular read in the group chat for everyone to agree to, dressed for the colder almost fall nights. In the bright reflection from Denny’s bright windows, the group paused now at an intersection to cross in order to get to the bar they parked a couple blocks down from, a gaggle of girls spread out and encircle Malia and Marlowe, halfway passing them by but doubling back with a squawk of, “Your makeup is so fucking good!” and “Leaving no crumbs.”

Malia laughs, one arm still thread around Marlowe’s bent one. “Thanks, my sister,” Malia starts, pointing to Marlowe, “did it for me.”

“God damn, you did that?”

“Yeah, she did,” Malia answers. “She’s so talented. Makes me sick.”

“Truly talented. Do you have a card?”

“I tell her all the time to start. I don’t know why she doesn’t believe me.”

“Oh, that’s really nothing,” Marlowe returns. The eyeliner feeding into hearts at the corners of Malia’s eyes was time consuming but not nearly as much as Marlowe considered doing. Malia had only asked to tame it down for the evening. 

“If that is nothing, then take me now before I have to see something. What’s your Instagram? Do you post there? I want to be able to say I’ve been following since day 1, whenever that is.”

“Tomorrow,” Malia laughs, tugging Marlowe back into the center of the group. “Her first day is tomorrow, come hell or high water.”

Marlowe chews on her bottom lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay, trying to hold them back until Chelsey’s escorted back into the main room to finish getting dressed. But that dam feels so weak at times, like somehow as Marlowe’s been able to keep herself together, Malia will also be able to undo her just a little. Maybe the grief always undoes and maybe then the healing isn’t about not coming undone, but letting the unravel happen and not being destroyed, not being absorbed up by grief.

“I’m really glad,” Marlowe whispers back, blinking back the sting of her own tears. Marlowe can always be made up again, even as she crumbles. She should be proud, and is proud, to give Chelsey something special on such a monumental day. Marlowe considers that the salve: to share Malia even if no one else knows it’s her. 

Once both Chelsey and Marlowe are sure Chelsey’s waterworks are subsided, Marlowe helps her down from the chair and walks her back to the door. Julie’s already pushing out, her jaw dropping when she takes in Chelsey. “You look stunning, oh my god. Marlowe really did her thing.”

“Right? I look so good,” Chelsey grins. 

Marlowe stays through the ceremony, her own eyes watering as she watches the couple devote themselves to each other, lingers back during the photos that immediately follow the ceremony as there’s not much to touch up and makes one final lipstick color switch up right as Chelsey changes from her long ball gown into a sexier, but still sweet jumpsuit for the reception, with it’s lace bodice and capped sleeves. 

There’s a tap or two to blot some of excess moisture and sweat off, but the majority of the makeup holds with an iron grip. “Tear that dance floor up,” Marlowe demands after pulling the blotting paper away. “Eat lots too.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay. I made sure to count you in for the catering,” Chelsey offers. 

Madison, Chelsey’s now wife, grins from the back corner of the room. “She insisted on adding you in for catering.”

It feels rude to say no. Marlowe assumed, though, that this was the end. That she’d pack up her belongings and slip out into the evening, snag her Dad from wherever he was and get dinner—though she certainly hadn’t made any plans either way given the way weddings can be a little unpredictable. Marlowe did manage a rather quick call with Joe earlier in the morning, ten minutes as best. She would text him again when she was done with her day, to wish him luck, knowing that he may not answer until after the game. Being busy hasn’t bothered either one of them—a mutual understanding at how packed the schedules get and can be. It is difficult at times to carve out that time just for them. But they do manage. In delicate strokes, in the ten, fifteen minutes blocks. In the half misspelled text reply that so clearly iterates that someone woke up just enough to stare with a half squinted gaze about safe landings—a text message Marlow is currently sitting on from Joe after she let him know she’d landed safely in Denver Friday night.

However, this is the couple that flew her out to Denver, rebooked her flight to allow her to stay longer to make the game too, with no fuss as well. Though Marlowe paid for the difference in the extended stay and her Dad wound up making the selection to find his own separate room, an offering he made with a knowing smile on his lips, she’d hate to step all over their kindness. The offering to stay is more generosity than she expected to face.

“If you’re sure,” Marlowe returns.

“We’re sure,” Chelsey huffs, grabbing Marlowe’s wrist.

“I can stay for a little bit longer.” Marlowe gives herself a mental timer—an hour to graciously accept the invitation without overstaying to stay through the grand entrance and a little bit of the dinner but she’ll escape before the speeches. 

Marlowe sticks close to the wedding planner in her additional hour, David, helping with last minute squabbles and by the time she can blink over her slightly too dry chicken, the hour is long since gone. It’s a quiet and stealthy exit, two runs down to load up the rental car with her belongings and to return the hotel room key to David. 

“Thanks again,” David whispers, pressing two kisses to each of her cheeks. “Hope we can work together in the future.”

“I’d like that,” Marlowe grins as they exchange business cards. 

The night is full and when Marlowe settles into the driver seat, she realizes just how much her feet hurt, how much her back aches, but for Chelsey, for Madison, it’s worth it. The radio tuned into the local R&B station hums softly as Marlowe works drives back to her own hotel room. An echoing of vocals that cradles Marlowe, reminds her that she can turn it all off. 

Her phone buzzes from the cup holder. But Marlowe keeps her focus on the road, on the lugging she’ll have to do to her hotel room. It’s probably Joe or her dad. Undoubtedly a check to see if she’s eaten, that she’s okay. It’s a warm feeling, a comfort to know that there are people who care. As Marlowe pulls into the garage, she sighs. It’s cresting just up to 9. She still needs to clean her brushes, sanitize everything. 

“It’s going to be a long night,” Marlowe mutters to herself but takes just a few spare minutes to check the notifications. 

Forgot how much the air is different here, a text from her Dad. From hours ago now, but Marlowe hearts it all the same. Make sure you eat something proper too. I have left overs if you need to swing by. The text that rattled her phone on the drive back to her room. 

Back at the hotel. The brides fed me today, which was a nice surprise. Keep soaking up that air, Marlowe replies before she opens up the thread from Joe. 

She can’t tell what’s more shocking that she had a text from him or that Joe found himself in such a position at 6:32 PM to even text: I have some meetings later tonight, but can you let me know when you’re back from the wedding? Won’t matter the time, I’ll answer. Just need to hear your voice.

Marlowe’s fingers are typing back over the screen, a flurry of clicks as the edges of her nails hit the tempered glass screen protected, chipped slightly in the bottom left corner. A chip she kept saying she’d use an excuse to change the screen protector, but hasn’t in the last 5 months. I’m getting back late; just pulled in. Need to shower and clean tools. Would an hour be okay?

An hour isn’t enough time for her to finish cleaning her brushes, but she’d at least get partially through them. Marlowe stares as the thread, message lifting up before it settles. Delivered glares back at her in the dark of the car, the phone screen the only source of internal light. And like Joe was sitting in the thread, like they’d been texting consistently in the last hour, his reply becomes damn near instantly, An hour is perfect. Marlowe does not waste an extra second, not even with a reply, before she’s pushing at the car door, hitting the button to pop the trunk in her exit too. It is only sixty minutes, and she knows just how fast it can go too. 

Her feet ache, like down to the bone ache, like dancing to shift her weight from one foot to the next kind of ache. The drive back gave her a false sense of security, made her think she could push through another hour on her feet between the shower and now the cleaning. But there’s a very narrow window tomorrow to get this done with enough time for the brushes to dry out completely too. So she’s here, leaning against the porcelain sink, dancing from side to side, so no one foot hurts for longer than it needs to. The sink runs, a spurted rush as Marlowe rubs the brush around on the mat. Her hair is a tad damp from the shower, Marlowe uncaring if the strands got wet thanks to her current resolve to let the natural waves take over more in her short pixie cut. Besides, all Marlowe wanted and needed was the rolling steam over her back and shoulders. 

The water starts to run clear, free of the shimmers and shadows, and Marlowe exhales. One step closer to being done, she tells herself. From behind the faucet knobs, her phone rests, on its side, waiting. If Marlowe’s internal clock is right, she’s only got a couple minutes left before her hour is up. No sooner than Marlowe can squeeze out the bristle of the brust, her headphones chime in her ear. 

All it takes is a tap to answer the waiting voice call. “Hi, stink,” Marlowe grins, still resting on her elbows against the sink. 

“Hi, angel.” Joe’s voice sounds rougher than usual around the edges.

“You okay?” The question echoes from both lines of the phone simultaneously, Marlowe and Joe’s cadence both lilting upwards in concern before they both dissolve into soft tuts of laughter. 

“You first,” Joe hums. “How’d the wedding go?”

“No,” Marlowe retorts. “You first. Your flight okay?”

“My flight was uneventful, which is how we like them. Now, tell me, did the bride cry?”

“Chelsey did almost the entire way through. But her makeup held strong. Madison cried only during the vows. It was a really pretty venue and set up.”

“Oh, I didn’t know there were two brides. How’d you manage that? Both their makeup and all?” His words aren’t tight, but his tone is different, restrained in a way that still strikes at Marlowe’s chest. 

“Two different artists. I only did Chelsey’s makeup. Another artist did Madison’s. Seriously, Joe, let’s take a time out. Are you okay? You sound…different. I don’t know if it’s because it’s Saturday and you’re Saturday Joe right now. But it’s okay if you need space right now.” It’s not lost on Marlowe that Joe had been the one to ask for this, but still, she’d be more than okay with giving him the space he needed. 

“It’s not that. Just frustrated I couldn’t call you properly yesterday or today.” The confession is no louder than an exhale, no louder than a hum of a fan being turned off. “Felt like a coil wound up a little too tight the entire day. Everyone can tell too, which is crazy to me, but I guess, not so crazy at the same time.”

Marlowe flew out Friday evening, the prime time for Joe to call her. Her flight landed at 9 something, which put it at 11 that night in Ohio, a time she knew he’d be asleep. Yet, there was still a semi delirious response to her Landed safely. At my hotel now text which was supposed to read something to the effect of, Glad you made it, though there were a few extra letters that did not belong. Yet, Marlowe understood it. 

“I’m here now,” Marlowe breathes, glancing to the screen that she knows is dark, knows his face isn’t on, but she’s hoping just like he can feel when she turns on the game, Joe can feel this gaze too. 

“Yeah,” Joe exhales, and it crackles through the receiver. “I know. I appreciate that. Just didn’t expect it. Been in this league half a decade now. I have all sorts of asinine quirks, but nothing’s prepared me for how much I’d miss talking to you before games. You’re a part of the ritual now, I guess. Manifested faster than I could blink.”

“You said you didn’t believe in the stars.” It’s not accusatory, just a recounting of facts, of their conversations that they’ve both kept catalogued no doubt. 

Joe’s laughter is short, breathy as it escapes him. “I don’t, but I did say if they spoke to you, I’d listen. Have they?”

Marlowe’s not one to do tarot or anything of that sort. Just believes in the divinity of forces bigger and stronger than her alone. She believes that there’s something to learn from the past that’s around them all. Marlowe believes in the power of paying attention, listening to everything even if it seems small. “If they tell me anything, I’ll let you know. Also, please excuse me if you can hear the sink running too, I’m not done cleaning these brushes.”

“It’s okay. I can wait on the line with you.”

“It’ll be boring.”

“I’ll take boring as long as it’s with you. Hell, we could talk taxes and that would be okay with me.”

Marlowe snorts. “Please do not talk about taxes. I hate tax season so much.”

“You and me both. You holding up okay? Would’ve thought you would’ve been back by now. But weddings do go on for a while, I suppose.”

“My stay got extended,” Marlowe starts, and then pauses long enough to take the last couple of brushes over the bumps of the mat, swirling and swirling until the water starts to go clear again. “Apparently Chelsey added me in for the catering count, so I stayed long enough for that. Then I got caught up just a little bit trying to help out before I left.”

“Oh, that’s really nice of them to do that. Was the food good?”

“It wasn’t bad. Chicken was a little dry, but it’s about how it goes at weddings.”

Another bout of silence falls between them, filled with the clicks of brushes settling onto the drying mat Marlowe will have to carefully carry to the main section of the hotel rooms so the brushes can dry on the flat surface of the desk. The sink rushes again as she clears off the last of the makeup and her hands, leaving them both pristine. 

“Do you need a laugh?” Marlowe questions, shaking the last bits of the water out. Next month another shadow descends. An easier load considering how much life her grandmother had lived in comparison. But still, a shadow nonetheless. The ticking of time responding Marlowe that death truly comes for them all. 

“I’ll take a laugh,” Joe answers. “Finished with the cleaning?”

“Yeah, I am. Give me a second.” Marlowe takes her still slightly damp hands to her phone, tapping through apps, swiping through her camera roll until she finds the video of her, Malia, and Lady Day after a church service. “It’s a video, on the way.”

Joe’s quiet for a moment, then two. “Got it. Is that your grandmother?”

“Yeah, that’s Lady Day.”

Marlowe doesn’t need hear the video to know what’s happening. Remembers how she’d climbed out of the passenger side with Lady Day in the driver side and Malia in the back. She’d gone to the front door just to unlock it and then assist Malia with helping their grandmother with her purse, Bible, and cane. Unknown to Marlowe, Malia had been recording, their entire drive was a revolving door of cackling as Lady Day cursed their father out for all his fast driving. 

“Now, you doing all this cussing on the Lord’s Day,” Malia reprimands. 

“Well, it ain’t my fault he drives like a maniac. The house ain’t going no damn where,” Lady Day returns, her door opened wide, focus trained through the windshield. “Well, I’ll be. Must be jelly.”

“What are you talking about, Lady Day? Huh? What is you on about?”

Lady Day turns to Malia. “I said, it must be jelly because jam don’t shake like that.”

“And who are we talking about? What?” Malia laughs. 

“Mars ass.”

“Grandma!” Malia shrieks. 

“What you yelling for? Help an old woman, will ya?”

“Behave yourself!” Malia huffs, her laughter shaking her shoulders and the camera. 

Joe’s laughter lets Marlowe know that the video came to its shaky ending, the echoes of Malia and Lady Day’s laughter playing in Marlowe’s memory again against the present sound of Joe’s fit of giggling. Around the shuddery breaths, Joe tuts out, “Your grandmother is saying what we’re all thinking though.”

Marlowe’s not sure what she expected from Joe, the same man that made a blow job at how fast she ate, but she finds herself growing fonder of the crassness rather than being annoyed by it. The fondness does not stop the roll of her eyes though. “I think you would’ve loved her. She was a mess. Always cutting up especially as she got older.”

“She seemed like a fun person to be around. Thank you for sharing this.”

Sharing feels too incomplete a word. It feels like a gift, like something meant to be passed along and cherished just as much as she cherished it. It’s still scary, part of Marlowe still afraid of giving away everything she has left, but there’s something in the wisp of Joe’s breath, in the way he says thank you that Marlowe feels deeper now is reverence and care. 

Their conversation, soft as it is, now the she imagines both of them are stretched out across their respective beds doesn’t last terribly long. Just long enough, a solid forty minute stretch of shared breaths, whispered longing, and even after the call ends, Marlowe still holding the phone to her ear, she prays like Joe is still there. 

“Please protect him on tomorrow, dear Heavenly Father. I ask Your hand guide his. I ask You keep him calm, collected, and precise, dear Heavenly Father. I ask for grace and traveling mercies over him and the entire team to the stadium, and back home again for them. In Jesus’ Name, I pray. Amen.”  

___________________________

It’s not a shock that when Marlowe finds her father, sitting inside of the lobby of his hotel, a cap over his bald head, his shoulders adorned in the retro jersey, his 59 hanging off his chest. Marlowe’s purposefully in a plain black t-shirt. No logos, no names on her back. Her beige baseball cap illuminates her alma mater, Wilberforce, since all her allegiances have to be stripped away for today. Her father grins from behind the black wrapped sunshades. Marlowe can feel the mischievous edge. “No 59 today? I’m hurt, sweetpea.”

Marlowe laughs, leaning into his shoulder once she’s close enough. “I will always be a daddy’s girl, don’t you fret about that.”

“Yeah, I know. But I guess if you had to rep a number 9 is close enough. It’s in the mix.”

The tutted laughter is soft, all an exhale. A car should be coming soon for them, to escort them into the stadium up, and from there, another escort into the box as well. Joe helped coordinate the effort. As much as her father didn’t want to make a scene and as much as Marlowe wanted to keep one from happening too, walking directly into Empower Stadium was not an option to keep from making a scene. Though, from the pieces Marlowe gathered from Joe, getting the tickets and escort proved easier with the Dominic name attached. 

“How do you feel?” Marlowe hums, perched onto the arm of the wide armchair. She’s about ten minutes early, though she rented a car, she took an Uber to meet here and nearly second guessed the idea entirely with how long it took for the ride to locate a driver.

Denver is much more different for her father than her. Here, she imagines, he must get stopped on the street, must get recognized. No one can miss the bald head, the goatee that’s now grayed, the pinched brows permanently etched onto his face. Marlowe’s mother called his guard dog look, the slight frown he carried on his lips so that no one would dare get too close to them when Marlowe and Malia were only bitty babies in the world. In reality, after being doted and praised for his entire career, it would become his signature game day face too. The face still screen printed out on fan made t-shirts, the face that now circulated at times in football related memes. Screencaps that illustrate displeasure and focus. 

“Last night was…a lot. But not bad. A lot of love really,” her dad answers. 

“You played with all your heart for this city.”

“Would’ve done it anywhere, but you’re right.”

“I know,” Marlow hums, hand slipping to his shoulder. “To you it was everything you wanted. And now, back into the belly of the beast.”

“I mean, the good thing is that win or lose, it matters just a little less to me.” It’s a snorted tease, words that on the surface might seem cruel but are just meant to help create distance. It will always matter and Marlowe’s never thought otherwise the more and more she learns about her father now as an adult, and not just a child looks at a parent.

“Oh, root for your brothers. They’re going to need it,” Marlowe smiles, glancing down. Both of their eyes are hidden by shades, but Marlowe can see the unimpressed press of her father’s lips. Knows his eyes undoubtedly match.

“So the smack talk has already begun.” 

“May the best team win.”

“Oh, we will.”

The ride into the stadium is relatively quiet, and short. Her father’s hotel is relatively close, a few miles at best. It’s not the same for her as it is for her dad, Marlowe knows. But she can’t help but worry, prays the driver doesn’t recognize her at all, that he doesn’t care about her. In Cincinnati things are different. She worries, but less so. The circles she runs in, the places she goes are relatively quiet and uninterested by the sport. Sure, she’s noticed a few other stares, a few other glances her way in the grocery store, but no one dared cross the invisible line like it’s happened on social media. In the real world, there’s no beacon on her, no trial of comments to connect her and Joe. Empower is not Paycor, not the belly of the beast, yet as they ride in closer it most certainly feels like the throat of one, staring down the unknown but knowing that the thick of it has yet to be unveiled. 

An irrefutable fact no matter where she goes now: there will be fans of her father’s and of Joe. Her life was decidedly different before when it was just her dad. Because it was always about him, but Trey Dominic—the man who dominated on the field, the player everybody loves. Marlowe didn’t matter in those interactions. Now every interaction will matter, just a little bit more about Marlowe. She’s just hoping she can fly beneath the radar for just long enough. 

The truck takes them deep inside where more folks are waiting for them, weaving through hallways that are thankfully quieter than the roar off the main crowd. Yet, that doesn’t stop the gentle and shocked, “Trey Dominic?” as they pass. 

Marlowe’s gotten used to the sound of her father’s name falling other’s mouth with surprise laced between the syllables. She knows her father will pause, turn slowly to the sound and then nod—once. Her father is faster with his smile once the starstruck jaw settles closed again. “How are you?”

“Oh, man, I can’t believe it. I didn’t think it was true. Heard your name was on the list of visitors but, holy shit, ‘Bulldozer’ himself,” the security guard laughs. “I remember my pops and I watching you on Sundays. Holy shit.”

This guard looks about Marlowe’s age, maybe a tad older, but not by much. Her father nods again, approaching with an outstretched hand for the clasped hand into a hug greeting. “I appreciate it.”

Marlowe and her father continue on, to their seats, but the eyes follow. Everyone that they pass pauses, and whispers either to themselves or to the person next to them. The air is different. Almost a little too still for the growing fall, and electric. The air is almost hot to the touch as it feels like now the entire stadium around them is now alive with the news. 

Trey Dominic has returned. 

For a brief second, Marlowe worries this presence is only fuel to the Broncos’ fire. And she knows to Joe this is just one drop into the bucket, that this is just one game in a line of many, but Marlowe can’t help the worry and the joy. She’s grateful that her dad’s back here, and he’s being met with love. But she can’t help but think about how this could impact the game too. It’s not standing between two things and having to choose. Marlowe doesn’t feel torn about the conflicting emotions, just acknowledges as she slips down next to her dad in their seats that she is carrying two things at once. A balancing act that feels terrifying and exhilarating all at once. 

“I have a feeling today’s going to be a good one.” Marlowe offers it in passing, as just conversation that can go nowhere if her dad doesn’t want it too. 

“So you feel it, too, how everyone is staring?”

“You’ve been a hermit for quite a while. Everyone’s been waiting.”

Her father shrugs, sliding one arm around the back of her chair. Marlowe in return settles deeper into the chair, rests her head onto his shoulder, watching out over the field, empty right now, but soon will be filled up with players coming out to do their stretching, preparing their bodies for the game. “I don’t know about that. But it has been a while hasn’t it?” Her fathers voice is only whisper high.

“You needed your time. Grief and such.”

“Hmm, yeah, maybe. Let’s just see how today goes. Baby steps for right now. I don’t want it all to have been in the past. Just didn’t know how to hold it again.”

“You had to rehab a lot more than just your knee.”

His laughter shakes her shoulders and the squeeze that follows solidifies her again. “Yeah, I guess I did have to rehab more than just my knee. How was the wedding by the way? We never got the chance to debrief last night.”

The amusement in his words could not hide even if her father was attempting to hide them. Marlowe nudges at his ribs with her elbow, a brush at most, a half hearted jab at best. “We just talked last night, geez. And I wound up staying longer than originally planned because the brides insisted I eat before leaving. But I stayed on the phone with him until he practically fell asleep. Then I prayed and I went to sleep too. My feet still hurt from standing all day.”

“I heard you, once. I was going to knock and ask if you wanted a scoop of icecream with me but heard you talking. And because I’m nosey, I listened for just a second or so and realized you were praying. So I quickly carried on.”

Marlowe’s not unaware of her father’s prying ears, how keen he is to catch things, how much he’s paying attention too. She wonders if that’s where she learned it from, if paying attention can be a hereditary trait. “Oh my god. I need to move out faster, actually.”

“Oh, c’mon. He’s absolutely smitten with you. You are with him. A blind man could see it.”

“You’re eavesdropping. That’s what’s embarrassing.”

Her father laughs yet again, a laughter that bounces them both. “Okay. God forbid, a father try to spend some time with his daughter and just accidentally catch her praying for boyfriend. It could happen to anyone.”

“But it happened to me because you purposefully were trying to listen in.”

“You’ll just have to prove that one in a court of law.”

Marlowe sighs, tilting her head back to look up at her dad. “You admitted it,” she deadpans. 

“Prove it.”

“You’re insufferable at times.”

“I’m supposed to be insufferable, sweetpea. It’s in the Dad Rulebook. Does he know? That you do that?”

Marlowe thought about telling Joe, thought about asking him if he wanted her to continue it or not. Yet, Marlowe’s never been able to get the words worked up onto her throat. Hasn’t been able to put breath behind the confession. Somehow, it’s not even for Joe. It’s for Marlowe. It’s seemingly the only thing she can do for him. She can’t take his place on that field. Marlowe can’t analyze film for him. She can’t do anything besides watch, sit on those phone calls, sit in the middle of whatever shared room they’re in, and watch.

“No,” Marlowe admits in a whisper. “He doesn’t know.”

The crowd erupts into a roar, a level of noise that feels a bit like hitting a brick wall. It comes out fast and all at once. But from their vantage point, it’s easy to see why, players are jogging out, stuffed into their jerseys, pads broadening out shoulders and chests. It’s not game level exciting, but it is movement. It is a sign of life that tells the waiting fans, eager and nervous for the outcome, that they are one step closer to the game. 

“Your mom used to do the same thing,” her father states after the excitement dies down. “Kept it a secret the whole time too.”

“Did you ever get angry?” Sometimes it does feel like the prayers fall to deaf ears, like she’s been turned away from. But the truth of the reality is that for a winner to be had, there needs to be a loser. It just hurts to see the losses. 

“No, no, far from it. I think it was those prayers that saw me through. Even with the losses, even with the injuries, I’d hate to see the outcome without those prayers.”

Marlowe’s gaze flitters across the field, taking in the teams in the almost blur of arm circles. It’s almost too terrifying of a thought to consider that this is still all the best outcome, that there’s something darker waiting, but she supposes it’s how everything works. For every dark corner, there is a light. For every light, there is the dark. 

Joe is easier to spot in the crowd. Or maybe it’s like Joe said, that somehow he’d know when she’d tuned in and Marlowe would seemingly be able to pick him out in a crowd, many feet up and away, but called to him in a way that only the molecules can explain—without words, but with observable action. Magnetism, Joe might quip, his brain lasered into the scientific tangible answers. He’d say that they were opposite ends of magnets, searching out for the polar that’s missing. But Marlowe likes it best left up to this divine touch, the souls fated with red strings, hearts split in half finding each other out undying love and desperation. Just as Marlowe’s gaze lands on Joe, he looks up. And not up as a general direction, not up as if called by someone down on the field, but up towards the stands. Up towards them. 

Marlowe’s not sure if Joe can actually see her in exact detail, or if it’s just the general direction but she stares back. It’s a long gaze, like time could fall away, and maybe it does. Like the stadium’s crowd is not there. And he gives a nod, one singular bob, and then looks back in front of him. Magnetism feels magical too, Marlowe decides.

“Your mom has a date set for next year.”

Marlowe blinks before she looks up. “A date for what?” she asks to her father. 

“Engagement. I’m betting on a wedding.”

“Oh my god,” Marlowe groans, cheeks growing hot at the words. Her father’s not been like this about anyone else she’s dated. But as of late, there’s been no one quite like Joe either. Even Marlowe can admit that. “Do you want a snack? I think we should have snacks. I’ll be right back.”

“You hate me because I’m right!”

Marlowe’s too far away by the time the bellowed tease comes, having pushed up from her seat the second the word wedding finished crossing over her father’s mouth. If she were closer, she’d shove him, playfully threaten him though both of them know it wouldn’t be hollow. But now, her feet are carrying her out. The air is cooler, perhaps even thinner too in the way it feels in lungs. Marlowe finds the concession stand easy, peering as she starts closer at the display. The choices aren’t bountiful, but with enough variety that she does take a moment to ponder the options: if she’s going to go with popcorn and drinks, if she wants something sweet.

“It sort of looks like her, but I can’t tell with the hat.”

Marlowe hears the conversation, whether by accident or by design, she’s not sure. Yet, she can’t really afford to react, so she ponders for a second, maybe two and then continues on to the the back of the line. There no one seems to care about her at least. Everyone focuses on getting their desired concession. Yet every whisper, every glance takes sends the hairs on the back of her neck up a centimeter at a time. By the time she can rattle off her order, popcorn, two lemonades, Marlowe feels like she has a spotlight on her. The people working the stand don’t care about her. They tap at screens, pull cups from stacks, have her tap her card to pay. For them, this is just another Sunday. 

The saving grace is again even with the hackles raised, no one approaches. Marlowe’s able to get the popcorn, take both cups gently and ease her way back to the seats. Nothing happens, yet, everything feels like it could happen. Someone could take her photo, post it, corroborate with other photos to try and definitely say if it’s her or not. She’s praying it doesn’t. But something in her gut tells her that’s probably a pretty far fetched hope. 

Perhaps, I invest in more hats, Marlowe humors to herself. Or wigs. It might not last long, but a rotating collection of dad hats could maybe protect her. Or maybe it would gamify everything, make people want to try and spot her in the crowd. Either way, nothing can be undone now. There’s no going back now. 

“I got you some lemonade,” Marlowe calls out, shuffling back into the row. 

Her father stretches up to take one of the cups. “Thanks.” There’s no return to his earlier line of commentary—about her and Joe. Which is a relief. “How’s the hunt for that social media manager going?”

Marlowe eases down into her seat, using her hips and things to crack open the folded seat. “It’s going. The posting’s finally up. No one I vibe with just yet, but there’s a referral coming soon from his personal assistant and we’re going to see how things go after I talk to that person. I’m still keeping the listing up in the meantime.”

“The right person will become. Sure of it. Is everything okay though? In the meantime?”

Marlowe’s not sure if okay is the right phrase to encapsulate the slow decline in hysteria. God is it slow too. But it’s not getting worse and that’s what Marlowe clings too, is hoping remains true. Though, now, in the open air, it now starts to feel like maybe she’s played with fire. “Jury is still out on that.”

“Oh, good or bad?”

“Undecided. It’s not worse. But it is overwhelming. I might have to restructure a few things.”

“Restructure? But you love doing makeup.”

Marlowe shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t shut anything down. Might have to increase prices, use that page only for the business, take a step back—that sort of deal.”

“If you ever need to talk to someone about that, you know I’m happy to send you my business advisor.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Marlowe’s still in the infancy of things. She had years under her belt but change would have to inevitably come now. “If you don’t mind forwarding me their information, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll do it right now. You know if I don’t do it now or write it down, I will forget.”

A few moments of silence is punctuated by the vibrating of Marlowe’s phone from her back jean pocket. It rattles against the seat. His hand raises and Marlowe eases the bucket closer, a move Marlowe’s learned to anticipate coming from her father. Their conversation is easy to float an when the silence falls, they let it settle gently without rush. Truly, there is nothing to rush here, not as the tides begin to shift again, the energy growing the closer and closer they get to kick off. 

“A big day here at Empower Stadium. This crowd here is electric and we’ve heard through the grapevine that there’s a special someone in attendance today.”

Marlowe notices the shifting camera, the way it spins and grins just a little even as she sinks further into her seat, pulling her hat lower on her brow. Her dad seems shocked when the camera finally finds him, brows raising above the rim of the dark sunglasses. And then even as minute as it is, he pushes forward into the seat. Whether it’s to shadow her, hide Marlowe away, or just shock, she’s not sure. Either way, the moment seems to only be swelling, growing as it shakes the gravity in the stadium. 

The crowd’s cheering echoes louder, and louder, feels like it grows higher and higher. “Dom-i-nic,” chanted over and over. A few “Bull-do-zer’s” stick out too in the melodious cadence of the crowd. All for her dad. A city that did in fact embrace him deeply, at least that what Marlowe’s mother says. How they couldn’t walk the streets some days before they moved to be closer to her mother’s family during Grandpop’s Lewis’ battle with dementia. The city shook anytime he stepped foot onto the streets. Everyone knew when Bulldozer was out. That’s what her mother said, laughing as he spoke. A city that’s proven that it will never truly forget him. 

The chanting goes on for several minutes before it dissipates into an even longer round of clapping and cheers. All the attention is on him and though her father nods and thanks, and waves, she catches the brief swipe at his cheeks. 

“You can hear the frenzy. The one, the only, Trey Dominic has graced us with a return on this lovely Sunday afternoon. Dominic is here again in the city for the first time in twenty-seven years. We hope this game is quite the special return home for him.” 

[loveforloveland]

part 5: the crack that always bleeds

background: y/n y/ln a star softball player hooks up with the star qb back in college, and finds out shes pregnant but keeps it on the low, now life has changed and she wants her child to meet her dad.

all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved)

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: y/n gives birth through a series of complications, and joe's rookie szn doesnt go well at all.

notes: this is a part 5 to the series! and no im not a mother irl, but one of my older best friends just had a baby a few months ago so i asked her for a few things. also im sorry for leavin yall hanging! school just started.

warning: this is a alternative universe, keep this in mind! and yes joe has a gf in this whos a lil crazy (its his 'current' one down the road) mentions of postpartum depression, do not read if you are not mentally stable my love.

← part 3 part 5 →

im slowly losing momentum to write so this era kinda seems rushed until we get to the good parts, but to keep me going, you can send blurb requests for the universe.

The heat in Baton Rouge that July was brutal, the kind that turned the air quality thick before sunrise and made even a quick walk from the car to the mailbox feel like hell. Y/N was huge, swollen ankles propped up on the battered coffee table, window unit rattling at full blast, an open bottle of cold water on her nightstand.

She wasn’t due until the end of September. That was what she kept telling herself, one more month, one more stretch of days where she could finish folding the baby blankets, double check the tiny socks, argue with Micah over which car seat was safest.

But her daughter had other plans in the smack dab beginning of September.

It started late on a sticky Thursday night, a cramp so deep it curled Y/N half off the couch, breath caught in her throat. Then another, sharp enough to make her fumble for her mom’s hand in the dark hallway.

“Okay, breathe, baby,” her mom said, voice steady but her eyes wide with that old fear she never fully let Y/N see. “We’re gonna go. Now. Get your shoes. I’ll call Eli.”

The hospital was half empty but humming with tension, nurses behind glass shields, masks snug over their mouths, the echo of machines in rooms down the hall.

Y/N clutched the scratchy edge of her gown while her mom stood by her side, squeezing her wrist so tight it left little imprints in her skin.

The doctor’s voice was calm but clipped when she said, “Cord’s too tight. Heart rate’s dipping. We need to move fast.”

Y/N’s vision blurred around the edges. She felt her breath claw at her ribs, panic blooming fast. “Is she... is she okay?” she rasped.

Her mom’s forehead pressed to hers. “She’s strong, baby. Just like you. You keep breathing. You let them do their job.”

Everything blurred after that, the cold slap of surgical lights, the sting of the IV, the nurses moving fast, murmuring words Y/N couldn’t catch over the static in her ears.

Somewhere under all of it, she felt her mom’s hand, warm and steady on her hair, brushing it back from her sweaty forehead. “I got you. I got you. I got you, baby. She’s gonna be okay. You hear me? You both are.”

Y/N wanted to say she believed it. Wanted to say something brave, something strong, but all she could do was focus on the rhythm of her mom’s thumb tracing circles behind her ear, grounding her through each contraction that cracked her open from the inside out.

When it was time to push, she dug her nails into her mom’s palm and screamed until her voice gave out. She felt the rush of terror when the doctor’s voice dropped lower, “Almost there. Come on, mama. She needs you.”

The world narrowed to the sound of her own heartbeat and her mother’s whisper, “Breathe. Breathe. She’s coming.”

Then the sudden, terrifying silence before the sharpest sound she’d ever heard, a thin, furious cry, like her daughter had clawed her way into the world just to prove she could.

They laid her tiny girl on Y/N’s chest, slippery, pink, a mess of clenched fists and scrunched eyes. The cord was cut, the monitors settled, and the doctors stepped back.

It was just them.

Y/N’s mom kissed her forehead so hard it stung. “You did it, baby. Look at her. Look at her.”

Y/N did. She traced her fingertip down the slick softness of her daughter’s cheek, her tiny lip quivering at the shock of air and light.

“I got you,” she breathed, voice wrecked but sure. “I got you. Always.”

The next morning, the world was quiet in that sterile hospital way, hushed footsteps in the hall, the squeak of cart wheels, the low beeping of machines that didn’t scare her anymore now that her baby was here, real and whole and breathing.

Y/N barely slept. She didn’t care. She lay propped up in the stiff bed, hospital gown loose on her shoulders, eyes tracing every tiny piece of the baby sleeping on her chest. Soft wisps of dark hair stuck to the damp curve of her neck. Her fists were still balled up under her chin like she was ready to fight the world again if it dared to take her away.

When dawn cracked through the blinds, a nurse came in and helped her ease out of bed for the first time, slow, careful, one arm bracing the little bundle against her chest while her mom fussed over the IV stand.

Y/N shuffled down the hallway, socks dragging on the polished floor. Her daughter stirred, making that sleepy, squeaky grunt she’d made all night. The nurse paused them by a little window where the summer sun spilled golden across the tile.

“You wanna try?” the nurse asked softly, nodding to the cluster of cushioned chairs they’d shoved against the wall for new moms.

Y/N swallowed. Her palms were sweaty where they cupped the back of her baby’s head. “Yeah. Okay. I want to.”

She sank into the chair, one arm crooked behind the baby’s tiny neck, trying to remember what the lactation nurse had shown her just hours before. How to angle her wrist, how to tuck the baby’s chin, how to breathe through the first sharp sting that made her eyes water.

It wasn’t easy, the latch was awkward, her arm was going numb, and the raw edge of pain made her grit her teeth until her baby figured it out. But then it eased. Warm, gentle, so natural it almost scared her how right it felt.

Her mom hovered close by, rubbing circles between her shoulders. “She’s doing good,” she whispered. “You’re doing good.”

Y/N’s eyes blurred again, tears or exhaustion or something bigger. She bent her head down, pressing her lips to the baby’s soft temple, breathing in the newness that smelled like powder and her own heartbeat.

The baby pulled back for a second, tiny face scrunched up, mouth open like she was ready to yell about it all over again. Y/N laughed, a soft, cracked sound that spilled into her daughter’s hair.

“Okay, okay,” she murmured. “You win, little one.”

Her mom knelt beside her chair, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek. “So…does she have a name yet?”

Y/N looked down at her daughter, this fierce, tiny fighter who’d come early, who’d made her fight too, who’d arrived screaming like she’d never be small or silent for anyone.

“Alana,” Y/N whispered. The name slipped out easily, like it’d always been hers. “Her name’s Alana.”

Her mom’s smile crumpled at the edges, eyes wet above her mask. “Alana. That’s perfect, baby. She’s perfect.”

Y/N kissed the soft crown of Alana’s head, feeling the tiny fists relax against her skin. Outside, the sun climbed higher, flooding the hallway with warm light that made everything seem new.

She stayed there for a while, rocking gently, humming under her breath as Alana drifted in and out of sleep against her chest, the softest weight she’d ever carried. She didn’t think about Twitter. Or Joe. Or the check she hadn’t touched yet, beyond stashing it somewhere safe. For that hour, it was just them, mother and daughter, breathing in time.

But the world never stayed quiet for long.

It started with a blurry picture. Somebody caught a glimpse of Y/N shuffling down the corridor in her oversized socks, Alana tucked under her chin, her mom trailing close behind. By the time Y/N made it back to her room, the photo was already on Snapchat. Then a local gossip account. Then LSU Twitter, which could never mind its own business for long.

And just like that, the secret was fully gone. “Somebody check on the Bengals lmaooooo” “Your king got a newborn he won’t claim. MVP of what?”

By mid October, NFL Twitter latched on with the same ferocity they always saved for petty drama. Joe’s rookie season wasn’t living up to the fairy tale, the team was bad, the line was worse, and the hits piled up on him week after week. Now, every shaky start, every turnover, every sack had turned into a meme.

“Maybe if he spent less time ghosting his kid…” “Karma working overtime for Joey B this year.” “Imagine playing behind that line and getting cooked by your baby mama. Whew.”

Y/N didn’t feed it. She didn’t subtweet or clap back or add fuel to the fire. She just scrolled late at night, Alana pressed warm to her chest, her tiny breath steady as a drumbeat against her skin.

Sometimes she’d catch herself laughing, bitter but honest at the mess he’d made for himself. She hadn’t done this to him. She’d done everything but drag his name through the mud. He’d chosen silence, the check, the ghosting. He’d made his bed.

Now the whole world got to watch him lie in it.

Alana fussed in her sleep, a soft coo pulling Y/N’s attention away from the bright, messy world inside her phone. She closed the app, thumb hovering over all the pings she’d ignore until morning. She bent her head, kissed the crown of Alana’s head again, the softest promise that this part, this piece, was still just theirs.

The days after the hospital blurred together in sticky heat and the soft, sleepless fog that came with a newborn. Y/N moved back in with her family for a while, half because her tiny apartment near campus was no place for a baby who still woke up screaming every three hours, half because her mom needed to see her, to hold her, to hover in the doorway at 2AM with a bottle or a blanket she insisted was softer than the last one.

The house felt smaller now, every counter cluttered with bottles, tiny socks draped over the laundry line, Alana’s wails echoing through the same halls where Y/N had stomped in cleats after doubleheaders and thrown her glove down when she struck out looking.

She tried to hold herself together. She really did. But postpartum came like a brick through the window.

Classes called her back. Deadlines she couldn’t dodge. Credits she needed to finish if she was ever going to claim that extra year the NCAA grudgingly gave her. Her coach’s voice in her inbox every week, gentle but firm "We want you back. When you’re ready."

So she packed a week’s worth of sweatshirts and textbooks and shoved a framed photo of Alana into the pocket of her duffel. She left her daughter in her mother’s arms that first Sunday night, kissed the tiny cheek she’d memorized in the dark, and drove herself back to a half assed campus that felt wrong without the warm weight of her baby on her chest.

At first she told herself she was fine. Just busy. Just tired. She stacked her days with practice when she could. She booked late night hitting sessions in empty cages. She took private pitching drills just to feel her own pulse somewhere other than her throat.

But alone in her dorm room at night, the little cot in the spare room Coach got her just off the locker room, she’d lie flat on her back and watch the cheap ceiling tiles blur above her. Her phone would buzz with photos her mom sent, Alana bundled in a pumpkin onesie for her first Halloween. Alana squealing at her uncle Eli’s goofy grin. Alana reaching for the camera with fists that didn’t know how to let go yet.

Y/N would swipe through them in the blue glow of her phone until her chest cracked open with guilt and want. She’d close her eyes and pretend she could smell the soft baby shampoo she’d tucked into her daughter’s diaper bag before she left.

It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

So one night, after a brutal night session in the cages, her palms raw, her arm dead, she sat on the scuffed dorm floor, back against the cinder block wall, phone heavy in her hand. She opened her camera roll and scrolled until she found the one she’d saved for someday.

Y/N’s thumb hovered over Share for a long time. She thought about the gossip. The DMs. The sports pages waiting to twist it up into "Burrow’s Baby Mama Speaks Again."

But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about him. It was about her. About the piece of herself she was done hiding for someone else’s comfort.

She selected a simple picture, not showing her face, just showing her love for Alana.

Caption: My whole world.

She hit Post. Tossed her phone onto her mattress. Let the flood come this time, the likes, the questions, the people trying to stitch her life back to Joe’s in the comments.

None of it mattered. Not here, not now, not while she lay back, eyes drifting shut, and pictured her baby’s soft fist resting against her heart.

Y/N didn’t bother muting her phone this time. She watched it blow up in real time, curled sideways on her narrow dorm bed with her textbooks scattered around her legs.

“IS THIS HIS KID OR NOT???” “Joe Burrow’s baby mama finally showing the baby 👀” “Bro fumbled both on the field and off LMAOOOO.”

Y/N didn’t say a word. She didn’t owe them a word. She texted her mom instead: Tell Eli no more tweets about it, please. I mean it.

When November came, Baton Rouge turned cold and wet. Alana’s first real winter, at least what passed for winter in the South. Y/N still drove home on weekends when she could swing it, exhausted from practice, her arms sore, her eyes gritty from all nighters at the library.

She’d creep in the back door at 2AM, drop her bag by the dryer, and stand over Alana’s crib just to watch her chest rise and fall. Sometimes she’d scoop her up and breathe her in, the baby shampoo, the soft hiccup sigh she made when she settled back to sleep on her mama’s shoulder.

Meanwhile, Joe’s world was falling apart in plain sight.

It happened in late November, right after a bye week when half the city had convinced itself he’d finally find a groove. A bad snap, a bad step, a hit that folded him wrong. Y/N saw it the same way everyone did, through a clipped replay on ESPN while she waited for her protein shake at the training table.

The moment his knee buckled, the commentators fell silent. The crowd in the highlight reel sucked in a breath so loud you could almost feel it through the screen.

ACL. MCL. Done for the year. The news broke before they even loaded him into the cart.

Y/N watched the clip loop once. Twice. Three times. Joe clutching his knee, helmet off, jaw clenched against the pain while trainers hovered around him like he was glass.

"Did you see???" "Crazy karma huh??" "You watching this??"

She turned it over face down. Pushed her shake away half finished.

She didn’t want him hurt. God, not really. But there was something cold and final about seeing him laid out like that, a prince fallen off the pedestal everyone had built for him, the same pedestal he’d used to pretend she and Alana didn’t exist.

She went to practice that night and threw until her shoulder burned, ignoring the trainers telling her to ice it. When she got back to her dorm, she picked up her phone and scrolled through all the Burrow updates, the reporters outside the hospital, the Bengals fans in meltdown, the prayers and the hot takes and the poor Joe pity she knew so well.

Outside, November rain hit the window in steady taps. Inside, Alana’s soft breathing played on loop in her mind, her daughter who didn’t know or care about ACLs or ESPN or Twitter threads.

Y/N lay back on her bed, sore arm draped over her eyes, phone buzzing on her chest. She didn’t tweet. She didn’t comment. She just let it hum, the noise of a world she no longer owed anything.

But what was worse? The postpartum fog, it always hit hardest on the weekends, the only time she got to be Alana’s mom in full color again. She’d drive home in the rain, half asleep on the wheel, blasting old playlists to keep herself awake. Walk in through the back door, bags slung on both shoulders, heart pounding with that first hit of baby smell she’d missed all week.

But it was never like she pictured.

Alana would be fussing in her mama’s arms, tiny fists batting at a bottle Y/N didn’t know she’d switched to. Or her hair would be different, brushed out in little curls she hadn’t been there to wash. Or she’d reach for Y/N’s mom first, not her.

It stung every single time.

And when Y/N tried, she fumbled. Put the diaper on backward. Warmed the bottle too much so Alana spit it all back up down her front. Tried to rock her to sleep the same way she did at the hospital, but Alana didn’t want that anymore, not when Grandma’s arms were right there and familiar and warm.

By Sunday night, Y/N would crawl back into the driver’s seat, cheeks raw from crying in the shower so no one heard, throat tight around all the things she’d never admit out loud, "You’re not enough. You’re doing it wrong. You’re missing it all."

One night in December, it got too heavy. She sat in the driveway outside her mama’s house, car engine quiet while the baby monitor flickered blue inside the window. Eli’s truck was parked behind hers, home for the winter break, the big MLB contract keeping him on the road nine months out of the year but always dragging him home when she needed him most.

He knocked on her window before she even got the courage to open the door.

“You been out here twenty minutes,” he said when she cracked it. “You okay, Shorty?”

She laughed, but it caught in her throat. “I’m fine. Just…thinking.”

He climbed into the passenger seat anyway, big shoulders squeezing against the armrest and the side of the seat, his baseball cap tossed in the back. He smelled like winter air and old glove leather.

“You ain’t fine,” he said, softer now. “Talk.”

She tried to bite it back. Swallowed it once. Twice. But when she looked at him, big brother, part hero, part pain in her ass since she was eight, it split her open like nothing else could.

“It’s like… every time I come home, she’s different,” she whispered, staring at her hands in her lap. “Like I blink and she’s got a new sound or a new face. I do everything wrong, E. I forget what she likes. I hold her wrong. She cries when I pick her up. She don’t even want me sometimes, she wants Mama. I’m her mom, and she don’t even know it.”

Eli sucked his teeth, knuckles drumming on the dashboard. “You think that’s true? Really? You think she doesn’t know who you are?”

“I feel like-” Her throat closed up again. She forced it open. “I feel like I left her. Like I’m here and there and nowhere all at once. And when I’m here, I suck at it. She deserves better than a mom who can’t even figure out a damn bottle, Eli.”

He didn’t rush her. Didn’t say something soft and sweet like their mama would. He just leaned over, hooked his arm around her neck, and knocked his forehead against hers like they were kids again in the dugout waiting for her games to start.

“You know what she got?” he said, voice low. “She got you. She got that baby picture you keep on your phone. She got your damn heartbeat every time you look at her like you’d kill the whole damn world if it looked at her wrong. She got you. And you got her. Ain’t nothing you can mess up so bad she won’t know that.”

She felt it break then, the fear, the guilt, the ache she’d been dragging around since the day she kissed Alana goodbye that first Sunday night. It cracked her ribs open in the quiet warmth of Eli’s grip.

She pressed her forehead harder into his. “You swear she knows me?”

Eli snorted, squeezing the back of her neck like he did when she hit a home run. “Man, you her whole damn world. Same way she yours. Now get your ass inside before Mama comes out here barefoot yelling about pneumonia.”

She laughed. Really laughed. Wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Then she climbed out, slammed the door behind her, and walked up the steps where she knew Alana was waiting, soft fists, warm milk breath, and all the proof she’d ever need that she was enough.

The next morning cracked open with the sun glimmering through the thin curtains. Y/N woke up to Alana’s tiny squeals on the baby monitor, the bright, breathy little giggles she’d started to make now that she was strong enough to push up on her own.

She padded barefoot down the hallway, hair tied up in a lopsided bun, sleep still crusted at the corners of her eyes. In the living room, her mama already had Alana propped on a quilt on the floor, bright toys scattered around her little fists.

“Look who’s up,” her mom said, voice gentle but proud. “She’s waiting on you.”

Alana kicked her chubby legs, face splitting into that gummy grin that made every piece of Y/N’s chest break open in the best way.

“Hey, baby girl,” Y/N cooed, dropping to her knees by the quilt. “Look at you! Tummy time champ today, huh?”

Alana made a squeal so loud it bounced off the window, then pushed up on her tiny forearms with all the determination in the world, chin wobbling, fists digging into the fabric, eyes locked right on Y/N’s face like there was no place else she’d rather look.

Y/N bent down, kissed her soft temple, breathed in that warm baby scent that smelled like powder and dreams and everything she’d done right.

“See?” her mama said behind her, half laughing. “She knows who her mama is. Always did.”

For a few hours, that was all that mattered. They stayed there, Alana squealing and drooling on her quilt, Y/N propping up a phone to record it, her mom humming in the kitchen like they had all the time in the world.

But peace never lasted long. Not with him.

Y/N’s phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. A new number at first, Ohio area code. She knew better than to pick up the first time. Or the second. But on the third ring, instinct got the best of her.

“Hello?” She kept her voice flat, eyes still on Alana, lifting her tiny head off the quilt like she was showing off.

“Y/N.” Joe’s voice came through clipped, rushed. She could hear the echo, though.

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched her daughter push up higher, grunt, and faceplant back down with a tiny, proud yell.

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

A pause. Then his sigh, so familiar, so annoyed, it made her skin crawl. “I wanna see her. I’m trying, okay? I want to be in her life.”

Y/N snorted, hand braced on the floor. “You want a cookie for that, Joe?”

He sighed once again on the other end, she could hear it. “Don’t do that. She’s my daughter too.”

“You sure about that?” Her laugh was sharp, cold. “Because last I checked, your name’s not even on the goddamn birth certificate as her bio father.”

Silence. She heard the rustle, him running a hand through his hair, or pacing like he did when he didn’t get his way.

“That’s not fair,” he said finally, voice low. “You didn’t even tell me when you filled it out.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you wanted nothing to do with her?” She could feel her pulse spike, that old anger creeping up her throat. “You told me to give her up, Joe. Did you forget that part? Because I didn’t.”

“That was before I knew-”

“Before you knew what? That I wouldn’t stay quiet? That people might find out you’re not perfect?”

He hissed something under his breath, a curse maybe. “I’m trying now. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Y/N’s laugh was all teeth. She leaned over and picked Alana up, felt that soft warmth melt into her chest like armor he couldn’t touch.

“It counts for nothing,” she snapped. “She’s not your press stunt. She’s not a clean up job for your reputation. She’s mine. She’s staying mine. You don’t get to swoop in when it’s convenient and pretend you did shit for her.”

“You can’t keep her from me.” He was cold now, that frat boy tone gone, replaced by the certain voice she’d seen him use on reporters when they pushed him too hard.

“Watch me.”

She hung up. Let the phone fall down into the carpet.

In her arms, Alana squirmed, fists bumping against her collarbone, warm and alive and hers. Y/N bent her head, kissed her daughter’s soft hair, and whispered so low only the baby heard it, “I'm always going to be here baby."

[heyydolly]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 11: Invocation

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burow.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

_____________________________________

“Should I switch gloves?”

Joe blinks up at the question after getting the last of his laces tight around his foot. Chase stands in front of him, hands slipped into a pair of gloves already. Yet, the man carries a second pair in his hand—the pair Chase has on are a light gray white mix. The second unworn pair is nearly a solid black, aside from some white trimming. Aside from the color, nothing else sets the pairs of gloves apart. Not even the brand is different.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re nervous.”

Chase huffs at the tease. “You’re the one that managed to get a god to come out from the heavens, so I’m just trying to make sure I don’t make an ass out of myself in front of Trey.”

Trey’s agreement to come to a practice shocked even Joe. When his phone rattled against the coffee table, Joe assumed it was Marlowe. He paused the footage he’s seen a thousand times before of Trey—knee wrapped and barreling down field mid stride crossing the 45 yard line—preparing for either the most gut wrenching text message like Marlowe’s text about the day Malia died, or for the sweetest thing he could imagine, like the text he’d gotten a couple days ago of two ducklings waddling around in a bookstore with the singular word caption, Us. August was proving to be a more lethal opponent than Joe originally accounted for. 

However, when Trey’s contact looked up at Joe, Joe swore his inhale personally wanted to take him out, catching at the sides of his esophagus. If that invitation is still on the table, I think I’d like to visit a practice. A careful and measured message. One that Joe knew he could not fumble with red tape and bullshit. Though their public practices were done for the preseason schedule, there were still a few ticketed and member only events. Joe immediately reached out to handle Trey’s visit personally, to ensure there would be no problems. So far, nothing has gone awry and Joe needs it to stay that way.

The thing is that Joe’s not naive to think it was his invitation alone that sealed the deal at all. Joe is more than positive the gentle shake of Marlowe’s head, her soft but clearly firm insistence that Trey think about visiting was the thing that tipped the scales over. Given the way Joe’s seen Trey interact with Korey, it doesn’t come as a total shock that Trey might be a small bit of a push over when it comes to his daughters. That they’d somehow always managed to get the things they wanted, within reason Joe assumes, with little resistance. 

And it didn’t take long for news of Joe’s invitation to hit like wildfire in the locker room. Whispers, glances, the flurry of odd questions—like if gloves should be switched. Trey’s return into the football realm would certainly not be quiet if this one visit is any indication. All this leaves Joe, here, pushing up from his chair and slapping a hand onto Chase’s shoulders. “We go out there and practice like we always do. That’s all you have to do,” Joe offers. 

“It’s not just practice.”

“It really is just practice.” 

Joe knows it sounds a little silly because it’s not lost on him that with the reporters, the cameras, Trey’s visit means something is changing. What is changing none of them but the tides are shifting. And it’s much too narrow focused to say it’s not, but the thing the team can’t afford to do is get unraveled. Though this is the preseason and it’s great reps for the rookies and newer players, practices are the space for the more seasoned players to stay razor sharp. That’s the priority over everything. 

“Never rattled,” Chase laughs. “I’m going to stick with my old tried and true.” The sentence is paired with the shake of Chase’s gloved left hand—the pair he’s already slipped into. 

“Solid plan.”

The walk from the locker room to the field isn’t obscenely long, but long all the same with an echoing of the spikes on the bottom of his cleats against the concrete. Joe knows he’s early to the field, accounting for a few extra seconds to be mindful of his calf. It’s not an ache that worried him, but the dull kind of pull that plagued Joe every so often, reminded him to be careful as well as smart—his reasoning for the compression sleeve he dawned earlier this morning. The sleeve is just a precaution, something he hadn’t needed often, but risking serious injury is not something Joe wants to chance even in this early period—one preseason game under their belt meant that the regular season was one step closer to them.  

The sun is bright, bounces mercilessly off the ground. He should be better prepared for it. The weather was supposed to be rather clear—or at least that’s what Joe’s check to the weather app when he woke told him. And yet, there’s something brutal to the edge of the light each time Joe crosses out into it. Joe squints and drops his head a little with a grumble leaving his lips, “This sun is ridiculous.”

A rumbled bout of deep laughter erupts from his left. “And you’re telling me. You took long enough.”

Joe looks up, sun shielded for a moment by Joe’s own hand to spot Trey, coming up with an escort. There’s a buzzing murmur as the people at the queue start to spot Trey. Joe’s sure there’s a camera somewhere in the crowd already recording the moment. “Thought you’d still be on the tour,” Joe laughs, reaching out for the quick exchange—hand clasped around Trey’s into the brief hug before they both take a step back.

“I’m not too concerned about the office space or locker rooms. A simple man at the end of the day.” Trey nods up towards the practice field. 

“Did you see the playing field at least?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did. Thanks again for this.”

“Of course. Just glad you accepted.”  

There’s not quite a full step, just the hazard of one—a lifted foot maybe, the turn of a shoulder. But that's all it takes before the apprehension paints Trey’s face. A man like Trey can hide, has probably learned throughout his years when and where to express himself, but a man like Joe can see. Trey is scared. But not like men scared of something that they’ve been sort of prepared for. It’s the kind of terror that children have, for something that’s haunted them—like Joe used to be scared of the dark, mind playing tricks about what lurks for him in the shadows. Joe still can’t imagine what it’s like to have football ripped from him like Trey did, the kind of heartache for a sport that means everything. It sounds a little dramatic, Joe would agree with that. But to guys like them the field is all they’ve ever known, all they’ve ever wanted to know.

“It was everything, you know?” The confession comes softly, caught wet in Trey’s throat. His eyes glisten with the tears that thread around his words. 

There’s no need to say more. Because Joe and Trey are mirrors, not foiled against each other because of their positions but side by side because of their passion and dedication for the sport. 

“I know,” Joe whispers in return.  Trey is more than just a past legend—he’s the father to Marlowe and Malia, a husband to Regina, the son to his mother, PopPop to Korey. Trey is so much bigger than a singular moment in a sport. But football is the one thing that mattered to Trey that existed solely for him. “We still got some time,” Joe offers quietly as he can, “before we have to head up. Whenever you’re ready.” 

More cleats echo behind them. Joe’s teammates aren’t as subtle as they like to think they are, as they whisper to each other. But in the two feet or so between Joe and Trey, there is a bubble of understanding that no one dares to interrupt. Trey loves the sport so much. He shares it with this grandkid, draws the plays for her. The kind of love and admiration that not just anyone can come by. Joe just wants Trey to have that tiny piece back. Even if it’s only for a couple hours. 

Trey’s inhale is deep—seemingly fills his entire chest. “I thought about coming back sooner. Maybe. Especially once it seemed like Mars was steady on her feet with her business. And then it all just sort of crumbled. Lia, then my mom. Felt like I was losing everything that had kept me tethered.” 

“I can understand.” In the vaguest sense of the phrase of course. Joe understands it in the way that everyone understands death. How it comes for everyone, how it leaves wreck and ruin. An understanding that’s rather hollow, but still, it’s an understanding nonetheless. 

“Mars convinced me to come. I was going to chicken out.”

Thank God for her, Joe thinks to himself. He nods all the same to Trey’s statement. “I’m glad she did.”

“I’m not so sure if I am or not.” The tease comes with a sniffle and a quick swipe at his cheeks.

“I think you know better than I do about Marlowe’s power of persuasion.” 

“She can be rather convincing. In a very strange way. I believe her direct quote was, ‘Do you want Lady Day and Malia to descend down and take you to that practice themselves or do you need another kind of sign?’ It sounds less intimidating now but she did have a skillet in her hands at the time, from doing the dishes, so.”

Joe exhales his laughter as he pictures it now—the two of them in the kitchen. Marlowe at the sink, pan in hand, one brow arched, her hawk-like gaze sharp and pointed. “I think I would’ve just agreed then too.”

“I think anyone would have.” 

Joe nods up towards the field. The last wave is coming, the click of the cleats counting down the last remaining moments. There’s a shake and rattle above too—coaches and staff dragging the equipment into the proper places.  “Ready?”

“I hope so.” But without another word, Trey turns, and starts up, one step at a time. 

Joe stays at Trey’s side—the silence between them is neither thick nor uncomfortable, just palpable, a weight that Joe finds himself carrying with Trey even when their paths must diverge. Trey needs to follow the escort to the seating area and Joe knows he has to go to the field. It’s only a nod that they part ways with—a small yet understood movement. 

“That’s still insane,” Ja’Marr heaves out between breaths. The 11-on-11 drill has them all quietly winded, the heavy breathing of exertion that means lungs are in overtime, plays read, coverages spotted, legs pumping to get down field. “I ain’t even a running back but that man got me with my back straight as fuck.”

Ja’Marr nods up towards the spot Trey is seated now—high up above everyone else. It makes him stand out. Previously, the last time Joe really paid attention an hour ago, Trey settled into the side of the crowd, clearly a part of it and still on the edges. Now, Trey watches, elbows on knees with a gaze hotter and sharper than the sun beating down on them. Briefly, Joe considers if he should’ve brought the sunscreen from his bag to the field. He got it based on Marlowe’s mention of the brand a couple weeks ago; the purple can was rather easy to spot on the shelf after a quick Google search to know what to look for. 

Joe’s thought doesn’t last long before the whistle blows again and Joe drops his gaze from the perch Trey is on. “I heard a few of the rookies shit themselves,” Joe offers around a laugh. 

“I’m about to shit myself,” Tee adds in, hands on hips before he shuffles a step towards the line of scrimmage. “If not because of Trey, it’s gon’ be because this man,” Tee nods over to Joe, “hit me in my chest again.”

Joe’s last throw did have a bit more heat on it than he necessarily wanted, but Joe was not about to have another wobbly pass. “It got there, didn’t it?”

“And damn near took out a fucking lung.”

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Tee laughs, head shaking. “Yeah, cuz it ain’t yo’ lung.”

The sweat stings when it slips down into Joe’s eye. He blinks, taking the hand towel tucked into his waistband, to collect droplets. The helmet is hot, nothing changes that, not even the last shrill of the whistle to signal the end of practice. The practice jersey clings to him, lets him know that he has put in the work. Thankfully, Joe hasn’t run into issues with his calf either during practice and he assumes too that once he strips out of the sleeve it’ll be slick and sticky with sweat too. 

“Yo, he’s still here too?” 

Joe doesn’t catch whose voice it is, just the question as the groups break apart at the end of their huddles. Still up high is Trey, still bent forward, still has his elbows resting on his knees. But it doesn’t look like Trey’s watching them individually, eyes focused in their direction but unseeing. Or maybe Trey is seeing, analyzing, keeping himself sharp. Joe’s not sure and finds himself hazarding a step until a voice calls out his name. 

“Burrow, still want those extra reps?” 

Joe turns to the sound of his coach and nods. “Quick five?”

“Yeah, take it!”

It’s not a terribly long distance but Joe pauses on his way towards Trey at Chase’s side. “Glad you stuck with the normal ones?” The run plays have been damn near perfect during practice, an execution of the likes Joe’s truly only seen in games and then some. 

Chase laughs at the tease. “Yeah, I mean, it was just a normal practice, right?”

“Exactly right.” With a firm pat to Chase’s shoulder, Joe continues on, crosses over the grass helmet still hanging from the curl of his fingers. It’s not until he’s mere feet from Trey, that Joe identifies the look in Trey’s eyes, a pure kind of awe pulled down at the edges with something that almost feels gut wrenching. 

“Glad Marlowe convinced you to come yet?”

“Jury’s still out. But I think so. Still hurts though. That it’s not me. I think the decades would’ve made it impossible sooner rather than later.”

Joe settles one row below Trey on the bleachers, angled he’s straddling the metal between his legs. “You were still pretty young then,” he counters, shielding his eyes again from the white hot sun, a brightness that stings more than his own sweat. 

“I was closing in on thirty by then. Ancient in football years.”

Joe hisses, rubbing a hand over his chest. “Some of us are nearing that same mark for what it’s worth.”

Trey’s laughter is short and he shakes his head, gaze zeroing in on Joe. “Forget you’re younger than Mars. But we can be honest about it, how fast it catches up. You see it, just as much I did.”

Joe can only nod. There’s always conversation about length of playing careers, that everyone comes in with high hopes but Trey’s a stark reminder that hope only gets them so far. Luck is a radio station every player is tuned into, praying their call actually goes through. Hard work and dedication play a role. But there is always a little bit of luck in the mix each time—calls going in favor of you. Joe never lets that piece outweigh his own responsibility. But no one wants to be a rising star burnt out too soon. And no one’s ready for when the pads are too heavy to put on in the same way. 

“You guys look good today,” Trey comments, voice above a whisper but not loud enough to carry past where Joe sits. 

“Every guy out there was shitting bricks today.”

“Because?”

“Of you,” Joe answers, a nod in Trey’s direction is added to emphasize his point. “You can’t tell anyone I told you this but I definitely had a couple guys ask me if they should change gloves in the locker room, nerves like I’ve never really seen before.”

“Nah, you’re just saying that.” It comes with another round of laughter, another shake of Trey’s head too. 

“I don’t just say anything. How long are you staying for? Today, I mean?”

“Not really sure. Kind of want to soak it all in. But I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think my five minutes is up, but if you want to stay, stay. If anyone asks, you rode with me.” Joe shrugs as he stands and just below there’s a small circle forming, a cluster of the guys who glance up at the bleachers. “Should I keep the hoard at bay?”

Trey risks a glance too. “Tell ‘em I’ll be down in a second.”

“Will do. Take your time with it though.”

“Thanks, Joe.” 

The gratitude drips so sincere Joe thinks his hands become sticky with it and not from the heat. Joe doesn’t consider himself necessarily great at these moments, though it’s easy to understand here that Joe doesn’t need to be an expert—they both just need to be human. And oh how human are they, refracting pieces of each other back. Not a perfect image, some edges are wrapped and warped, but it is real to know that there is a piece of old and a piece of new tethering in the moment. 

“You’re welcome, Trey.” The cleats click as Joe works his way back down the steps, one set of click-clacks at a time, until he’s back on the field. “Give him a minute,” Joe alerts the group and then continues on, his focus turning solely to the work in front of him—the dawning season.

Back in the locker room, the nervous buzz of Trey’s visit turns into an excited chatter of, “I cannot believe he complimented my play. He looked me in my eyes and said that shit. Swore I was gon’ die,” and, “Didn’t he tell you he’d be watching? Oh we gotta lock the fuck in—y’all hear me?” meeting with, “I swear I’d kill for just five more minutes to pick his brain.” It’s a rain of the comments, excited and awe full around them—the childhood giddy pure and simple to have a hero notice them. A moment that Joe keeps tucked close in his chest and next to the same moment he first met Trey, the kind of moment that Joe’s sure he can never forget as he takes in the tired smiles around the room. 

Those smiles are the kind that linger long after the moment is gone. Even as Joe stretches out on his couch, controller in hand for a quiet evening, one ear out from the headset, the echo of the moment still rings in his ears. His evening—quiet aside from the clicking of his controller and the spattering of fake gunfire in his ear, sounds that don’t quite ease his longing for the sounds of Marlowe’s voice—settles into the achingly similar routine: his day done early and he knows Marlowe probably isn’t home. And even once she is home, she’s going to prioritize Korey for the time being and dinner. And then closer to 8:30 or so, after Korey’s tucked away in her bed, his phone will ring. Yet, all the while, Joe would have to wait. 

Except Joe notices that when his phone brightens first and then buzzes against the coffee table. Marlowe’s name lights up more than just the screen too, his own lips tugging up and across his face. It’s 7 in the evening, or a little past it. Joe doesn’t read the time fully. Just enough to see it’s earlier than normal. The stretch is immediate, Joe’s gaze flickering between the TV screen and his phone. 

“Hi, Marlowe.” The smile in his voice is evident to Joe as he answers the FaceTime call. 

“Hi, Joe. It looks like I might be interrupting.” 

Joe shakes his head. “This match is just about done, actually.” 

“I can call back.”

“No. You don’t need to do that. Tell me about your day? I’m not doing much this game anyway.” His statement is proven true as Joe fails to duck behind cover in enough time as the screen shakes a violent red, the cracks and splatters further iterating the faux bullets his character is being riddled with. Though the frustration bubbles for a moment as the clumsiness of his fingers, Joe grins as he glances back down to his phone. 

“Did he cry? Dad won’t tell me.”

Joe laughs. “I’m not doing that to my man. I can’t.”

“So he did cry. Just as I suspected.”

“No, no, I didn’t answer.”

“No, you answered, Joe. You answered.”

Joe thumbs at his controller again, trying to dodge out of the way as he holds the highlighted blue circle for the round of capture the flag. There’s really no way not to answer the question. Joe’s desire not to answer gives it away. But still, at the very least he’d have plausible deniability. He didn’t answer outright. At least, Joe would be able to say that much. “That’s not answering my question. Your day, how’d it go?”

There’s a rustle, sounds like bags that are being set down. And ever so faintly, Joe catches Korey’s voice. “Auntie! Auntie! Did you get it? Did you get it?”

“Yes, bug. I got the cookie mix for tomorrow. Do you want to say hi to Joe?”

Joe looks back down to the screen to catch Korey’s enthusiastic wave—blurry a little as she waves so rapidly that the shutter speed of the lens is barely keeping up with the movement. “Hi, Joe!”

“Hi, Korey,” he laughs back in greeting.  

“We’re going to make cookies!”

“Yeah? What kind?” Joe questions in return, eyes darting back up to the TV as his controller shakes.

“Snickerdoodle!”

“Oh, that’s a solid choice there. I like that plan.” 

“Have you had them before?” Korey asks. 

The timer for the match steadily rolls down, Joe watches 30 become 29. 29 becomes 28. 28 becomes 27. But he risks another glance back to Korey on the screen as he nods. “Yeah, I have. I think you’ll like them.”

“I’m excited.” Now that he would’ve never guessed. But he lets himself laugh again, the final results of the match fill up the screen—his time winning but not by much and certainly not by Joe’s assistance either. “I’ll save you one, Joe. The second best one.”

“Thanks, Korey. I appreciate it.” 

A more distant voice raises from the background but everyone catches the sound of Korey’s name from the call. Marlowe’s line goes quiet for a moment, a whisper of something being said that Joe can’t hear, but he swears he catches Regina’s voice. “Yes, ma’am,” Korey calls back. Definitely Regina’s voice then, he concludes, as he slips the headset completely off his head. Joe backs all the way to the main screen of the video game. “Bye, Joe!”

“Bye, Korey. Sleep well.”

“You too! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

The camera turns just as Joe lifts his phone into his hands and Marlowe shakes her head for a moment before speaking, “As you can see, she is very excited about these cookies.”

“Now I am too, if it means I’m getting one.”

“I will make sure you get it. And to answer your earlier statement—my day was fine. Went as expected.”

Joe hums, taking in the flicker in her gaze, nearly hidden by her slipping her earbuds in. Yet, he still feels something like a pull, weight that’s not heavy but it’s there. He wonders if it’s just the month—they are less than a week from Malia’s birthday now. Though Marlowe talked about being unsure if she could handle her sister’s birthday, Joe has a feeling she’s probably going to test that theory too. Marlowe props the phone up against something and starts placing items into the fridge and into cabinets. The kitchen lights are just as bright as usual, casting down over her shoulders. 

“Just fine?” Joe asks, hoping to get clarity. 

“Worried about Dad today, that’s all. He said it went better than expected but still, I know it was rough for him.”

Joe can’t speculate on how the visit went for Trey without leaving himself some cushion for error. But he would have to agree that it did seemingly go well, despite the slightly rocky start. “I know the guys enjoyed it. But Trey, he made it through pretty okay I’d say, wouldn’t let him go through something like that alone.”

“He got a little choked up when I asked too—that’s why I asked if he cried today at the practice. He’s a big guy, but he’s got soft insides now.”

“I mean all insides are technically soft,” Joe quips, slipping into the corner of the couch, back propped up against the pillows. The grin feels like it might as well be permanently etched into his cheeks when he’s with Marlowe, even if it’s just through a phone screen. 

The comment makes her laugh—a sharp guffaw before it descends into a fit of giggles. “You know what I meant.” 

He does, he knows exactly what she meant. But his chest blossoms with warmth, the sharp and loud burst of her laughter striking at the valves of his heart, pulling at the veins and arteries in a way that makes him ache down to his toes. “I love the way you laugh.” When Marlowe really laughs, like deep from her gut kind of laugh, it’s like she can’t control it, like it has to erupt from her lest it break her at the seams. It takes up space in a way unforgiving and bold. 

Marlowe turns from the camera, head shaking as she goes. Her shy smile is still evident even in her profile. And it reminds Joe of that fateful February day, when she shied away, head dropping like that could save her the embarrassment when he’d asked her to tell him how the dessert tasted. “I laugh so loud,” Marlowe whispers. 

A retort that Joe’s not sure what it’s supposed to be doing, like it could ever change his mind. “And I love it,” Joe returns, sure and sweet. 

“You can’t see this, but I’m blushing right now,” she huffs, meeting his gaze slowly. “I feel like my cheeks should be bright red right now.”

It’s his turn to laugh, a sound squeezed out of his own chest, the hood of his jacket brushing against his neck as he drops his head back for a second. Joe can see the shy smile, the soft curl of her lips. “I don’t see a flush, you’re right, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Anyways, before I get too flustered, how was your day?”

“Hmm,” Joe hums. His gut stirs, churns in a way that makes him want to start trouble. Marlowe’s shy, not in a way that she can’t handle her own in a conversation—her job undoubtedly demands that she be personable. But there’s a softer edge to her. There’s the Marlowe that seemingly only those close to her get to see. The Marlowe who gets flustered at the brush of a hand over her hip, who seemingly always has to linger in a kiss for a second longer even after it’s over. The Marlowe that only Joe gets to see. 

“Too flustered, now that’s a thought. I’m sure I’d love that too,” Joe tacks on, watching the shy smile deepen over her face as it scrunches up her nose. It’s damn near irresistible, the way he finds himself imagining how it’d feel to kiss the wrinkled skin, hold onto Marlowe’s hips and pull her in close so she can feel exactly what she does to him. 

“Joe.”

It’s only his name, but her voice breaks on the syllable just a little, low and desperate and God, Joe really wants to start something. It’s a warning, Joe knows that. He exhales, eyes shutting with the action. He can still picture her body in that bikini, still remembers how she curled into his chest, smelt divine against him. The fragrance, the intoxicating tincture of Marlowe lingered in his pillowcase for two days before it faded. Could he admit that the lingering smell made him hard both nights in a row? Should he be ashamed at how he used the smell threaded into the pillowcase to get off two nights in a row? 

She’s just gotten home, Joe reminds himself. Probably hasn’t even eaten dinner. “I’ll behave,” Joe whispers back to Marlowe. He doesn’t want to, but he will. The resolve is heavy in his chest, makes him feel only a tiny bit suffocated. 

“Thank you. Only until after I eat, okay?”

Joe nods at the request. Until after I eat isn’t the kind of phrase that others would find enticing. It’s not a sentence that would matter to Joe in any other circumstance. But it’s Marlowe who says it, who always utters every word like it matters. Joe tries to tell himself not to appear too eager, but he nods, head bouncing on his neck, and gives a small, “Yeah, okay.”

“Tell me about your day while I forage something together for dinner?”

“Forage?” Joe questions, brow quirking with the action. “No wonder Korey pulls out words like opinion at three years old.”

“She’s just smaller than you and I. She’ll have to learn eventually.”

“She’ll be a genius by age 7,” Joe quips. 

“She’ll beat you in chess by age 6.”

“Oh,” Joe huffs, placing a hand over his heart. “That’s a low blow. You never mentioned if you play or not?”

“I don’t know how,” Marlowe answers just as the fridge door hisses with its release. “Well, I should say I don’t remember much about how to play. Mom taught me at like 8? It was too much of a long game. I liked checkers better.”

“You have, like, the patience of a saint, and somehow, chess is too long?”

There’s a bag of something green in Marlowe’s hands before she goes back for a clear container. It looks like chicken, but Joe’s not entirely sure. “I have the patience for the things and people I like and care about. I’m sorry to say the most exciting thing about chess that I remember was the horse? He’s got a special name, right?” 

“The knight.”

“I thought so, but I was worried I’d be wrong.” More and more vegetables come out behind her initial haul from the fridge, before she shuffles over to the pantry doors and the thin wood rattles just a little as it’s pulled on from the background. 

“Is it a salad for dinner kind of day?”

“I need my veggies.” Marlowe says it softly. It’s the same soft cadence she uses with Korey. But it’s not a shock to Joe that even when Korey is not around, Marlowe’s adopted some habits that will not die. He doesn’t dare let himself that he’s worthy of such affections, the same kind of gentleness. But the thought does try to creep up, tries to sprout roots. It’s just a habit, right? Just a habit. But, oh, fuck, now Joe is thinking maybe some of it isn’t habit and it is something more. God, he hopes some of that is true. 

Marlowe pulls down a bowl before she continues on, “I was not feeling the baby carrots last night when I packed my lunch and took some grapes with me instead for lunch today. But I’m a little too full from how late I ate said lunch. And you won’t let me not have dinner, so salad.”

“Damn straight, I won’t. You’ve got to eat.”

Marlowe gestures around her, hands shaking to emphasize the point she made about all the work she’s doing right now in the kitchen. “Hence the salad, you nugget.”

Joe chokes on his laughter. “Nugget?”

“It’s the most PG insult at my disposal right now.” 

“I mean turd is right there,” Joe offers, “if you’re going to insult me.”

“I am above a poop based insult, Joe. I am classier than that. But I nearly called you Ritz, because you’re finally tan enough for it,” Marlowe counters. 

“Ritz? Like the cracker?” It is funny if that’s the case. Joe’s trying his best to hold back his laughter. It’s not that he doesn’t want Marlowe to know she does humor him. It’s that he’s trying to deflect and undermine her rather clever insult. Marlowe gives a single bob of her head as confirmation. “I am not white enough for that.”

“I don’t know.” Her brow raises, a knowing smile crosses those plush limps and it’s Joe’s undoing. Even before she speaks, Joe’s learned what the look means. “What do you call lollipops again?” she asks. 

“They’re suckers, because you suck on them!” Joe defends, one arm raising to emphasize the point. “It’s what everyone around here calls them.”

“Lollipops, my stink. They’re lollipops.”

“I am being insulted on all fronts. Called Ritz, now apparently, I stink. That’s it. I’m going to hang up now.” It’s a hollow threat. Both of them know it as they look at each other with that kind of knowing grins that are seconds from dissolving into sputters of laughter: Marlowe’s laughter sharp and loud and Joe’s laughter pushed out from his chest. 

It’s not lost on Joe that this is Marlowe’s first time using a pet name for him. Joe wouldn’t have chosen stink for the occasion. Yet, it makes his body tingle, a buzzing of heat that stretches from his face and neck down to the pads of his feet as he laughs. He wants to say something about it, wants to acknowledge it but his laughter’s turned breathy and all Joe can do is just revel in the sound of my stink. 

Marlowe recovers faster, her head shaking no. “You cannot hang up. Not before you tell me about your day.” 

Joe’s definitely not going to hang up knowing that there’s still the promise of something else just on the other side of Marlowe’s dinner too. It doesn’t even have to go far, Joe just wants enough of a taste to wet his tongue. He nods at Marlowe’s clear directive, that he’s not going to get off this phone until he tells her about his day. It’s not authoritative in the same way that feels condescending. But a gentle reassurance, the reaffirmation that Marlowe cares about him the same way he cares about her. 

“Practice was good. Most of the guys shit themselves knowing your dad was visiting and then the rest of the day was kind of the same, answered some emails, watched film, fucked around for a little bit, ate, played a few rounds, waited for you to call me.”

“Do you spend most of your day just waiting for me?”

Joe wouldn’t say most, not now anymore. “I intentionally set aside time for you, yes.” It has gotten easier, now that they are officially dating, now that Joe knows where they stand, he feels a bit more at ease when the lapses in the text conversations happen. Things are picking up for Joe too, his days are starting to fill out more but the constant thing Joe does look forward to is Marlowe. 

“There it goes, blush number two.” The chicken hits the pan with a sizzle after the sink stops rushing water over the collection of veggies.

“I’m now keeping a running tally, just so you know.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second, Joe. How’s your calf?”

Joe blinks at the question, knowing he hadn’t mentioned that to Marlowe a single time today. Not in a text—of which were only a couple throughout the day considering how much Joe preferred the FaceTime calls, or snagging her in the evenings now if both of them figured schedules far enough in advance. “Your dad tell you about the sleeve?” Joe asks. 

She nods, taking rather practice cuts into the tomatoes no hesitation as she splits them in half on the sharp edge. The red pieces fall with ease off her fingers into the bowl. Marlowe turns back to the pan, sliding the chicken around before she returns back to the cutting board, the cucumber up next on the chopping block. 

“It was just nagging me this morning. No issues with it though, not even as practice.”

“You feel okay on it? Steady?”

“Yeah, the sleeve was just a precaution.” 

“That’s good.” There’s a bit of relief in her voice, in the way the words fall it sounds Joe hears what she may not be letting on. 

“I’m trying to stay healthy. Take care of myself so I can play through the entire season. You don’t need to worry.”

“I just want you to know that if you need me, I will be there. No matter what I have going on.”

There’s a phone screen between, not to mention the miles, and the streets—though those are few in number. And yet, Marlowe’s gaze is still cutting. She stares down the screen like the hero in a film might do the barrel of a gun, unflinching, unbothered by what’s in front of them. Marlowe looks like she means it and every ounce of air it took to say the words.

Before Joe can find his mind again enough to respond, Marlowe’s turned, pulling the chicken off the heat and dumps it into a green and blue glazed bowl that the rest of her salad’s been assembled in. All he can do is blink, trying to take in the features of Marlowe, how she ensures to give a hug and a kiss to Korey one last time before she departs for bed. Marlowe then settles in at the kitchen counter over her bowl.

There's too much on Marlowe's plate for her to worry about Joe. She doesn’t need to drop anything for him, not right now. Yet, her words are simple and clear: If you need me, I will be there. Not a suggestion, not a hedge or hesitation. A vow. Will carries the allegiance, the commitment to the follow through that all Joe has to do is ask. 

Joe’s not one to consider himself capable of being rendered speechless. He has his moments where he doesn’t talk a lot, doesn’t care to say more than what’s necessary, but Marlowe’s words ring in his ear well after she’s washed her dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Even as they carry on the conversation, meandering around their favorite childhood shows and Marlowe quotes back to him nearly every single Spongebob reference he throws at her, Joe’s always got in the back of his mind how stern her words felt against his chest. Pressed into his flesh like they might be attempting to brand him. 

That is until Marlowe strips the graphic t-shirt off her shoulders and his mind goes blank, drinking in the sight of her emerald green bra. The cups have her tits pushed up high, almost spilling over but with just enough fabric to keep them in place. “Like you need another color to look gorgeous in,” Joe groans, pulling one of the pillows from behind him into his lap. Not that Marlowe’s even in the same house as him to see the erection in the slightest, or anyone else for that matter. But still, the desire stirs in his gut, bubbles in warning like a pot about to boil. 

“Which one is the first? I think I’m confused.”

“Oh, like we both don’t remember that red bikini,” Joe huffs. “And I don’t even like the color red, by the way. But on you, God damn, I’ve got to reconsider a few things.”

“What’s wrong with the color red?”

“On you, not a goddamn thing. Well, one, that it’s on you but that can be easily rectified by it being taken off.”

“You’re so—” the sentence is cut off by her tuft of laughter. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Marlowe, baby, you’re stunning. Excuse me for being just a little horny, okay? I don’t know what the fuck you do to me. It’s insane.”

“I’m assuming this is the trouble you were looking for then, huh?” 

Marlowe leans in a little closer and Joe can only stare, only watch the jiggle of her breasts. He gives a vigorous nod and doesn’t care in the slightest if it’s too eager either. “Yeah, just a little.”

But Marlowe’s better at this game than Joe anticipated. She takes a step back, tossing the shirt she had threaded in her grasps back to her bed and shimmies out of the pair of cargo pants. She peels herself out of the pants like it’s a secret, like trying to hide the rustle and rip of a fresh bag of chips—to reveal a matching set of panties. It’s not a lacy or otherwise a clearly intentional piece of lingerie. The bra and the panties both look like cotton from what Joe can put together from the screen. But he groans knowing that even in the most plain bra and panties, she has this kind of effect on him.  

Marlowe’s giggle is infectious though, a bright sound that swirls in Joe’s ears. “Joe, it’s not even exciting.” 

The sweatshirt starts to feel a little too warm, even as she shimmies herself into lounge shorts at the thin strap top, and it’s that realization that makes Joe swear he’s going to combust. The littlest of tastes and yet it’s still not enough. Joe knows what’s just beneath but he wants so much more. “I swear to God, you’re trying to kill me.”

“Actually, I was trying to sweat you out of that sweatshirt. I was just trying to see something. Alas, I missed my mark,” Marlowe teases as she brings the phone closer to one of her eyes. The angle is a little absurd as she over exaggerates the movement of her eye. It’s just silly enough that it should break the tension. And it does dissolve Joe into a fit of laughter, wheezing as he does. There’s still the simmer of desire though between them.

“I mean, I did get a little hot under the collar,” Joe emphasizes the point with the pull and push of the sweatshirt at his neck, the action pushing in some cooler air over his torso. 

“Excellent. We will add those to our previous findings.” 

“What? You got a file on me or something?”

“And if I do?”

“Guess, I ought to keep on my best behavior.”

Marlowe’s shrug attempts to hide what her smile can’t. “A little trouble sometimes is okay.” 

______________________

Joe’s up much too early for a Saturday. 

But the floral shop opens at 8 sharp. The florist was clear that he should come in at 8:30 sharp. His order of four bouquets would be ready exactly then. Joe’s not going to miss that window either. Not if he can help it. In the semi dark of a bright summer morning as it crests over the tops of the black out curtains, Joe’s phone is littered with messages from the late evening before and the night. Marlowe’s text at 6:20 am sits at the top. Good morning, handsome. Made it to the studio. It’s feeling like a two cups of coffee kind of day. Attached is a picture of Grumpy Cat. 

Joe’s alarm for 9 extra minutes ticks above his thumbs as he laughs at the attached picture. Though he starts to reply, he stops himself. Marlowe doesn’t know what Joe has planned. And he doesn’t want to ruin that either. So he sets a reminder instead—to text her back around the time he’s usually awake. 7:30 isn’t abnormal for Joe but he still worries he’s going to ruin it, that he’s going to say something that he shouldn’t. 

Joe clears away the snooze and by extension turns off the entire alarm, before he slips out of bed, feet pressed into the carpet of the bedroom to get ready for the day. Joe’s sure to keep his morning stretch routine too, knows that he needs to keep limber given that in another two days there’s another preseason game. The only thing that nearly hinders Joe in his morning plan, though, is a severe miscalculation of how many hands he has. He only has two of those.

Placing an order for in person pick up for four bouquets didn’t seem like a lot. Though, now, as he’s staring them down, part of him almost wishes he’d just slated them for delivery on the 18th, like he’d considered. It felt too impersonal, but the logistics of doing it himself had Joe warring with himself on if he should have them delivered on the 18th, or if he’d do it himself, knowing that it would be a cumbersome task with nailing the timing and whereabouts of everyone involved. Yet, Joe found himself still asking over the phone a couple weeks back, “I’d like to see before I finalize this order, if it could be made available for pick up by Saturday morning at the absolute latest? I’m more than willing to compensate for the rush.” 

So the decision was made for him, outside of his control even though it was him asking. The woman over the phone seemed more than happy to accommodate the request. Which all leads Joe here, with about three too many bouquets to juggle, but juggling them all the same. 

“I’ve got a box they’ll fit in,” the woman smiles from between the petals and leaves. “I figured better to be over prepared.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Joe laughs. 

She slips further into the back before returning with a tall box, taped and ready. It’s just wide enough for all four vases, some spare paper bags cut and wrapped around the glass to protect a much as possible. “That should do it. Just take it slow if you don’t have anyone else riding with you.”

Joe nods. “Will do. Thanks so much.”

“Of course. I hope whoever gets these enjoys them!”

Joe hopes that too. And with the box tucked safely to his chest, he turns back towards the door. As Joe approaches his car, he eyeballs if he’ll need to move the front passenger seat back anymore than it already is, considering it’ll be adjusted for the first time since Marlowe sat it in. “Next on the docket, get an SUV,” Joe mutters to himself as he eases the door open and spots that yes, in fact, he’ll need to slide the seat back just a hair to get the box onto the floor. 

Someone should have a decent all electric one with good safety ratings. It does mean potentially giving up one of the cars, though that’s not something Joe’s too upset about. One sports car is better than none, and a SUV where he knows he can safely transport Korey and Marlowe in, and lug around bulkier items is a plus. Joe will talk to his dad about it, see what he thinks about which company to purchase from. 

The traffic is rather light at 8:53 in the morning. Though, it is a tad safer to anticipate that much, considering it is a Saturday. There’s the buzzing of those who have the itch to get their days started early, but not yet a bustle of people on the streets. Joe’s not usually among the early morning crowd unless he has to be. Today’s not a has to, but it is a want to, which is damn near the same thing for Joe. 

Marlowe won’t be home. That much Joe knows, her delivery will be last with a caffeinated drink in hand as well for her. She’s a fan of chai’s and one of her favorite coffee’s shop is less than two miles from her studio space, a win-win for Joe in terms of navigating the city. Joe eases onto the brakes outside of her house and is relieved to see at least one car in the driveway. It doesn’t mean anyone is home, but given the time of day and day of the week, it does feel like a good sign. 

Joe’s careful with the box, holds it against his chest tight enough to keep the rattle to a near minimum. The walk from the edge of the street to the door is relatively short, but feels long as Joe’s praying that each clink isn’t his own undoing. Before he can finish ascending the last step, the front door eases open. Trey’s at the door, a smile dancing at his lips. Korey is in his arms, head tucked into his shoulder until she spots Joe—her head popping up like a tight spring finally released.

“Morning, Joe!” She greets, her tiny hand rapid in the wave, cutting off both Joe’s and Trey’s greeting to each other. 

“Good morning, Korey. You sleep okay?”

She nods. “Yes. I had a dream that I raced against my friend, Maggie, and she beat me. But she shared her popcorn with me. And I don’t know why there was popcorn. But we had it. It was good popcorn.”

“Oh, well that was nice of dream Maggie to share with you,” Joe offers, easing into the foyer and slipping out of his shoes. Even as the sentence leaves his mouth, Joe feels the internal cringe. Is that how he’s supposed to respond? It sounds like the kind of thing Marlowe would’ve said. Though, the affectionate bug would’ve been added as well no doubt.

“You’re a little lost, kid,” Trey teases. “Mars is already at her studio. You got the address or just put it in wrong?”

Joe follows behind into the kitchen, the box a bit more lax in his grip, but still gripped like Joe’s afraid it’s going to float away. And it’s only then, only as Joe eases the box into the kitchen island that he worries he’s overstepping. He just wants this to land well, to show that he cares. Just like he promised to Marlowe. 

His keys clatter against the top. The sounds punctuates the thick silence of their paused conversation. “Actually, that’s the next stop,” Joe answers. “Had to stop by here first.”

“Here?” Trey returns. 

The smallest bouquet has three sunflowers in it, a sprig of some other flowers—white alongside soft pastel blue and purples to accent the trio. Joe pulls it out first. “For Korey.”

“Flowers, oh they’re pretty! Thank you, Joe.” She’s settled onto the counter in front of Trey, but she turns to smell them. Her smile is big and bright across her full cheeks. “Purple is my favorite color.”

Joe grins. “You’re welcome, Korey. I like purple too. It’s a great color.” 

“Right? So pretty. Thank you again.”

“Mr. Joe,” Trey corrects. “We’ve talked about this, baby girl.”

“He says to just say Joe. So, what’s more respectful?” The ‘ct’ comes out as a harsh ‘k’ sound from Korey but the intent is all clear. Korey’s head is titled as she looks up at her grandfather. Her question is laced with sincerity, this is the kind of moment that Joe watches and wonders when he becomes a Dad if it would make him panic like it does now. He wants to say that the added ‘Mr.’ is fine. But he also hates the way it makes him feel a thousand times older than he actually is. 

“If he’s okay with just his name, then use that,” Trey answers with a nod—the signature singular bob Joe’s noticed that even Marlowe uses. “Listen to how people tell you to address them. Okay? If you get corrected, thank them for doing that and use whatever they tell you. Even if it’s different around other people.”

Korey returns with the singular bob too. “Copy that.”

“You’re around me too much, baby girl,” Trey laughs. 

“But I love you.”

“I love you too.” The sentence is paired with a pinch to her full cheeks and Korey groans at the action. 

The bouquet filled with mostly pink flowers is next with its collections of peonies, accented with lilies, violet, and carnations. That was the hardest bouquet to select— one that Joe called Justine in on for assistance, the two of them pouring over every inch of the website to nail for Trey and Regina, a delicate balance of not being overhanded against not seeming totally inept. 

Joe settles into the counter just outside the box. “Flowers for you and Mrs. Regina.”

“Thank you, Joe. She’s going to love them. Did Mars tell you peonies are her favorite?”

No, Marlowe hadn’t told him that. Or if she had, the information was buried too far deep for Joe to retrieve it. He shakes his head, but feels a tiny bit of relief. “I’ll remember that for next time though.”

“Smart man.”

“I try.”

Trey’s gaze drops again to the box. There’s still two bouquets left. Marlowe’s, of course, dripping with red roses, a small tiny collection of sunflowers for her studio space and then there’s the bouquet for Malia, white lilies in the middle, pink roses scattered throughout accented by a few blue roses as well. Joe takes out the pink roses and worries 9AM on a Saturday is much too early for this, but he didn’t want to miss them. The bottom of the vase gives the softest of echoes as it settles down. 

“For Malia,” Joe answers to the unspoken question in Trey’s gaze. “I know I’m two days early on this, but I’m hoping she doesn’t mind.”

Trey swallows hard, jaw clenching. It’s not just flowers, and it’s not just like Malia will jog down the steps to see these later today. “Yeah,” Trey starts, voice soft and thick with the tears that have not fallen but do rest on his eyes, “I don’t think she’ll mind.”

The shoulder pat is meant to be reassuring, meant to convey to Trey that Joe’s understanding exactly what it is that Trey can’t say put into words right now. And something about it feels maybe like so much more, maybe it’s about telling Trey that somebody sees the humanity in him, the man beneath it all—the father, and grandfather, and husband he’s attempting to be. “That’s good to hear.”

“You just keep popping up on me,” Regina laughs from behind Joe, her slippers shuffling with distinct and pointed clacks against the floor. 

“Sorry about that.” Joe laughs, returning her one armed embrace. “At least I don’t come empty handed.”

“Nah, you don’t.” She takes in the flowers, traces the row of them up to Trey and over his face. That too is a silent conversation, one done in just blinks and exhales, much like Marlowe and Trey. It’s a kind of superpower, being able to have conversations with someone that needs no words. A testament to time and hard work. 

Regina smiles up at Joe, her attention’s turn sharp with the flutter of her lashes. “Lia will love them.”

“He accidentally got your favorite, babe,” Trey tacks on, pointing to the peonies. 

Regina shakes her head, hand squeezing at Joe’s ribs one last time before she releases him. “Not an accident. Divine influence. You eat yet, Joe? Mars didn’t tell us that you were coming. But if you’re hungry, I’ll whip you up something.”

“I appreciate the offer; I did eat already though. I didn’t tell Marlowe that I was coming by. I think she’s already working. I just wanted to drop off the flowers for you all first before I go finish up a couple other things.” It’s not that Joe can’t say he’s going to see Marlowe. The extra bouquet makes that quite obvious. But he can feel the heat of Trey’s stare on the side of his face and he’s crumbling under the stare.

“I think we all know where he’s headed, Gina.”

“Oh, give the boy a break,” Regina laughs. “You don’t have to embarrass him. Please ignore Trey. He’s only giving you a hard time because he likes you.”

Trey’s sense of humor isn’t hard to see now that Joe’s gotten to know him better. Yet, there’s still some part of Joe that’s still not ready for it. The unnerving part is that the timing is not yet predictable. Though Joe really should know by now that anytime Marlowe is mentioned, Trey’s going to take the opportunity to fire off. 

Joe shrugs, not committal, but seemingly unbothered by the ribbing he’s received. “Nah, it’s okay. My turn for retaliation will come right when it needs.”

“Oh, those are fighting words, kid. You still got a contract to fulfill. I’d careful if I were you.” 

The warning is paired with the harty smack to Joe’s shoulder, the kind of hit that does sting just for a second before Trey’s arm slips around his shoulders. There’s nothing about the words that feels menacing, especially not when Trey laughs, and manages to seal Joe into the headlock faster than Joe can blink.

“Oh, that hold’s illegal,” Joe hollers back, attempting with very little force to break the headlock. The tussle doesn’t last long, a few second tug of war that’s quickly dropped by the release of Trey’s arms from around Joe’s head and shoulders. 

“Just remember that, next time you start to even think about retaliation. Now, you sure you don’t want nothing to eat before you go?” The question is paired with a press at both of his shoulders and then Trey moves on, back towards the fridge doors. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Appreciate it though.”

“Don’t want Mars saying we starved you or nothing.”

Joe’s tuft of laughter. “I will definitely let her know that there were several attempts to feed me.” If Joe ever worried where Marlowe’s instincts came from, it’s less of a question now.

“Will you tell Auntie Marlowe I said hi?” Korey asks, pulling her fingers away from the petals of the sunflowers. 

“Of course, I will, Korey.” Joe collects his keys again. “Anything else you need me to pass along?”

“Hmm, a hug, please. But not from you. One from me.”

Joe snorts. “Got it. Hi and a hug both from you.” 

The art of exiting is a delicate balance, but Joe manages to slip away with a passing wave over his shoulder until he catches the soft clack again against the floors. Regina’s just a step and a half behind him, so Joe pauses long enough for her to catch up. The two of them are slow in their walk back towards the front door.

Regina breaks through the silence first.  “I really do appreciate you bringing those flowers. It means a lot.”

“Yeah, I’m happy to do it. I’d do more but I’m not a cook by any stretch of imagination.”

Regina’s laughter is short and breathy. “It’s alright. Though, between you and Mars, I’m not sure how you’ll survive.”

Joe pauses, right foot slipped back into the slide. “What do you mean by that?”

“Mars hates to cook.”

“But she brought the mac’n’cheese. Even helped me grill.”

Regina’s grin is small, her shoulders dancing with the amusement that rumbles in her chest. “Mars can cook, better than me actually. She learned from both her grandmothers. But she hates doing it. She likes grilling a bit more. But yeah, there’s a reason why I do most of the cooking. Only one who likes to do it. Her and cooking have a complicated relationship.”

“Huh,” Joe returns. He jokes about Marlowe having a file on him, but even just the offhand remark has him recategorizing her offer. Sure her parents rearing impacted her decision, that she didn’t want to come empty handed to the event, but there were much simpler things to offer—drinks, dessert, hell, even if Marlowe did want to bring a full on dish she didn’t have to cook it herself. Yet, she had. 

“Yeah. So unless you want a lot of grilled chicken, I’d suggest you get a move on the whole cooking situation.”

“Oh, I, uh, have a chef.”

“Seems pretty standard these days with the pros. But I guess it eases the load. But I don’t mean to delay you, just wanted to say thanks. For what you do.”

Joe’s not doing much of anything though. Not that he’d credit himself for personally. “Happy to do what I can. Maybe I’ll ask for private cooking lessons and see what I’m made of when it comes to the kitchen.”

“Make sure I’m there to see it though.”

His laughter trails his nod. “Will do.” 

Joe steps back into the warm summer morning, the singular vase still resting inside the box in his hands, alongside his keys and the drink carrier. It’s probably a little too much—the red roses, and the sunflower, and the chai. But it’s a little too late to care about too much as Joe steps into the cold blast of the AC of the building. The building used to be old offices, but was recently renovated in the last few years and now is commercial shared work space. The base floor is an open lounging area, a tiny little shop with coffee and baked goods in the corner. Marlowe says it’s decent, but not the best around. The elevators hang off to the side, past the first round of business and work space and into a back corner. Joe’s not been in here, ever, but the bright paints and orange furniture help give the place a modern feel, inviting without being overbearing. 

The doors slide open after a minute or so of Joe waiting for the elevator to come after he’s pressed the button to go up and it’s a shock that someone’s actually there inside—a mother and daughter by the looks. The daughter dressed in a graduation gown, unzipped, and paired with the honor cords thick around her neck as they hang. Joe steps to the side, glancing between them behind the dark sunshades.

“What’s the time?” the daughter asks. 

“9:40. We’re just up the road from the park. Takes less than ten minutes. We’re still making good time. I’m just glad Marlowe was able to start on you earlier than 7. Did not think it would take so long to get those rollers down.”

They shuffle past, seemingly unbothered by Joe’s presence. It’s hard to see with the shades what the makeup looks like, though perhaps the fact that it’s subtle could be the intended point. Based on the acronym on the cords and sashes, he’d guess a high school graduation at best. Joe takes a step forward, his foot out to keep the doors from closing on him completely. “Congratulations,” he calls out. 

The pair pauses, turning now towards him. “Thanks!” And that’s all that’s given before they continue on, smiles on their faces and very clearly on a mission. 

The ride up to the third floor is short, a quick two dings before the doors release him again and Joe now has the fun of trying to navigate the hallways to Marlowe’s studio, Suite 3112. It doesn’t prove too much of a challenge thanks to the ascending order. 

“Have you told him yet?”

Her door is propped open. Joe can’t see by what, but it’s made obvious by the clarity in the voices. “He’s got his season starting soon. It’s not worth it right now.”

Joe slows his steps even further, knowing that’s Marlowe’s voice that responded. He can’t immediately place the other voice. It’s one Joe’s heard before, that much he remembers. He’s just not sure where or how to place it. The bigger concern Joe has is what Marlowe has yet to tell him, what it is she’s kept hidden away from Joe, but seemingly not Q.

“He’s literally your boyfriend and you promised you’d tell him when it got bad. Girl, I don’t know about you but this,” a pause echoes for only a moment, “this is bad!”

“Q,” Marlowe sighs. 

Again, regret is a rather useless emotion but a fresh wave of it crashes into Joe’s chest. His comment and Paige’s spectacular timing with her expose had caught Marlowe in the crosshairs, however unintentional that it’d been. And it’s getting bad, worse than Marlowe painted it to be. Something Joe suspected might be the case, but he needed to, at the time, to take Marlowe at her word. The last fucking thing Joe wants is this to entirely crumble what Marlowe’s worked for so long at building. 

“This is what? Preseason or whatever the fuck, right? Is he even playing in those games? Actually, I don’t care for all those details. I find the sport coma inducing. However, comma, you’re literally getting harassed in your DMs by fucking weirdos. You can’t handle this and your actual day to day work. Not when it’s this ugly.”

“Football is pretty entertaining.”

“They call timeouts every 30 seconds.”

“There’s only 6 timeouts max per half.”

“Then what the fuck are the pausing all the goddamn time for?”

“Play reviews, penalt—”

“We are off topic.” The interruption nearly makes Joe choke, his laughter threatening to erupt from him. But Joe’s trying not to give himself away. Hearing Q’s name brings back Marlowe’s birthday dinner and the stories about him Marlowe’s passed along to Joe. Q’s always seemed a little bit ruthless, but always filled with love. “You need to tell Joe.”

“I know I do. I just don’t know when’s the right time.”

“Call him. Right now. You don’t have another client until 10:30, right? Perfect—”

Joe raps against the glass door and it swallows up the next words from Q’s mouth. “Is this a bad time?” 

Marlowe’s face softens when she looks at him, her steel-like gaze turning feathery soft, like melted taffy. “Hi, Joe. It’s not a bad time.”

“Gag me with a spoon,” Q huffs.

The room’s not nearly as big as Joe suspected it to be. Her main desk is tucked into the back corner, just off the side of the bright window along the back wall. There’s a few chairs along the walls, some plush and inviting, as a contrast to the high chair and table towards the middle of the room. The walls carry dark green swirls on them, oblong blobs of color that give an almost 70’s vibe against the stark white standard paint. 

It’s still rather serene, even with the walls lined with storage, drawers, clear containers and drawers staring back at Joe with rolls and pans, and tubes of things Joe can’t name himself. Her fridge and snack display rest too in the back of the room, next to her desk but still pushed out enough that it’s clearly for guests to partake in as well.

“This is,” Joe pauses. Cute feels too incomplete. “It feels like you, I suppose is what I’m trying to say.”

Marlowe nods, “I get that. A lot. Q helped decorate it.”

“It’s really nice. How are you, Q?”

The shrug is noncommittal and it’s clear by the thin press of his lips that Q’s not for the pleasantries. “I can’t really complain.”

If Joe didn’t have context, the words would feel like razors, cutting at something that could so easily be misconstrued. “Sounds like you might want to though?” Joe prompts. 

The cut of his eyes to Marlowe is quick, but Joe catches it, as Joe eases in closer, sliding the box onto the desk. “Not really my place to say,” Q answers and when his eyes fall again into the box, his jaw drops just a little. “Oh, okay, I’m not mad at you anymore, Joe. The other ones are very cute.”

“Q finds red roses cliché,” Marlowe explains. “I think he’s just a grouch because of the guy that used to buy him red roses all the time. The poor flowers didn’t do anything to you.”

Q’s eye roll is deep and cut even Joe, who’s merely only a bystander. But give the context of the conversation Q’s ex does not sound like a saint in the slightest. “We don’t need to talk about that guy. He’s a dickhead.”

“He was,” Marlowe agrees, simply, easily to Q’s statement.  

“Was?” Q questions. 

“Well, he’s not currently a dickhead to you. Not that I’m opposed to the implication of murder, I just know I would not do well in prison.”

“I like it better if you were not in jail,” Joe quips around his tutted laughter. 

“I’d help bail you out, Marlowe,” Q defends. “But you don’t have to worry about that. Because he’s blocked. Anyways, I’m hogging the moment. Sorry, Joe,” Q throws an apologetic look towards Joe and then levels Marlowe with a fierce pointed stare. She takes it well—a nod at Q before he’s even spoken. Surely, she too knows exactly where the comment is going to go. “You, however, need to do what we discussed. And I will not leave until I hear confirmation.”

“Consider this confirmation. I will do what we discussed.”

“You better. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“You’re across the hall from me and nosey. I know you’ll know.”

“Damn straight, I am.” Q leaves with a wave over his shoulder. Her door remains open still, the turtle door stopper holding strong. Marlowe’s faster than Joe, sliding around the corner of the desk and directly into his chest. Her arms find each other at his spine, palms pressing into his skin like she might be able to melt into him, become a piece of his physical body. 

Joe drops two quick kisses to her temple in the embrace. “I heard today was a two coffee day, so I did get you a little something,” Joe starts. “On top of the flowers.”

“The flowers are beautiful.” Her voice is soft against the cotton of his shirt. “Thank you for bringing them.” 

Marlowe makes no move away from him, just continues to rub her palms over his spine, breathing in time with every one of his inhales and exhales. A cadence that Joe’s never truly conscious until it matters. And right now it matters. 

“Angel, is everything okay?” Joe can’t lie and say he doesn’t know that things aren’t. But he doesn’t want Marlowe to get out of it either, continuing holding back those things she shouldn’t. Least of all from Joe too.

“Just a lot. Haven’t slept well lately.”

Is Marlowe losing sleep over the harassment or because it’s still August? It could be both. And that reality makes Joe hold a little tighter to her. Wants to ground her back to Earth, tether her so she never feels like she’s just floating along. “You can tell me whatever it is whenever you’re ready. Korey says hi by the way, and she asked me to specifically give you a hug but that it was from her, not from me.”

“I refuse to let go at this current moment, so we can just tell her you do."

“Secret’s safe with me.” Joe presses his cheek to the top of her head, arms still wound around her frame. 

The quiet is almost inviting, almost full too, but Marlowe’s voice blossoms from it. “I wonder what 33 would look like on her.”

“Malia would’ve made 33 look great.” And Joe doesn’t know that like a fact. He knows it in the fragments, in the bits and pieces he’s collected. He’s sure of it because he’s sure of Marlowe. “Did she ever get up to mischief?”

Marlowe’s chest shakes against his. “Only a little. We went on a family trip about a year and half before Korey was born—let’s just say I’ve dived off more cliffs than I originally planned for.”

“You don’t seem like the cliff diving type.” And it’s not an assumption, more of an observation that Joe’s cobbled together, that Marlowe’s seemingly always had her feet firmly planted on the ground. That her sister seemed to dream big and she seemed to take matters smaller and closer to her heart.

“I did it for her. I much preferred horseback riding.”

“Being on the ground is the more stable option, so I don’t fault that. But we can always get up to a little mischief—just for her, if it would help.”

“That’s a tempting offer. But I worry maybe if I do everything for her, I’ll never find myself again? But I don’t want to lose her.”

“It’s a complicated loss, Marlowe. You don’t have to have an answer right now.” Joe wants to ask specifically about what she and Q were discussing, about how that’s been impacting her sleep too. The question bashes against his teeth and Joe keeps it at bay. There’s too much on her plate for him to add yet another thing right now. 

“It’s bad.” The softest whisper Joe’s ever heard, nearly misses it as it fall in the narrow gap between their bodies as Marlowe raises her head.

Joet takes her cheeks between his palms, thumb tracing the bones just beneath the tissue. “How bad?” Because he already knows what is bad. Marlowe promised to tell him when it was getting there, when the noise and comments were becoming too much. The promise Joe hoped wouldn’t come to full fruition and yet, it already had. Joe was too late on this particular call.

“Bad.” 

It’s the only word she says but Joe sees the tears on her eyelashes, dancing between welling and falling. “God, I’m so sorry, Marlowe. I’m so sorry that this is happening to you.”

“And it’s not often that I see the bad ones. But when I do come across them, it’s just—it’s awful, Joe. They don’t even know me.”

“They don’t. But I know you. I know how amazing you are. I know how loving you are. I know you, Marlowe. Do you trust me?”

The first tear slips, in the blink of Marlowe shutting her eyes to exhale and the flutter of her opening them again with her deep inhale, a singular tear tracks down her face, right into the top of his thumb. He remembers what her tears tasted like from the last time he caught one between his lips. That tear has been from joy, her laughter squeezing at her. Joe wonders if this tear would’ve been bitter.

“I trust you, Joe.”

Joe can feel his wheels turning, how he’s trying to find a plan, something that would work for Marlowe. Getting off social media is damn near impossible because of her job. “Do you want a solution right now?”

“I think it would make me feel better, yeah. But I don’t want—”

“Don’t you dare,” Joe warns, thumbs brushing the moisture off her deep brown cheeks. “Don’t say you don’t want to get in my way. You’re not.”

Marlowe sighs. “I don’t want to hog your time if you have somewhere else to be.”

“Hog it. I don’t care. I just need you to do a few things for me first before we start brainstorming.”

“I’m listening.”

The plastic cup is starting to sweat, but it seems to matter much less as Marlowe takes the light brown offering. “It’s a chai, oat milk because I know regular milk does not agree with you.” Her lips part and Joe nods. “Two extra pumps of chai, yes.”

“You are listening.”

“I most certainly am. Two, tell me where you want your flowers. And I’ll put them away.”

Marlowe’s first sip of the drink is punctuated by a soft sigh. “Roses on my desk and the sunflowers in that tall orange vase on the fridge please.”

All the while, as vases settle onto desks and tall orange vases are filled, Joe’s thinking. He doesn’t know how much money Marlowe makes. It’s clear that she’s better off than she was before. She can afford the traveling she does. But Joe’s sure having someone else to help manage the posting of her content would mean Marlowe having to be online herself so much, which Joe hopes means she won’t have to see the vitriol. It’s not clear on whether or not if Joe were to make a full on statement would go over well or not. He’d do it, for Marlowe. But it worries him too what kind of reaction that might create, if it would make things better or worse. 

“So,” Joe starts, centering the orange vase and turning to spot Marlowe perched on the corner of her desk. It’s a sturdy solid wooden desk. One that looks restored, potentially. A couple of the corners have a wooden that almost matches but isn’t exact. “I have some ideas.”

“Let me hear them.” Her legs dangle, an almost childlike swing back and forth. Her drink rests between her legs, the tips of her nails tip-tapping over the plastic lid. The swinging ceases when Joe slides in closer, his shin and calves pressing into the side of hers. 

“I have two. The first one is that I could try and make some sort of statement.” Joe pauses, waiting for whatever thought rests before the furrow of her brows. 

Marlowe may not always say a lot verbally, but the facial expressions tend to give her away sooner rather than later. “Do you want to confirm the relationship like that?” she asks. 

“It’s not my first choice either. But if it mattered to you, I’d do it.”

Her head shake no comes before her words. “These are strangers, Joe. I don’t want to give them anything that they don’t need. And they don’t need anything. Not from me and not from you either. Your second idea, my good sir.”

His laughter, short and sweet, shakes his shoulders. “Thank you, my liege. The second idea is that we find someone to help you manage your socials. I know it’s important for your job. And I’m not asking you to give that up. But maybe if we hire someone for you it could help.”

“I can’t afford to hire someone, Joe. I only bring in just enough of a profit to pay myself out of the business account and if I weren’t living at home, it would be just enough to keep afloat, but not by much. It’s not to say I don’t have windfalls and big projects. Those just aren't steady.”

“I did purposefully say we.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, pay someone else’s salary for me. That would be unfair.”

Joe lightly taps at her chin, the flat of his knuckles just barely grazing her flesh. “It’s a good thing you’re not asking. It’s my offer.” 

Marlowe rests into the touch, bringing her face just mere inches closer to him. “I cannot accept such an offer. It’s too generous, my loyal subject.”

Joe takes her face, tilting her head back just a hair before sealing her lips in a kiss. More than a brush of the lips, but nothing suggestive of more. Comfort and reassurance behind the action. His lips will be sticky with her gloss, but it doesn’t matter to Joe. There’s a faint scent, fruity in a way that Joe can’t quite put his finger on but can locate as something. It’s certainly not her chai. He wonders if it’s the lipgloss. As they pull back, Joe brings his tongue out, a quick dark, but it’s enough to bring the taste in. This particular gloss leaves a hint of cherries over his tongue. 

“Did you just taste my lipgloss?”

“I knew I could smell something.” Joe brings her in for another kiss, his fingers wrapped around her chin and jaw. The scent is definitely cherry now, easy to place against the taste. “Wasn’t sure what it was.” Another kiss echoes between them and Joe teases along the line of her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. “I like this one. Now, what are your ideas?”

“Joseph Burrow, that was incredibly strange and still very hot,” Marlowe whispers. 

His full name has never sounded so hauntingly beautiful before, rough from the timbre of her voice, but full in how sweet she rolls the r’s in his last name. Joe doesn’t think a sound can be tattooed, but he wants that--the drawl of his name from her lips written permanently into the membrane of his eardrums. “Marlowe Dominic, you are incredibly strange and incredibly hot. But you’re not getting out of this. Ideas, hit me with them,” Joe returns. 

Her inhale is deep and Joe lets go of her chin, eases back to put another six inches between them. Then she exhales, chest deflating with the action before Marlowe presses her weight backwards into her palms against the desk. “I thought about limiting comments, but I need comments. It’s how I funnel new clients sometimes, outside of word of mouth. Engagement is vital for me. Hiring someone to help me with the social media side would help. I just don’t know how to afford it. I keep my prices on the lowest end of the market average and I’d hate to ostracize someone with a tighter budget.”

“How many clients are repeats? Like come in consistently in a year?”

“Consistent like what? More than twice a year? A lot of people get their makeup done for events—birthdays, proms, photoshoots, graduations, weddings. But that’s stuff that happens once.”

“I don’t know how often people look to get their makeup done. Would you say consistent is seeing you twice a year?”

The tilt of Marlowe’s head almost looks like a no. Joe’s almost on the verge of suggesting a price increase but he doesn’t want to do that without understanding her structure. “2-3 is pretty consistent, but I really am always looking for bigger projects to bring in the cash to help even out the lulls. I get a lot of referrals for little one offs. And people book again the next time they have something, but it’s not like people are in here monthly. I have contracts with a few business owners, some local offices and things that help immensely in the slow seasons. But month to month consistency is hard to come by.”

“And have you considered diversifying? Adding a few extra things to see if that could help bring in more steady income?”

“Yeah, I have. I’d have to travel less, so I’m always weighing if the opportunities I’d have to pass on are equal to the money I’m getting in that new niche of clientele.”

Joe nods. Marlowe would need to make sure that she’s getting comparable pay even if it’s not equal. “What if—” Joe doesn’t want to step on her toes. He’d hate to do that. “What if I agreed to pay the salary for two years? Gives you time to figure out how to restructure and it means you can start looking to hire someone more immediately. After two years, you’d take over paying them.”

“I get it’s probably a drop in the bucket for you. But I don’t want you to do something and then be putting yourself in a bind in order to do it. I don’t know if I’m crazy for saying this, but I’d pay you back.”

“Marlowe, you are crazy for saying that. Don’t worry about paying me back. I’m offering because it’s the right thing to do, the least I can do after putting you into this mess.” Money doesn’t fix the root of the problem. It’s merely a band-aid. The thing Joe would love to do is stop the comments, and DMs, but he’s not sure how to do that. It would take nothing short of a miracle to do it. 

The buzz rattles the desk first and then just behind it, the soft tweeting of birds swells behind them. Joe looks down to see the alarm shaking Marlowe’s phone: 15 minutes until next appointment. He hands the device over and Marlowe’s swift to silence it as she speaks, “It wasn’t malicious intent on your part in commenting, so I’m not mad at you. Just overwhelmed by the timing of it all.”

“It is a lot coming at you back to back. I want to help.”

“You are, Joe. Please believe me when I say that.”

Joe does, but sometimes the progress is invisible and that’s the part that can feel like it’s testing him. For all the work he does, the pay off seems much too gradual, much too slow. But Marlowe said she’d do this scared and he said he’d be there. So there’s no backing down now. Mixing business and pleasure is rumored to be a bad concoction, that it’ll always go sour in the end. He’s hoping this is the one time everyone gets it wrong. 

“I do believe you. And we’ll talk about it later, yeah?” he asks, offering a hand as Marlowe slips down. 

Marlowe takes it even though she’s halfway down and nods. “Yeah. Today’s pretty light. After this appointment, I’ve only got administrative stuff so I can call you afterwards.”

“Did you bring lunch today?”

“No, not today.”

Joe does need to pack and review film. There’s going to be a couple meetings tomorrow before the game that he wants to be prepared for and though this isn’t his usual pregame ritual, Joe’s not going to let Marlowe fall by the wayside. “Swing by my place once you’re done. I’ll treat us to lunch today. A little birdie told me you’re not a fan of the kitchen, anyways.”

“Was it Dad? He’s no better than me in the kitchen.”

The tut of laughter is swift and paired with a kiss to her cheek. “Your mom. I dropped some flowers off for them too earlier today.”

Marlowe’s faux offense paints her face, the drop of her jaw lasting only mere seconds before she laughs. “They’re a bunch of snitches.”

Joe notes that she doesn’t seem all that shocked about his mention of the other flowers. Given how close her and her family are though, Joe finds humor in the idea that there’s maybe a family group chat. And maybe it’s not a constant barrage of texts, but a steady influx of updates: safe departures and arrivals mixed with Regina’s attempts to figure out dinner, and now, possibly updates from Trey or Regina about Joe’s bouquet delivery. 

“Who told on me?” Joe questions. 

“Dad. He likes you. Sometimes, I worry he likes you more than me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” But it is the second time today Joe’s heard the reassurance and he can’t lie to himself and pretend like the news doesn’t make him stand up a little taller. Joe’s met his heroes before, has been called that by fans. But nothing measures quite the same as the idea that it’s Trey Dominic of all people that like him. There’s something nearly unquantifiable too. That it’s not just about Joe’s stat on the field. “Also, the next time I’m hosting anything, you do not have to cook, okay? If you don’t like it, I, for one, cannot be judge, jury, or executioner about that. My mom would smite me.”

Her shrug dances at her shoulders like the smile on her face. “Robin hardly seems like the type. Besides, I like feeding people. I dislike the other steps involved in that process. But for the right people, I don’t mind it as much. I would not have offered to cook if I really didn’t want to do it.”

Joe’s chest warms, a flush he’s sure will creep up his neck and face too faster than he’d like. But Marlowe gazes at him so intently. The undercarriage of her sentence is immediately clear: He’s someone she wouldn’t mind cooking for. He’s one of those right people. “I like the sound of that.”

“The sound of what?”

“That you care. It doesn’t come out like that exactly in those words. But I know it’s there. I can hear it.”

“I do care.” There’s a beat of silence, just Joe gazing into the near midnight depths of Marlowe’s eyes, and Marlowe stares right back at him. The sincerity is thick yet again in her words as simple as they are. Joe wouldn’t be shocked if his hands wound up permanently stained with it. Perhaps, being with Marlowe means that no part of him will ever be the same. That she will etch something greater into his being than he currently has the words to fathom. “Thank you, Joe, for offering to help and listening.”

“I meant it when I said I’d weather it all for you.”

“I see that.” 

It’s tugging at his chest, to kiss her again, to press another hit of cherry to his tongue. So Joe does, stretches out to take hold of her waist and captures her lips, as full and plump as they are into another kiss. Marlowe’s hands slide over his hips, thumbs pressing into his stomach that feels hesitant and possessive at the same time. An intoxicating combination. Joe swallows down the sigh from her throat before separating. Their breaths mingling in the inches as their foreheads touch. 

“I should probably get going.” Joe whispers the thought, too afraid to speak with any more volume than the hushed sound. Doesn’t want to shatter the moment that’s enveloping them, a bubble sacred around them. But if he stays here too much longer, there’s no telling what position they’ll be in and her door is still just as opened as it was when Joe walked into it. Maybe it was insurance that he subconsciously left for himself, something that would keep him accountable. But whatever caused it, it’s the only thing keeping Joe at bay for the moment.

“Okay,” Marlowe returns, her voice a whisper too. 

“But call me when you’re on your way over. I’ve got to pack and I’ll definitely get sidetracked with film, so the call will be my alarm.”

“I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

“Perfect.” Just like the taste of cherry still dancing on his tongue when he slips back into the driver seat of his car, the box now completely empty sans the old paper scraps used to wrap the fragile glass. 

Perfect just like the text that rattles his phone from Marlowe: I can see you down there. Drive safe for me, baby. 

Joe spots her window, the near speck of her highlighted by a dot of yellow—one of the sunflowers he’s sure that she’s probably holding. He reclines back into his seat as he types, I will, angel.

[heyydolly]

NSFW Alpahbet: Sub!Joe & Domme Edition

You've asked, you've been incredibly patient. I have answered. Please enjoy. Some of the pieces referenced here are post wedding. If you have not read the Wedding + Married sub!joe Brain Dump, I'd recommend giving it a peek.

CW: 18+ Content (Smut). Aspects of BDSM relationship are heavily described. Kinky heavy (choking, pegging, some sadomasochism mentioned). Female Reader Described.

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

____________________________

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

The way aftercare looks truly depends on what kind of dynamic was used. For all the sex Joe and Domme have it’s about the exchange, the give and the take. Yet, there’s something particularly interesting about vanilla sex’s aftercare. Perhaps, it’s the tender shared breaths, her fingers in his hair, her lips brushing over his lips up towards his nose. Maybe it’s the way he traces her spine, their grins soft and shaky. 

It’s still the barely breathed out, “Thank you,” passed back and forth. It falls like a feather, bouncing to and fro before it lands without sound between them, a sticky gratitude that coats their hands and chests—the way they like it. Domme stretches up, teeth grazing over his nose. 

Joe’s exhaled laughter is a whisper over her face. “That’s my nose, ma’am.”

“A cute nose on a handsome face.”

And Joe swears he should be used to it, to the way that Domme compliments him like it’s so easy to do. But even after all their years together, he can’t help the heat in his cheeks, knows he’s probably turning a little red. 

“One more minute, yeah?” he finally returns, lips brushing over her cheek. They still need to clean up, but for now it’s just the warmth of their naked bodies—shared, uninterrupted with no barriers and unfiltered. 

“Yeah, sounds good.”

If it’s more intense, a scene they’ve set, the aftercare is executed punctually, and never really deviates. Domme’s brain is still rolling as she gathers the glass of water and the warm wash cloth. Joe’s much too big for her to carry, so she buys him time until his mind and body reconnect, until his eyes blink back at her with true awareness. Focused, even if still soft. 

She holds him close, slips in behind him sometimes on the bed, rests his head onto her lap, carding her fingers through his hair. Joe always roots into the touch, like babies do, and he hums. There’s no real reason to ask Joe too much when he’s like this. Now that it’s over, he needs time. And Domme’s more than happy to accommodate that. More than happy to let him find himself again, even if it means she’s got all 200+ pounds of him in her lap. She’d do it every time, just to see him blink up at her, recognition settling behind those liquid blue eyes. 

“Welcome back,” she grins. 

Joe hums again, half his mouth lifting into a grin. “Yeah, there it is. The sun.”

Later, once she’s more confident he can stand again, Domme walks him to the bathroom, cleans him up, sometimes draws a bath just for him, where she perches onto the back ledge of the tub, her feet and legs submerged, bracing Joe against her chest as she runs the soapy washcloth over his shoulders and chest. “Does anything hurt more than a 3?”

Most often the answer is no. At times, rare as it is, it’s a yes. Joe shakes his head. “No,” he answers today. 

He won’t have all his words for a while, not until he’s nestled up under the sheets again. But single word responses are a good sign. “Does anything hurt below a three?”

“My ass,” he huffs with a laugh. But he had taken some sharp thwacks from the paddle so it’s to be expected. 

“There’s no bruising. But we’ll check again in the morning, okay?”

She’s met with another nod before Joe drops his head into her shoulder. “Will this involve a cavity search?”

Domme snorts, shoulders shaking and therefore by extension Joe shakes too. “Not unless you tell me you need or want one.”

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Joe can’t really be faulted for this. Really, he shouldn’t be faulted for this. He loves Domme’s chest. And no, not just because her breasts are drool worthy, and god, are they drool worthy. But it’s his favorite place to settle. On a bad day, Joe can rest there, listen to the thump-thump thump-thump of her heart and surrender to the sounds of her living. Everything he’s ever needed, ever wanted squeezed between his palms as her heart beats, a thump-thump thump-thump pair at a time.

And sure, sometimes, when she’s not wearing a top or even when she is, Joe will press kisses into her breastbones, slide over her body one mwuah at a time, gather the tissue between his teeth. Never hard enough to hurt her, just enough to know flesh is there between his incisors. Just enough to feel her, for his tongue and mouth to salivate. Just enough for Domme to run her nails over his side. “You hungry?” she laughs. 

Then Joe releases, peels his jaw open and the skin and tissue and fat falls back to where it was. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

Other times, as he crawls up under her shirt, he’s much more intentional about his destination, lips wrapping around her nipple. Domme’s going to sigh. She’s going to jolt at the first wet touch but then laugh before it melts like butter on a hot pan and sigh. When she wants him, all she has to do is lift his head. If he wants to hear her heart again, all Joe has to do is drop his ear to the flat middle. It’s the perfect place to be. 

Domme can’t get enough of Joe’s hands. Sure, she loves his mouth, the way his tongue dances over her, the way his lips glisten with the stain of her. But his hands. God, his hands drive her mad, the way it feels when he slides his palm over the small of her back, the entire area engulfed by his palm and fingers. It sends a chill up her spine, makes her mouth water. 

It’s obscene at how utterly pathetic she can get when Joe cups her, her entire pussy in the flat of his hands. Domme’s mind goes blank and the only thing she can think to do is grind down into the flesh, begging for the release. Joe’s hands are sinful, how tender they can caress her. The way his digits curl into her waist, into her hips, not with the explicit desire to cause pain, but driven by a deep desperate ache that leaves him unable to do anything else but cling to her. Domme loves the weight of his digits on her tongue, the tip of her tongue collecting every drop of her arousal off his fingers, teasing at the webbing between his fingers too. 

Joe grins down at her, eyes half closed at the sight. “God, it’s a little pathetic how hard I am watching you do that.”

Domme only responds by sealing her lips around, sucking back the last few drops. She pulls her head back, humming at the taste of herself. Joe cups her throat, the side of her neck now wet due to his grasp. It doesn’t stop them. Could never stop them. Joe stretches down, lips parted before they seal around hers in a kiss, a collection of tongue, spit, and nips, just as delicious as it is a mess. 

At night, when Domme’s teetering on the edge of sleep, but not fully over it, she takes Joe’s hand, traces the veins, drags her nail up his knuckles, memorizes where every callus is, was, and might be in the future. It worries her, when Joe falls asleep first and she’s slow behind him, that her work will wake him up. She looks up, hair scratching against the pillow case to watch him in the dark, as she works down the lines in his palm. 

Joe’s breathes come evenly as always, lips parted just a hair at times. He looks so at peace, so at ease that Domme wants to bottle the moment to save for later. She knows it can’t be like this all the time, that undoubtedly things would happen. But Domme wants so deeply to keep him like this, wants to make life easy for them both so they can always savor these moments of quiet calm. Her fingers are gingerly working over the creases in his palm and Joe sleeps away next to her. When Domme finally feels the tugs of sleep winning, she places his hand just under chest, below her heart and in the morning, Joe’s palmed her ribs and pulled her into his body subconsciously. Or maybe he’s pulled himself closer to her. 

Either way, his palm is alright there, at the top of her stomach, grounding as his thumb brushes up and down.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

There’s a gleam in Domme’s eyes that tells Joe before her words do that he may not make it out on the other side of this alive. It’s the same gleam as always, a twinkle that feels more like a spark waiting to catch fire. It proceeds her dark chuckle, which always goes straight to Joe’s cock too. That fact is not helped by the fact that Domme’s fists are wrapped around his cock, and she’s drooling down onto him, the flat of her tongue pressed against the tip and when she chuckles the sound has nowhere to go but to his dick. 

And Joe knows he’s fucked. 

So—he might have asked for it. Wearing nothing beneath the shorts, tan evened out now, shirtless, hands teasing over Domme’s hips as she worked over the bouquet of flowers she bought for the house. An arrangement she made by hand. That she insisted on making by hand when it’s killing Joe not to have her attention. 

So what if Joe asked for it? So what if he flirted with danger and danger answered? So what if he swears he can feel his balls drawing up into his body again, the suck and tug of Domme’s mouth and hands working double time over him, leaving him to claw at the couch cushions, the grunt pulled out from his chest ripping his throat raw? 

So what if dancing in the fire meant he was instructed not to touch when that’s all he wants? So what if he cums, hips pushed up off the couch, so hard he chokes Domme? 

It doesn’t seem to stop her in the slightest. Domme coughs once, a haggard sound, but then returns, slurping the come off him loud and unabashedly. It’s hot and seeps down his thighs too, over her hands, as it continues to trickle down. And as nonchalant as Joe wants to appear, he is cracking. He is all frayed edges watching Domme with his come dribbling down the corner of her lips. 

“Please,” Joe begs, exhaling hard—chest expanding and collapsing damn near simultaneously. “Need to touch you.”

“You’re greedy,” Domme grins, sucking her fingers clean. The sight makes him whine, and writhe from his seated position on the couch. Will she clean him up next? “Which got you into this position in the first place.” 

“I was well behaved. Was so good for you.” The pillows and cushions are testament to Joe’s grip. 

“Know what else is good?” Domme asks. 

“What?”

“The way you taste.”

Joe sees stars when her lips latch on again, collecting the mess on his soft cock, sucking the cum off his thighs too. She leaves no stone unturned, not even a crumb inside a crevice. Domme takes it all and all Joe can do between the begging is laugh.

Isn’t he getting what he asked for?

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It’s a mistake the first time it happens. Really, it’s just happenstance, a byproduct of need, hands grasping for whatever flesh they can settle on, mouths tenderly working over necks and chests, teasing for what’s to come. It’s what happens when you put the opposite ends of magnets together. They meet, pulled together by forces stronger than any one of them is capable of dodging away from. 

Attraction is inevitable. 

Joe’s hand slips. He was reaching for her breast, to cup the fat, pinch the nipple between his thumb and forefingers but Domme’s breast is wet, still, from his tongue and he’s trembling, filled with awe at the way Domme’s so utterly wet and open beneath him. Like she has nothing to hide. Because she doesn’t. She’d never need to hide from Joe. And Joe never needs to hide from Domme. 

But his hand slips and he winds up cupping her throat instead, a bit more force behind it because Joe—again, didn’t intend to land there at her neck—and Domme moans. Head thrown back against the pillow, pressing up into his palm. “Harder,” she commands. It’s not a polite request, not a suggestion, not a plea. She knows exactly what she wants. It’s the tone she uses with him when he’s under, when he wants to forget his own name. 

Joe squeezes at the side, just a degree or two harder than the cupping. His lips part, jaw falling slack, at the way she clenched around his cock. “Oh my—shit, baby,” his voice is higher than normal, tighter as if he’s got to derive his own vocal chords together with too much conscious effort for it to come out right. 

Domme grins, eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Press har—”

The word doesn’t finish in anything that’s recognizable. Joe presses the flat his palm into the middle of her throat. Her breathe leaves her in a sigh, and he watches, cock still soaked and clenched by Domme’s cunt—a mass wave of flutters. “Fuck, you’re cumming, aren’t you?” Joe whispers. Afraid to shatter the moment. Afraid to ruin this high for her. 

Domme’s beautiful like this, mouth open, skin shiny with a slight sheen of sweat and the exertion. She pulsates around him hard, and Joe’s helpless to his own release, gives two pitiful thrusts himself before he cums too. Joe’s got half his mind still, so he’s careful not to fall fully on her, slips to her side, breathing into the crook of her neck, kissing over her shoulder. 

“Joe,” she finally manages to get out, voice tight and small. But she looks euphoric. Domme hiccups on an inhale and Joe pulls his hand off, releases the heel of his palm first and then his fingers. Domme’s chest expands with the first deep inhale again. “I think I saw Mars. Beautiful this time of year.”

“You okay?” he asks around his tuft of laughter. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, not in the slightest.” She’s still breathless, chest still heaving. 

“Tell me more about Mars. When you can.” He scoops her into his arms, fingers tracing the tendons of her neck. Like he might be able to feel a bruise blooming. It’s not a secret that she loves his hands, but he didn’t think Domme loved them that much.

Joe doesn’t do it often—choking Domme during sex is a luxury they both don’t want to spoil. But Joe is a tease. He’s such a fucking tease. So he comes up behind her at times, cups her throat with his hand and squeezes just a hair—not enough to cut off her air, just enough for her to feel it though— before tilting her head back for a kiss. Domme’s look is always the same, the fluttering eyes, a soft blissed out grin before she accepts the offering of his lips.

No one needs to know that Domme loves being manhandled besides Joe. She loves it when he’s a little rough with her, picked up and tossed onto the bed, her hair tugged at just a little. Because they both know that it’ll never go too far. Joe cares too much for her to take it there and she cares too much about him to push it. 

But when Domme wants to sink herself, when she needs to let it all go, Joe’s always there to deliver it. Joe watches the lights behind Domme’s eye blow open wide with his hand wrapped around her throat. The way her both hands are wrapped around his one wrist, like she’s egging him on, and he can’t fathom saying no to her in this moment, when she’s watching him so desperate for it. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Both of them know what they’re doing now with each other. With the years under their belts, there’s a lot of conversations that don’t need words. Joe knows what the flicker of her eyes means from across the room. Domme knows what that squeeze at her elbow means. Joe knows when he’s kissing at her ankle and she only grins what he’s in for. Domme knows what that high pitched moan means when it crests up from Joe’s chest. 

They are damn near experts on each other’s bodies—mind, and soul included. When Joe pushes, Domme pulls. When Domme beckons, Joe answers. Yet, they never treat this like routine. Joe, buried in the thick warmth of Domme’s body, never treats it like something he’s seen countless times. He savors it, engraves into his mind the way she cums, how she pulsates around him, falls apart on his his cock with a flutter. Domme never takes the delicious stretch of Joe for granted, never wants him to feel dispensable. Their dynamic only works for them because it’s them. Because it’s Joe, who protects her from the furniture that never moves, and Domme sorts his emails without prompting. Because it’s his fingers, and her strap that undo each other. And only them. Lock and key, fitting together—a perfection union. 

This doesn't mean that they don’t have have actual talks. There’s plenty of conversations that have so many words. Their relationship check-ins come like clock work, scheduled into both their calendars. While privacy is hard for Joe, and to some extent Domme, it’s not always easy to have the hard conversations inside the home they share. So they sit outside, or Joe drives them both a couple hours out of town, somewhere hopefully not many people will recognize him. They sit at park benches sometimes, notes and pens, and snacks spread out between them. 

They do the hard work because it works for them. 

Those check-ins range from their 3W’s (Will Do, Want to Do, Won’t Do), to how they’re feeling about the progression of their relationship. Reassess boundaries that they made last time. Things like Joe asking, “You said that cooking more was starting to tire you out. How is it working with letting the chef do the majority of the the cooking and then you stepping in on a weekend here and there?” 

“I like cooking on the weekends more than the weekdays, so that change has been really helpful.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

It’s Domme asking Joe, “How do you feel now with some of the new opportunities coming your way?” 

Because last time they talked, really talked, not just about their days or about the laundry, or about sex, Joe mentioned being worried about the longevity of his career. That he didn’t want to worry, all he could do was take it one season at a time. But Joe’s come face to face to reality multiple times football would not last forever. His body, though young and in good shape, was fallible, and had a limit. 

Football comes with an expiration date. A realization that hurts more than Joe thought it could, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. Not in the slightest. Yet, Domme’s noticed him fretting more over his emails, asking her more often for space to think through his options. 

Joe exhales, dropping the plastic wrap of the peppermint he just popped into his mouth into the empty bottle of Pepsi Domme’s finished minutes ago now. “I’m happy to have the opportunity to get out from behind football. I think more and more, when I can’t sleep, about what waits for me. I know I can't really change what’s behind the door. Whatever’s really meant to be there will always be there. Every choice I make now really is just determining how quick or slow I am in reaching that door. I wanted football to last forever. I thought maybe it could.”

Joe pauses and Domme’s careful, inches in closer to his hands so they’re there if he needs them. “But now?” she prompts. 

“Now I think about having a family. With you. And how to make that happen, how to make that last forever. Which means I have to last, you know. Football’s still my priority. But I need to be healthy—physically and mentally— for what I want after that.”

“Well, you’ll always have help. I’m here; I want a life with you, that goes beyond the lights and the whistles of football too. When the lights go dim, I’ll still have candles and matches.”

The rings—engagement and wedding band—dazzle in the late morning sun. It’s warm, a summer day that presses down with its humidity. It rained last night into the early morning and the air still feels thick with the moisture. But Joe and Domme are perched on the park bench, bottoms of their pants and legs damp. Not many people are around. A dog barks off in the distance, some runners past by them, their puffy exhales signalling all their efforts and work to keep pace. 

Joe drags his fingers over the gold stack. His own gold band catches in the light too. He can’t feel the inscription anymore. The sensation is not new to him anymore. But he knows it’s there. Saw it later on their wedding night when she showed it to him. Joe winds a couple fingers around hers. “I’m grateful for that, for you. For now though, I want to play smart. Do all that I can in football and keep my options open for when the right time comes for me to transition.”

“I like that word. Transition. Like a new phase in life.”

Joe nods. “Yeah, don’t know if I’m ready for a new phase right now. But I know it’ll come eventually. Want to be ready for it.”

“A new phase, alright. Put a couple babies in your arms fighting for their daddy’s attention.”

Joe’s cheeks warm, partially due to the growing heat but also at the thought of kids—the kids he has with her. Kids that have her kind eyes, and her nose. Kids with hair textures and types that he has to wrestle with to get right, but once he learns how to do it, he’s a pro at it. Kids that run into his legs with the echoes of his own laughter ringing back at him as they shout, Mommy said to ask you if we could have ice cream before dinner?

His heart aches, yearns for a thing that scares him just a little. But he laughs, eyes finding hers through the light pink tint of her sunshades. “That sounds wonderful.”

In terms of their sexual dynamic, experience levels vary. Joe’s still relatively inexperienced when it come to the BDSM thing. He’s only ever been the submissive to Domme. He’s only ever really experienced that with her, so this is where swinging parties come into play. Domme doesn’t want Joe to feel like he’s gotten caged in, or forced into something where he doesn’t have equal footing in. She asks him to explore the scene, tells him he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do and he never has to go alone. 

Domme wants him to figure himself out, even if it means Joe discovers he only wants what they have with her. Domme is a sharer. She was in that polyamorous relationship for years for good reason.  It’s not to say she can’t do monogamy. She can and loves being in the relationship with Joe. Domme just had more time to understand herself, to share and grow through those experiences. That’s the thing she wants for Joe too, to have the space for the messy and the complicated, and to figure it all out. 

Joe’s okay with some aspects and not others and they always, always discuss those boundaries days in advance of a party and for a couple days afterwards too. Domme can’t help it though. She loves to watch Joe’s face light up, the slight mischievous grin he levels at her when he finds something new, something else he enjoys. It’s like Christmas for them. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary is the well loved position between the two of them. It’s intimate, gives them both the ease of access that they want each other. It’s sacrificial in the way neither one of them feels like they’re truly giving anything up. There’s only something to be gained—the soft ‘uh-uh-uh’s’ ghosting up over Joe’s face from Domme’s lips, Joe’s exhaled whines, the sound that escapes him that Domme swears should be illegal, gives her a high even when it shouldn’t. 

But they have second favorites too. Positions that may not be utilized often but are so loved when they do come out. Domme easily loves it when she has Joe bent over in front of a mirror, watching the way his eyes slip close at the work of her fingers inside of him. When his lips have gone red from how hard he’s biting down on them. “No, pretty boy, I need you to make all the noise you want,” Domme reprimands, tugging at his chin. 

Joe’s jaw drops open, face pressed into the pillow, a strangled and broken moan scratching over his lungs and throat. 

“There we fucking,” Domme hisses, replacing her fingers with the strap. Joe pushes back, another groan ripped out from his body. “Go,” she concludes. 

His head is always so heavy on his neck. Joe’s much too weak, too far under to object when she gathers a palmful of his hair and tugs his head up. “Watch yourself,” she growls into his skin. 

All Joe can make out is how dark his eyes are, pupils blown out wide, how his mouth can’t stay close. He doesn’t hear any of the obscene noises he’s making just watching her. He focuses on how strong her arms look now that she’s flexing to keep his head up, how she’s kneeling on the bed behind him, hips thrusting relentlessly against the back of his thighs and ass. Domme looks so perfect like this that Joe swears it’ll make him come faster if he stares too long at her. 

Joe’s a big fan of cowgirl. He can still watch over Domme’s face, watch the way she grins down at him, but now he can take in more of her too, the way her thighs tense with the work of her hips. Her hands can roam, skating over his chest and it’s same openness as before, access to each other with no hindrance. 

He can take hold of her hips, press his thumb into the space around her stomach and the bone. Not in any effort to control, just to feel her body, feel the muscles working under his palm. There’s eye contact, the flutter of her lashes. And there’s Joe, giving himself up, wrist sometimes pinned to the bed either by force or by verbal demand. He’s more than happy to give up everything he has. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Neither Joe or Domme are goofy during sex after the dominant/submissive dynamic blossomed. Previously, they were a little bit, a chuckle here and there. Maybe a passing comment, but humor was never the underpinning for their intimacy. And certainly humor doesn’t find its way into sex now with the dynamic shift. It’s not that they don’t recognize the levity in the moments when they do happen—a fart, a queef, the garbled mess of sounds that are supposed to be words but most certainly are not actually intelligible words. 

Sex is such a vulnerable space for them. There is such a humility in the act alone that they both tend to hold the space sacred. There’s a lot of teasing grins, a lot goading. “Oh, it’s that good to you, baby. You can’t even talk right, can you? So fucking gone you can’t get your words out.”

Joe and Domme are gentle, reverent, and careful of each other during the act. It’s usually after the moment passes, after they’re both cleaned up, wrapped up in the sheets that the jokes seep out. Joe has reconnected about 75% of his body and mind back together so he breaks the holy silence. “So, are we going to talk about the fact that I definitely farted during that or just going to let it go for now?”

Domme snickers into the crown of his head, his hair tickling the opening of her nose. “I was attempting to spare your dignity.”

“I don’t need dignity. Just need you.” He burrows in against her chest, lips barely pressing down to her flesh. 

“I think you should have some dignity. But I swear to Christ if you fart like that again, I’m pulling a red light and we’re taking a time out for the day.”

“I thought I was done being gassy! We waited a whole extra day just to be sure. Besides, it’s not my fault. You’re the one that folded me up like that.”

“You liked it though,” Domme murmurs, cupping his cheek, thumb stroking the skin that’s not freshly shaven, but not quite stubbly yet either. 

“I did. A lot,” Joe laughs. It’s breathy and she knows he won’t last longer than another ten minutes on her chest. So the room falls quiet again, interrupted eventually by the softest snore. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The first time Domme gets to see Joe naked, well before they bring the dominant/submissive dynamic seeps into their relationship, she almost laughs. Not out of actual humor, but out of pure jealousy. Of course he looks like a god sculpted in marble. Of course he’s somehow perfectly hairy without it being overbearing. It’s neat and tidy, perfection really. It’s unfair. Truly unfair. 

But it has to be a fluke. A one off, because there’s no way he’s this groomed all the time. But Domme is so wrong. Joe’s actually this well groomed. All. The. Damn. Time. 

After the fourth or fifth time they’re intimate, Domme hums, head titled as she looks up at Joe. 

“Is something…wrong?” Joe asks, it feels strange to be asking, but he is worried. She’s always looked at him carefully. Always had a calculus in her gaze about him that’s made Joe’s stomach knot up and feel at ease at the same time. Comfortable, and calm, but aware that it’s only been a few months of them together, that what he’s feeling should scare him more than it does. And the fact that he’s not scared is what actually scares him. Because when he’s around Domme, tucked up on couch cushions with Netflix playing in front of them or sitting across from each other out for dinner, Joe’s so at ease. 

“I think I’m hallucinating. There’s no way you’re always this trimmed up. It has to be magic.”

And Joe shouldn’t. He fucking laughs, a deep and bellowed sound all from his gut. “We’re literally naked right now and you’re talking about my pubic hair?”

“It’s so neat!” Domme defends. “I can’t be blamed for noticing that.”

“It’s just easier on me to keep it that way, for football. But like, really, this is the time you bring it up?”

“So, you’re telling me you don’t look at the presentation of your meal before you dive in?”

Joe blushes, a full body heat that spreads, chest warming first alongside his cheeks and then it grows until the tips of his ears are hot. “Well, when you put it like that,” he murmurs. 

“Exactly. And this meal looks perfectly presented if you ask me.” Her voice drops, hand grasps the length of him. Joe’s head drops into the back of the couch cushions, exhale shakily leaving his chest before the wet heat of her mouth and tongue settle over him. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Romance is not a singular aspect of sex for Domme and Joe. Romance is the sex. It is the point of it, to feel interwoven with each other. The point of sex is not just to be intimate for intimacy's sake but sex is an expression of the gratitude and romance that they feel for each other. Romance is not something they’re trying to keep alive. It is the entirety of what they do. Romance is how they say I love you without the words and sex is just an extension of that desire, of that foundational principle: they can’t take the other person’s presence for granted. 

Joe doesn’t need Domme in his life. But he wants it. He craves the calm that she brings. Domme doesn’t need Joe. But she loves the way he brings a new perspective to her world, allows her to consider things she hadn’t thought about. She loves that for Joe, it’s about ensuring just as much as she protects him, just as much as she can and does step in front, that she doesn’t forget herself in the process. 

They are two complete beings on their own. However, being together is what makes them better people in the long run. Joe’s a better person because he knows in order to continue to have Domme he has to do the work. He has to continue to want and choose her. For Domme to continue to have Joe in her life, she has to continue to show up. There are no days off for their relationship. There are off days for sure. Days that they’re both worn too thin and don’t have a full tank, but it’s on those days that they do show up with they do have and do the best they can. 

Joe drops his bag off in the laundry room and the washer is empty but the dryer’s still got the clothes from last night in them. It’s dry but this is the third time this month that Domme’s left the laundry in the dryer. Which isn’t the worst offense in the world. Joe’s just already sore from practice. He’s tired. He just wants to drop his sweaty clothes into the machine and go. He does not want to have to load up the basket and lug it up the steps again. But he does it any how, the basket bumping against his hip the entire way up the stairs. Joe can’t be bothered with folding but at least the clean clothes are upstairs for later. 

When Domme gets home later, pressing a kiss to Joe’s cheek before she excuses herself to the bathroom to shower and to change before dinner. Her feet ache terribly. The heels were a bad idea, too high and too skinny. There, sitting in the closet is the basket of clean clothes. “Shit,” she sighs and takes the fifteen minutes or so to fold what she can, even if she has no energy to put it away. 

Joe slithers into the room just as Domme rolls up the last of his socks. “I thought you were going to shower,” he hums. 

“Sorry for leaving the laundry again. I thought I set a timer on my phone so I wouldn’t leave it and I guess I didn’t.”

“Thanks for folding the clothes.” Because Joe doesn’t want to say it’s okay but he gets that things happen. It was not intentional and even if it’s annoying, Joe knows that they’re not in the game of picking apart the small things. Not when they’re both looking for years together. It’s not about keeping a tally. 

“Least I could do. I don’t have it in me to put it away, but I didn’t want anything to wrinkle at the very least.” Domme looks up from where she’s settled on the floor, the bench behind her holds an assortment of piles of their clothes. 

“I’ll take it.” Joe nods towards the bathroom. “I’ll get the shower started if you want. Or I can get your clothes ready. Whichever you prefer.”

“Thanks for understanding. I know it’s the third time I’ve done this.”

“We’ll triple check that alarm next time.”

“Quadrouple check it. And if you don’t mind just helping me off the floor I can handle the rest.”

Joe crosses the room and helps Domme to her feet again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We said no hiding, no shying away from our mistakes and mishaps. I don’t love you any less over dry clothes left behind.” It’s not lost on Joe that this could be worse. He’ll take clean and dry clothes left behind. 

“I feel bad. I know how annoying it is.”

“Next time,” Joe whispers. 

What a beautiful sound, to know they can get it wrong right now and that they have opportunities to get it right. Domme nods into his chest. “Next time. Do you mind picking out my clothes? I don’t think I’ll get started again if I sit down.”

“I don’t mind at all. I got you.”

Domme’s called Joe twice. Each time it’s gone straight to voicemail. She huffs and tries a third time. He should’ve landed by now. It’s been a couple hours since the scheduled arrival and there was no indication that there was a delay. She usually gets a text by now. The third call goes the same as the last, with no answer, right to voicemail. This time she decides to leave a voicemail, pinching the bridge of her noise between her forefinger and thumb when the automated voice tells her that the voicemail box is full. She shoots off a quick text, Hope you made it safely. Can you give me a call when you’re free? 

The text message lifts and she doesn’t even watch to see if it gets marked as Delivered. Instead, she goes on, finds a bag of popcorn to pop and tries to find something to melt her worry temporarily on TV. The sound of her phone ringing from the kitchen wakes her. It’s a faint chime but loud enough it pierces the edges of her subconscious and Domme pushes up from the couch cushions. The bowl of popcorn is on the coffee table. Netflix is asking if she’s still watching. The outside is dark, like the bowels of an alleyway at midnight dark. Winter’s favorite trick because as Domme scurries into the kitchen to answer the call before it ends, she notices it’s just after 8:30. She answers with her name, tasting her tongue for the first time since she jolted awake. It’s dry and Domme wipes at the corner of her mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. Never took the phone off airplane mode. When my phone shook earlier I thought it was you and then I realized later right before meetings, that it was a notification about the text not going through. I’m really sorry.”

“Jetlag is kicking your ass, huh?”

Joe laughs. Both of them will be grateful for the bye week, when there’s an extra few days for him to recover, a few more days to spend with each other too. “A little. I just—,” he exhales around the words before finishing them. “Are we too old to say we miss nap time? Felt like I should’ve taken one on the flight but was too wired to sleep.”

“No, we’re not too old to miss nap time.” Domme knows this is the space to ask, to invite Joe to tell her more but she doesn’t necessarily feel like she’s in the best state for it. “I accept your apology. We’re human at the end of the day. It happens.”

“Still I know I probably worried you. Flight was fine. No issues. I’m okay.”

“I’m really glad you got there safely.” She is relieved. She really is. Just also annoyed, but actively trying to let it pass. It wasn’t malicious. It’s silent between them, the passing minutes thicker than they’d usually feel. But not uncomfortable. “What’s on the menu for dinner?”

“The guys are deciding that right now. So I’m not sure. Needed to call you.”

“I haven’t blown away either. We’re okay. I don’t think I’m that fragile.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He sounds less strained, less panicked though Joe’s never really panicked. But Domme catches the frayed edges and now they sound more solid. “Next time, right?”

“Yeah,” Domme agrees readily. “There’s always going to be a next time.”

The romance can feel clinical at times, with the way they talk through certain scenes and desires. But it works and as long as it works, that’s all that matter. “I don’t think I want ten hits with the flogger. I worry with the season coming up that’s too much,” Joe states.

“Where’s your cut off? Do you have a number in mind?”

“Somewhere north of five, but I’m struggling to find the ceiling.”

“Does eight sound too high or too low?” It’s a soft lob, a starting point for them to work from. 

“Too high.”

“Seven?”

“That’s the cap, I feel.”

“Seven it is then.”

But the truth of the matter is that when they’re in scene, when Domme’s sucking her teeth at how much Joe’s trembling. When she’s being mean because he asked for it, they both know she’s not going to take it too far. “Five,” Joe exhales. It hangs in the air. It stings, like it’s always supposed to. Yet, for a moment, Joe’s almost going to say that he’s done. That he doesn’t want the last two.

He doesn’t have to say it though. Domme’s cold hands, which Joe usually likes to tease her about, cut through the red hot sting in the best way possible. Her nose brushes along his ribs, towards his spine. “You’re being so strong for me.” Domme’s voice is like molasses, thick, and slow. 

She’s buying him time. Giving him the space to do his own mental assessment, if he wants to proceed or not. And Joe never has to beg for it because Domme sees it. She always sees it. The flats of her palm ease over his waist and Joe shivers at the tender touch. The flogger is gone, like she already knew not to bring it near him for the moment.

“And if you don’t want to be strong,” Domme whispers, “if you’re done, you can always tell me. It’s alright.”

The wall holds the print of Joe’s palms after she eases them down, smooths her hands over his shoulders and biceps, down to his elbows and then Domme presses down. “I think the last two can be done with my hands, easier on you that way. You still want seven?”

Joe’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of the alternative, of finding something else than the flogger. But the perfect sting of her palm is a heaven sent idea. He nods. “It has been a minute since you took me over your knee.”

Domme’s laugh is all a puffy exhale into his shoulder blades. “God, you make it sound like I’m a grandmother dishing out discipline. You asked for this.”

“I want that. The last two. With your hand.” 

“Follow me then.” 

Domme walks them backwards, her hands flat against his chest. Joe eases back step by step. He takes the directions with ease and Domme holds him the entire way. Her body pressed into his is grounding, reminds him that he still in fact is alive. In the best way possible and the woman holding him loves him so deeply to see where he might not be capable of going all the way. But there’s no judgement. Just the soft reassurance, You’re being so strong for me. 

“Doing so well, baby,” she coos just as they stop. “So fucking well for me. You don’t mind if I’m a little less mean?”

“You’re always a little mean.”

“I know. Because I know you like it. But if I take it down a notch, that’s okay, yeah?” Domme pairs the question with a kiss to his spine. 

“Yeah,” Joe nods. Because she’s not going to let him shatter. Domme’s not going to leave him broken. 

“Good. Stay where I put you. I’ve got you.” Domme always does. 

Romance seeps out with them. When Joe tells Domme, “Tonight, I’m going to see how loud you can get,” it’s not arrogance that laces the words. It’s awe, and pure wonder. It’s the flowers in damn near every room. It’s the way he takes her hand after her shower, settles onto the stool of her vanity and unscrews the jar to her body butter, patting at his lap. “Leg please.”

It’s the sound of his rough palms warming the lotion up before working it up her calf, fingers kneading at the muscle for just a moment. “Just to make sure it’s all absorbed.” Even though they both know in just a few minutes, Domme’s going to be writhing in the freshly laundered sheets. She’s going to have her fingers in his hair, going to scream his name. 

Joe’s going to inhale at the seam of her pelvis so deeply, she’s going to worry for a moment that he’s going to choke himself. “God, I don’t think I’ll ever get over that—the smell of you,” he’ll whisper, mouth, tongue, and nose delving into her. Not to make a mess, but just to worship there. Joe considers this the same as nightly prayers. To hum into Domme’s pussy, “So fucking good,” over and over again.

Because that’s an I love you too. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

The miles are long and wide. 

Just don’t tell Joe that he’s only 290 miles away. Don’t tell him that it’s really just a few hours, a five hour drive, a couple hour flight when chartered specifically for the purposes of getting to and from games. 

But 290 is still a lot. More than he cares to have in this exact moment. More miles that Joe thinks he can handle presently. They’re careful even if the texts themselves are explicitly charged. There’s a rather strict rule that neither one of them sends nudes or lewds via text. It brings about too much risk than Joe feels comfortable with. Cybersecurity may not exactly be what he got his degree in, but Joe’s much too cautious to risk anyone seeing Domme like that—that’s for him and him only. 

So it leaves them with text message. The text messages hit home in a different way. On the surface they can look so plain, just white text on blue backgrounds. Only, for Joe, it’s the fact that when he slips his eyes close one hand tugging at his aching cock, he can see her dancing behind his eyelids, hear the way she’d dip her voice, Slower, no one’s in a rush here. In his mind’s eye, Joe can feel the warm wet heat of her tongue over his chest, how she’d kiss him, lick, suckle at his nipples just to hear him whine. 

It makes his back arch off the bed a little, fist still full of himself—up and down, up and down, a twist here, the press of his thumb at his leaking tip. You sound so pretty when you’re this fucking needy, when you need me this bad that you can’t even wait, hotel door barely closed, I’d guess. I can hear it now. Your fist sloppy over your cock. Do you wish I was there? Wish it was my mouth? I know I do. 

Domme’s always right too. 

The thing that kills Joe, when he’s like this, when he’s away from home and his body burns for her, when he can’t keep the fire at bay, when it’s just him and his hands, is that he always wishes she was right there. Joe wishes it was her mouth, her tongue, her hands, her rumbled satisfaction. 

And when he cums, when his hot sticky release is painting his lower stomach, Joe’s always heaving, staring down at the mess he’s made but knows it’s no real comparison. Made such a mess. Know with you it would be way worse. Real bummer is that I know you’d clean it up too, lick me clean, savor the taste of me. It’s all wasted now. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Your pleasure is my pleasure. And this pleasure is ours, be it that it’s always safe, sane, consensual. 

That’s how Domme described it Joe years ago, resting on her couch in her old apartment. Their first 3W’s lists in their laps. Joe was too preoccupied by the thick coo of her voice, how softly she brushed her hand over his knee over the sweatpants to hear it all and understand what it all meant. His mind flooded with the thought of how he’d walk on hot coals if she asked him too, just as long as she kept talking to him like that, her voice confident without needing to be loud. 

And yes, wanting to please your partner is not a kink in and of itself. But that’s the fundamental piece, the underpinning of everything they do. If it’s not bringing pleasure, then they don’t do it. But if it is bringing pleasure, and it’s as safe, and as sane, and consensual, then they’re doing it. Domme loves to be a little mean, starts off nice with just her hand and then brings out the crop, the flogger, when she really wants Joe to itch, feel like his skin is on fire, she has him sit, wrapped tied back behind him in the chair. Sometimes she anchors his ankles, most often she leaves them be. His cock angry, and leak, tucked perfectly into a ring. 

Joe’s chest blares red, his chin guided back so he can look at her in the eye. And oh that arch, that arch makes his toes curl against the carpeted floors of the bedroom. “I’m sorry,” he exhales. 

“We’re past apologies.” But Domme can feel the crotch of her panties dampening. Can smell herself faintly too. Joe’s not often bad. He’s much too eager to be a brat. But every so often he pushes the line and she can tell by the spark in his eyes, those blue irises growing darker and she grins in return to accept his challenge. “And do you know why we’re here? Why you’re in this chair? Why you’re wearing that ring?”

“Because I didn’t listen.”

“How exactly did you fail to listen?”

“I didn’t count.” Because he’s supposed to do that. Not just for an additional safety but because Domme likes the quake in his voice sometimes. How hot the numbers fall, how he hisses. And he likes that, knowing that she likes it. 

“And why didn’t you count?”

Because I wanted this, Joe thinks to himself as his cock aches inside the ring—a delicious ache too. Not too tight that he worries about his safety, but just tight enough to make him almost regret his choice. Teetering on that edge, the space between too much and not enough, is a place Joe thinks he’d crave forever as long as it’s Domme at the helm, as long as it’s her making him feel this way. But Joe needs to answer. He pulls in an inhale, deep into his chest and then exhales out, “Because I wanted to see how angry I could make you.”

“You do realize that if you want me to be mean, all you have to do is ask right?”

“Then I need you to be brutal. Please, Miss.”

It makes Domme’s knees damn near buckle, how his eyes flutter on the words, like tasty something sweet for the first time—a new favorite in the making. Domme reaches down, palm skimming over his chest and her fists is tight and unforgiving as she grips his balls. Her second hand takes a fistful of his hair and tugs his head even further back on his neck. A lick of pain at both ends that mixes hot in his belly. Joe’s not sure if it’s a groan, or a moan—perhaps, some combination of both leaves his lips. 

“Baby, I need you to realize one thing,” she hisses.

“And what’s that?”

“Only good boys cum. And you’re in for it now.”

Joe catches the gleam in her eyes, the way her lips curl and his stomach jumps again. She loves this just as much as he does. And goddamn, that’s the most addicting part to this whole thing. “I can be good,” he promises. 

“I know you can, love. Do you want to be good for me now?”

A silly question. Because Joe wants to be good for her. He is good for her. Except when he wants to be a little bad, except when he wants to dig his heels in and get himself into some sticky situations. 

Joe tries to nod but the grip tightens in his hair. A pathetic and broken moan leaves his lips. “Yes, Miss, I want to be good.”

Her hold tightens around his sac, enough to make Joe loses his breath and he swears even though it does hurt, it’s that sting that makes the release so much better, makes the high even higher. “Going to cry about it?” Domme laughs when the first one slips down his cheek. Her tongue is hot again his cheek, sucking the salty drop off his skin. 

“Shit,” Joe huffs when she releases him—scalp throbbing in time with his crotch. “Yes, I’ll cry about it if you want me too.”

The pat to his cheek is firm. Not enough to leave a mark and to hurt, but it does leave a little bit behind, a small ting. The pads of her feels curl around his cheek. Another few tears are slow down his skin and Domme settles onto him, straddling his thigh as she does so, her clothed pussy soaking into his muscle. “Such a good boy for me,” she hums. 

Joe tenses his thigh, wants her to use him as she sees fits and knows by the slow drag that use him, Domme is going to do, taking herself to the brink on the muscle. She laughs, fingers now digging into his jaw. Her eyes are fluttering close though as she drags her cunt up his leg. “Shit, so good to me.”

Their mouths don’t connect into a kiss, too open for it, but the exhale of her moan becomes Joe’s inhale. Mouths wide open and brushing. “Please.” Joe’s really not sure what he’s asking for. Whether it’s him asking Domme to use him or something else like give into him, continue to tell him just how good he is. But he just knows needs something. 

Joe knows Domme is always going to answer. She’s always going to know. Her hand drags down from his jaw to his throat. Domme presses in at the sides. Hard enough to make him gasp, hard enough to take some air, but not all of it. He slips, knows his body is in the chair, that his arms are still tied back, that his cock is screaming at him now to cum, but he’s too consumed with the hot touch, the breath that whispers of his skin, the way his muscles go almost liquid at Domme’s work. And it’s heaven. 

It’s the only place he wants to be. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom—it’s the safest place for both of them. Joe feels most at ease in the comfort of their shared home, the pieces of their existence tucked safely away from the outside word. It’s controlled, built to their needs, hidden nooks and crannies that when unfurled reveal what happens when no one else is looking, when they can be present with each other with no other distractions. 

The bedroom has the hidden jewels. The bins and hooks. It is their stage, always prepped for them. Both Domme and Joe know this dance well. Where to reach for the lube, which drawers to pull open for the blindfolds and silks to tie up hands. It’s easy, and comfortable. Joe can count the steps, knows the distance even face down into the mattress, even when he can’t see. 

It’s fun to take it new places. Joe will also think about taking Domme over the laundry room table. He’ll always get a little flashback to Domme between his legs in the living room, the squeeze of her throat, his hands fisted into her hair and into the cushions. Joe will also carry the sound of Domme’s laugh when he picked her up and set her onto the kitchen counter, the heat of the oven on their backs and the bite of the cold tile as Joe kneeled. There’s the time on the deck, the two of them stretched out, hands slipping under clothes, the sighs of them shared with each other. 

But home, in the bedroom specifically, is the most beloved place. 

Home is where Domme lets the carpet dig into her knees, runs her hands over Joe’s thighs, grinning up at him as he grins down at her. The bed holding the weight of him with ease. Home is where Joe rests Domme’s leg over his shoulder, mouth latching to her inner thighs, sighing at the way she taste and he can stretch, reach out to the bedside table and knows exactly what’s inside.

They’ve invested a good amount of time and money customizing the master bedroom for their needs. Domme turned an empty and awkward gap into a DIY’d sex toy closet with just a few pieces of wood, screws, and pegboards, to reveal the whips, and floggers is an exhilarating piece of knowledge—filthy secrets shared just between Joe and Domme, a rush just for them. 

Why wouldn’t they want to enjoy all that?

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

For Joe: Domme only needs to be alive and breathing for him to be turned on. 

Sometimes all it takes for him is just the crack of his eye, to see her in bed next to him, soft snores leaving her lips, her face smashed into the pillow, brow furrowed like she’s in the midsts so something important in her dreams. And knowing Domme, she most certainly is—saving cats from trees, falling into bottomless pits and seeing her childhood self, riding waves on a beach with Joe at the shore cheering her on. Her dreams are grandiose, and sometimes terrifying, but always filled with something big. 

Joe likes her best in one of his t-shirts paired with sweatpants, huddled up under a blanket. When she’s lounging, head propped up on pillows, laughing at a show she’s watched a thousand times, softly reciting her favorite lines to herself—which Joe can only stand her to do when he’s not actively watching the show with her. Joe will come slithering in, sliding up her body, nestle between her legs, resting his head in the valley of her breasts. Sometimes it’s just to the lay there, for the comfort of being close to her. Other times, it’s so he can move further north or south, kiss at her throat, or down her stomach. It’s always a dice roll on where he lands. But he will find somewhere to go, that’s for sure. 

He loves it when Domme dresses up of course, the heels, or loafers, or flats. Loves it when she’s in a dress that looks like it was stitched onto her body and he’d have to cut her out of it. Loves the low cut tops. Loves the midriff. Loves the peek of her ass cheeks in denim cut offs. But Joe does’t need all that, he doesn’t need the glitz and the glamour. He just needs Domme, in the way she rakes her fingers through his hair, calls him handsome like it’s his fucking name, laughs at him when he gets pouty but always answers the call. Joe just needs Domme to be her, and that’s it. 

For Domme: Joe only needs to be alive and breathing for her to be turned on. 

The way he looks when he wakes first wakes up, hair spiked from his sleep, the creases of the pillowcase etched into his face, his soft sleepy smile—that makes her knees tremble. The wrinkle of his brow when he’s settled onto the floor of the living room, pieces of legos or a puzzle spread out in front of him, the little peek of tongue between his lips as he concentrates—that makes her heart skip a beat and she wants to ruin him. She doesn’t. Not every single time. Sometimes she does. 

Sometimes, Domme catches Joe fiddling with the puzzle they have half finished on the coffee table with a few pieces between his fingers, hovering and hovering until he finds where they go. He’s sometimes shirtless, most times in a hoodie. Domme slinks her way over, scoots in between his legs, her back pressed into his chest. And Joe opens his arms up to her, widen his legs for her to fit. And if she turns, after pressing a couple pieces into place, and kisses at his jaw, hands smoothing over his chest as she goes, Joe never complains. 

Not even a peep.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Joe’s not a complicated man—or so he likes to say. 

But he is a terrible sharer. It’s the thing he checks in the most about with Domme, that she’s okay with the closed door policy they have in place for sex with others. Joe’s aware of Domme’s past, the polyamorous relationship she was in previous to him. The parties and clubs she’s played at and how she used to play at those clubs—the escapades of two or three other people, not just in the same night, but at the same time. Joe never wants her to feel like a piece of her is cut off or that she has to cut off a piece of herself. But Joe’s thought about it—them having a third person in the relationship, or sleeping with others on the side even if not together—and he doesn’t want that. 

Joe doesn’t want anyone else to have Domme like that. He doesn’t want anyone else to take her apart like that. Not out of insecurity. Joe knows Domme’s not going to leave him. But because he’s too goddamn selfish. He wants to do that himself. Wants to be used and of use to Domme in ways that will send him to hell, and he does not give the slightest fuck about it. It’s his job to be subservient like that, to give everything he has, everything he is over to her in those moments. It’s his responsibility. May God bless whose ever soul or whatever obstacle that attempts to thwart him. 

And if Domme can’t sleep with someone else, Joe’s not going to sleep with anyone else too. It’s going to be fair—through and through for them. So, threesomes, are off the table. Domme tells him he can, that Joe can take it there if he really wants, but Joe doesn’t. He just wants Domme. It sounds bad, Joe can admit that. Domme tells him all the time that she understands, that she’s not looking to do what she does with anyone else but him. But Joe cares, so deeply about her, wants her to feel safe with him like he does with her. 

So they don’t swing like that. They never take past the flirting, past the kissing, past the glances when they go to swinging parties. But it’s a glorious sight. For Joe to be tucked into a corner, or with Scarlett draped over him, watching Domme work the room, allure, dazzle, eyes bright. But they always find each other, gazes drifting until they lock on each other. Like magnets. 

They don’t do anything dangerous—or not severely dangerous. Breatheplay, and choking is always fun in small doses. But things that involve a high likelihood of blood is a no-go. Joe watch teasing the sharp edge of knife over the sub’s skin, not hard enough to draw blood. Yet, his heart raced the entire time, watching. Worry filling him as Joe considered that it could cut, that it could hurt, that it could sting and had to look away, and buried his face into her temple, inhaling the sweet scent of Domme.

“C’mon, we can find something else.” It’s all Domme said before she led them both out of the room, a cool slither around the bodies gathered. “We don’t have to do that,” she offered in the quiet hallway. 

“I-thank you,” Joe exhaled, squeezing her hand. Because she saw him. Without words, without judgement. His stomach still churned, but at the very least he did not have to watch any longer. Not that, not while thinking about her and how much his hands would tremble, how much the mere thought makes him want to puke. 

Though Domme’s capable to handling some pain, Joe can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t imagine landing a blow to her skin. Sure, he’s slapped her ass in passing, while she was at the bathroom sink brushing her teeth. Sure he’s shadowed boxed her, fake punches that she never flinches away from, but he’d never want to hurt her. Not a flogger, not a paddle, hell, not even words. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Domme jokes—well, mostly jokes—that one of these days she’s going to get a Certificate of Excellence in Eating Pussy for Joe. “It will be presented,” Domme teases. “Framed and everything.”

Joe laughs, but feels the flush of his cheeks. His ears grow hot too. “That’s…a little much.” What he really wants to say is that it’s perfect, that his gut flutters at the thought. It’s no secret that he likes the praise. Even if Joe wanted it to be kept a secret, it would secrete. The truth would leak out even in his teasing, You like that? 

“You say that now,” Domme laughs, one hand sliding up his chest. Her palm presses into the muscle, right over his heart. “But I’ll always know the truth.”

Joe exhales at the soothing action. Domme touches him with assuredness, an easy confidence to her actions. Every ounce of tension that Joe could hold falls with the caress. He has no reason to have the bravado with her, in the middle of their kitchen, a shared bowl of grapes between them. Their skin soft and hot from the shower. The memory of sharing each other is fresh, how Domme cooed and huffed for Joe. How Joe whined, hands full of her hips that guided her rhythm. Or maybe, he was following it? Not that it matters now. Every bit of the sex reverent—and vanilla, but still great. 

The secret though, to the sheer joy of Joe’s devotion to oral, is the hazy look Domme gets when Joe comes back a little sweaty from the gym or a run, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her eyes are slow, taking in every millimeter of Joe. Joe feels the heat of her gaze before he can see her, how she undresses him from halfway across the room, how she’s painting him muscle by muscle in her memory—his thighs clenched, breathing ragged, fists curled either with sheets, or couch cushions, or with her. 

As often as Joe’s between Domme’s thigh, she’s between his, on her knees, fingers digging into his hips. The slurp back is loud and thick—utterly vile. But Domme doesn’t care, not with her senses so full of Joe’s salty taste. The way he smells, the brush of his tip at the back of her throat, the way his taut skin over his throbbing cock feels like velvet against her tongue. 

Joe’s breath leave him in short gasps, his chest and stomach tensing. “Jesus Christ,” he whines from beneath her. 

But he’s watching, the bob of her head, the way her lips and chin have a shine to them. The way she pulls back, one hand wrapped around the base of him and her grin feels sinister and holy all together in a messy mixture—a woman possessed, Joe’s come to realize. He loves it. He loves that she loves it. That Domme can hold this act just as tenderly and close to her heart as Joe does. Domme traces the vein under the head of him, so softly it almost feels too sacred for the act. Her eyes are glassy, almost like she’s pleading. Joe’s never sure if it’s to herself, to him. But she never seems satisfied until she’s got him down her throat again, until Joe’s bucking up into her mouth and hands, skin hot and muscles aching for release. 

When she gets like this, there’s nothing to do but succumb. Her hands are everywhere, fires licking at his skin until he’s back in her mouth. “I think I could stay here all day,” she heaves, pulled away just long enough to get the sentence out and then she dives right back in. 

The scratch has the perfect sting, the drag of her nails up his inner thighs. Joe swears he can’t get any harder, but the delicious pricks, the hum of her enjoyment nearly convince him that he could get harder. He always cums hard, almost folding in on himself, one hand reaching for her shoulder, the other bracing against whatever surface she back him into or onto. There’s always stars behind the squeeze of his eyes, silver bursts that remind Joe that he’s still in fact human and that if he’s not careful around Domme, she will be the death of him. 

The first real inhale Joe takes post orgasm always feels like he’s breaking the surface tension, like coming up for air after being underwater. And Domme’s always there, head resting into his thigh, his soft cock in her hands still. She looks memorized, enamored in a way can only make Joe melt. 

“You okay?” The question comes from Domme, paired with the shuffle of her head, not off his thigh, but with more of a tilt so she can look up at him. 

Joe can do nothing but back the back her head, tangle his fingers into her hair, or trace at her scalp. “I saw Neptune, I’m pretty sure.”

“How is it this time of year?” 

Joe laughs, like always, and wipes at her chin, thumb collecting the remnants of his seed off the corner of her mouth. It’s still hot, not yet cooled, but Joe sucks it off his thumb, the combination of her saliva and himself—a combination he’s used to, the way it’s got a heady top and an earthy middle. “Lovely,” he whispers in reply. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Pacing all depends on what the scene is, what’s needed, and what time of year is it. 

In the off season, they love to take their time. It’s Domme rolling out the red carpet, so to speak, the bath before she’s kneading at his shoulders, drags her palms over his back, elbows digging into toughened-by-use grooves  in muscles. It’s the meat of her thumbs pressing into the palms of his hands. The oil thick enough to be felt and provide slip, but thin enough to absorb partially, an earthy scent coating the room with a little mint to cut through. It’s slow and methodical, the soft hush of their voices to make sure pressure is okay, to encourage breathing through the rather harsh sting of some knots. Never too much to do more damage than good, Domme’s well aware there’s a whole team dedicated to keeping Joe in his top shape, but this practice is intentional. It’s intimate, and sometimes even a little silly as Joe laughs at Domme’s whispered curses at the one knot in his lower back, but it’s for them. 

It’s Domme kissing at the back of Joe’s ear, her hands cupping his bicep as she does before she asks, “Anywhere else you need me?” 

And Joe’s gut stir, cock jumping at the low and purred question. He grins, eyes blinking open to see the shadow of her over him. “Yeah, I’ve got a few places in mind.”

It’s Joe working at the arches of Domme’s feet, squeezing gently at her calves. Or serving the plate of breakfast that he made on the tray with a flower arraignment that Joe put together himself too. Feeding her bites off his plate though it’s the same thing, dabbing at the corner of her mouth when the syrup drips. It’s the series of kisses to her cheeks, laughing when she laughs, taking care of her. It’s Joe taking every second to be present, to be there in the moment with her. They’re slow and languid. Here, the sex is softer too, less about giving and receiving and more about experiencing. It’s the exhaled sighs in the middle of kisses that leave them both open mouthed and panting, the drive of hips a soft unhurried roll rather than a punishing punctuated thrust. A way to say that: I’m thinking of you. I love you. I’m here with you. 

During the season, there’s more urgency, both of them are always thinking about each other. Domme’s worried that Joe’s too sore, too tired. Joe’s worried that Domme’s carrying too much, focused too much on him and not enough on herself. They’re practiced here, well rehearsed rhythms. The sex is not robotic. But it cuts through with little fluff. 

It’s Joe’s soft rumbled voice at the dinner table, leaning in close to her, “You’re going to shower and then I’ll draw you a bath and it’ll be just us for the evening, and maybe a little something extra too. That okay?”

And that’s still exhilarating. That’s still gets a chill to run down her spine but Domme nods. “That’s perfect. You’ll join me for the bath, right?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s much more precise and exact in the way it’s executed. But always always soaked in care.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Domme’s up for a quickie, doesn’t mind tugging Joe into some bathroom when she can tell that they both need each other. When the heat’s too thick, too much, and it presses down on them like thick hot August air after a summer storm. It’s a little exhilarating to have the lock click shut, to be all hands, lips, and tongue. There’s such a thrill in racing against the clock. How long is too long for them to be missing from this party. How much time do they have before the knob rattles, even if it isn’t opened, it could be. This part of them is rare—usually only at parties that are mostly friends Joe knows, people he trusts. Never out at events like award shows, or parties for his endorsements. They maintain a certain level of professionalism in that realm. But the party that Ja’Marr’s throwing or some of his friends from Athens throwing a July 4th party—Joe’s grinning at the tug of Domme’s hand. 

Quickies aren’t routine for them though. They love to tease, it’s what makes the ending worth it. But quickies don’t always have the same pay out. But they are a treat. On the days that Domme’s working from home and she’s in itty bitty shorts that are driving Joe damn near insane. So much insane, he took a drive around the neighborhood, just to ease the bubbling in his veins. He stopped to get Domme her favorite treat, and a refresher for himself, only to come back to her in the kitchen on her lunch break, bent over in the bottom cabinets. 

“You’re asking for trouble, you know,” Joe whispers hotly into her ear when she stands back up. 

“Thank God trouble answered. Been asking for it all damn morning.”

And that’s all Joe needs before hands are down shorts, before kisses are sealed along jaws. 

It’s Domme at work, her chiming with a message from Joe. Thought you might like to see these. 

And it’s the damn shots from Media Day. Again. And it’s her watching the video loop over and over and over, feeling the arousal pool between her legs. Only to return home and straddle Joe at the end of his Monday night gaming sessions, fists curling around the edge of his sweatshirt, a hot Mine pushed out over Domme’s teeth before she’s sinking into his flesh. 

This all preceded of course by the text messages, the filthy and alluring words. Domme’s ominous If I were you, I’d be prepared. And it’s Joe’s sappy messages, I know you’re going to say I’m biased because I picked the outfit. But I just know you look breathtaking today in the pink. Can’t wait for you to get home to me. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Without risk, there is no reward. 

Risk is how Joe found out he could see the stars, that he could give himself totally and utterly to Domme and still feel like himself, perhaps he feels even more like himself because of it. Because he took the leap to trust her. Because she caught him, like she’s always done, and Joe knows she will always do. 

So they experiment, not so much now with the years under their belts, but they still keep curiosity in the bedroom, still check in on the 3W’s. But Joe’s not recording anything, not taking pictures on phones that’s for sure. 

There’s polaroids—a binder in a lockbox that’s in a fireproof safe. Joe brought it up originally. He’d had the camera in the cart for two weeks, toying on what he actually felt comfortable with doing. If he felt like it was safe enough for it. But then he envisioned it, how Domme might slip some into his travel bag, how he’d slip some into her work bag. Little pieces of themselves for the other to cherish, to hold onto when they are far. 

It’s not constant. 

They do it sporadically. Sometimes when Domme’s stretched out on the bed, body unfiltered in front of him Joe’s taken aback, breath catching in his throat. “I should take a picture,” he breathes, wanting to capture this moment forever in a way that will be untainted by the haze of memory. 

“You should,” Domme agrees and Joe digs it out from the drawer, fixes a few pieces of her hair, drapes the sheet just like he wants it over her and then he stands, on the mattress above her. The flash punches through the dimmed lights. The picture slips out, dark at first, muddled and then clears up, and painted in the film is Domme, mid laugh at Joe’s almost stumble, head thrown back. 

They come with Joe least expects them to show up. It’s been months since the last ones. Those were resting on his pillow after he returned home from a practice. And now, Joe’s settled onto the plane, about to reach for his eye mask for just a couple extra hours of sleep, only to find at nestled between the mask and his headphones is a white envelope. 

His heart races, eyes cutting to the seat next to him. Empty for now but Joe knows it won’t stay empty for long. So he peels back the flap, just long to see what’s inside. Polaroids as expected. And he catches a deep purple, close up and he slips it back close. God what has she done now? Joe thinks to himself as he slips it back into his bag, saving it for when he’s safely tucked into the hotel room. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

No one’s counting the hours, or the orgasms. It’s about letting things linger when they need. Domme drags the flogger after the biting sting, lets the buttery leather simmer against his skin. She watches Joe as he shivers, body and mind waiting for the next crack. And instead, he finds that the hot sting has yet to come. The drag is not quite a soothing act, but a reprieve. The exhale after the inhale. 

Sometimes it’s Joe kissing at her inner thighs, knows where he wants to be, where she wants him to be, but just needs this moment, the salt of her skin against his tongue. He needs to stay here, mere inches from her core, smelling it, watching it drip onto the sheets below her and savoring it. Tracking each movement, cataloguing the sighs, detailing out what he’s going to do next just for the anticipation. Just to watch her clench around nothing. 

All in all, Joe and Domme take their time. Sometimes, it’s fast. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it is just one or two orgasms. Sometimes, it’s too many to count, breaks in between of kissing, whispered filth or sweet everythings—You have no clue how much I needed that or Going to taste you again, but first just want to look at that gorgeous face of yours. God took His time with you, you know that? 

What’s most important is that at the end of it, they’re both satisfied. That they feel loved for, cared for, desired, and appreciated. It’s not always about meeting the sun on the next day—which has happened only a handful of times.

The first is perhaps the most memorable, considering it was also first time Domme truly spent more than just a night with Joe. They’d planned a whole weekend, local, but theirs. There are no deadlines, no travel waiting or interrupting them. It started with a retirement party for one of Domme’s coworkers and then it would be just time for them. Whatever they wanted, or needed.

The sink rushed from the bathroom and Joe noticed light above the curtains bouncing off the ceilings. That couldn’t have lasted all night and into morning. It really only felt like an hour, maybe two. But in the last waves, the soft press of the sheets after his shower, he glances at the alarm clock. 6:38 stared back at him. And it didn’t make sense for 6:38 in the evening. They hadn’t gotten home from the party until a little past 9 that evening. There was the debrief. And kissing, so much kissing, but neither one of them could help themselves. She tasted like the sweetness from her drinks of choice that night, felt like coming home when he held her in his arms. Domme laughed, told him that he should be locked up for being so easy to kiss, for making her need it as bad as she did. 

Then the touches grew heated, skating over breasts, digging into obliques. Kissing turned into moans, moans turned back into kissing. And it rotated like that, on an axis of kisses and reverence, of molten desire and affection, around and around and around. Yet, Joe couldn’t fathom that it’d been hours. Not when it felt like seconds. 

Joe’s eyes can barely stand to stay open. So perhaps, it was right. That they’d been at this, until the sun rose. Domme settled into the bed next to him, her weight dipping the mattress. “Is it morning?”

“It would appear so. I told you you were dangerous.”

Joe heard the words, tried to reply with something similar, a sentiment to echo You’re dangerous too. But he’s never been sure that he actually said that. 

Their normal though is to go for a couple hours at least, savor it, drink it all in. And if it’s one, or two, or sometimes even three orgasms in the mix then that’s perfect too. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Joe didn’t start out as a toy believer. 

It was and will always be important to Joe that it’s him getting Domme off. That it’s his work, his doing that’s bringing her over that ledge of pleasure. But toys, toys are an exciting addition that starts slow. 

At first it’s a blind fold, a fancy and expensive one. It’s soft, feels like water over the skin, but does well enough to block out light. 

Then it’s handcuffs that are lined so they don’t leave bruises or scars. 

Domme moves him up from the slap of her hand to the sting of a paddle, and then the whip, and then the flogger. 

A spreader bar. Bullet vibrators. Cock rings. Her strap. Anal beads. Lingerie. Harness. Rope. 

By the time Joe can blink, the DIY’d closet, the drawers, and the bins under the bed are full. Not overflowing. But there’s a treasure trove for them. All that they could every imagine is right there at their fingertips. 

The toys, Joe’s come to realize, are never there to take away. They’re there to add on. He’ll always have his mouth, fingers, and cock to please Domme. He’s built those skills, that knowledge bank of how she likes everything—slow licks, suckles, at least two fingers. But sometimes it’s about what he combination he can create that will leave her quaking, if the cool glass of the dildo makes her quiver like his cock does. Or if he’ll cum as hard as he normally does with the beads that vibrate as he does with her strap. 

The toys are experiments, additions, multiplications. And when approached like this, Joe loves them. Can’t wait to hear her shaky voice, “Don’t stop,” followed by the hiss of swears, the use of God’s name in vain as Joe makes her cum over and over and over again. 

Domme always feels a little thrill when Joe shows her something new, something he’d researched on his own. It’s like watching a flower bloom. At first furled in, covered in the sepal before it cracks, and then bit by bit, it exhales, revels the bright and vibrate layer underneath. And sure, in humans, it’s much more complicated. With Joe, it’s about the gentle edge, the probing, the asking him what he wants, taking notes, checking in. But in the end, God, in the end she gets to see him come alive, reveal the softest most vulnerable parts of himself to her. Even if those parts are bright teal silicone toys.

And it is beautiful. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Domme and Joe play the game of cat and mouse well. 

They give a little; they get a little. But teasing isn’t so much about taunting, showing to each other what’s just out of reach. It’s about saying, I miss you. I’m thinking of you when I shouldn’t be. In ways that I shouldn’t because I’ve got other things to do. But I know you’ll like this. I know that you know how much I want you. 

So, it’s the texts while she’s at work that Joe loves to send the most—aside from the silly ones about peaches in the grocery store, or a SpongeBob reaction pic—that are about how much he wants her. Joe loves knowing that she’s going to stop her work, find her phone on her desk under the piles of notes and spot the latest message from him only to come back with fire in her tank. 

Joe’s Come to think of it, if every photoshoot turns out this well because you snuck nudes into my short pockets on my way out the door, I think it should become a tradition meets Domme’s Admit it to me, baby. I’m hot and you were thinking about how if anyone saw those photos you’d be proud to show me off too. A little sadistic of you to tell them they can look, but they can’t touch. 

And fuck if they aren’t both right. 

Domme does love the heat in his gaze, like Joe’s not there in that room, but somewhere else, somewhere that involves her. And Joe definitely thought about how if it wasn’t careful, if he wanted to play with fire he could purposefully mistime his peek at the photo again for someone to also get a glimpse and he wouldn’t mind someone else getting just a fraction of a taste into what waits at home for him. Because they could all look, but only Joe could have. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

It’s killing him. 

Really it is. The hotel walls aren’t all that thick. It’s really not their home. But Domme’s evil sometimes. And sure, it’s vacation. So it’s okay for Joe to let loose a little, or a lot. It’s not gluttony if he’s begging for it right? 

But holy fuck, it’s a little embarrassing. It’s only a three day stop, a quick weekend of rather light work for Joe as he’s only requirement is to be in attendance for the event before their final destination. And Domme’s an evil woman. God, is she. But God is she great too. But it’s only spite, only maliciousness that would make her back that bag—the black velvet one with all their favorite toys tucked inside. And it would only be the devil’s work for her to ask him if he wanted it. 

Because of fucking course Joe wants it. 

The buzz inside him is making putty of Joe. And he can’t help it anymore. He really can’t fucking help it as his jaw falls slack, a punched out moan all too easy to slip out of his chest. His lungs collapsing before they expand again. “Fucking Christ,” he grunts and then whimpers just as her hand slips over his mouth. 

But her eyes are hot stars, twinkling above him, glistening with delight. “You’re being noisy today. Is it that good to you?”

Joe nods, another broken sound muffled by her palm. But the thick bulb is brushing up inside him and fuck it feels so fucking good.

“I can’t hear you, my love,” she taunts, hand pressing down harder. 

Joe groans again, louder even to his own ears and Domme nods once at the sound. “Good. If we don’t get noise complaints, I’m doing something very wrong.”

But she’s just as loud too when she wants to be. When it’s her turn to be fucked into oblivion, rendered down to just cells and atoms, Domme’s no stranger to a hoarse voice either. Joe’s watching from below, grinning into her pussy as she yelps, back digging into the mattress as if to get away from Joe. Yet, there’s nowhere else to go. Not with Joe’s grip locked around her hips, holding her into place. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she chants. It’s not a prayer. Only a plea that Joe’s heard numerous times before. The thing is that Joe never answers to them. He wants more of them. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

“Have you heard of pet play?”

Domme pauses, paint brush dripping onto the cloth tarp beneath her feet. Joe wanted to change the color of the nightstands after Domme mentioned feeling like the chocolate browns weren’t meshing, a hue or two off. That or it’s her inability to sit still for too long around the house without finding something to do. Joe’s initial solution offering was just to buy new ones. But Domme promised him it would be cheaper to do it themselves. The biggest cost would just be time. 

But Joe’s no good at these kind of things. He wanted to ask if it was really cheaper or if she just needed something to do with her hands. However, in the end, Joe relented, knowing at the very least that these nightstands already fit their needs capacity wise. He swiped his card when asked after the Lowe’s cashier scanned the entirety of their cart’s worth of supplies. 

The only thing Joe insisted on doing is the sanding. Not that he doesn’t believe in Domme’s capacity to handle the handheld sander. She was the one that taught him how to do it on a previous project. But Joe likes it. It’s a precise practice, feels mediative to Joe as he works gently over the surface. So he sands, carefully, and Domme works on priming and painting. 

Until now. 

The electric whirring cuts out and all that remains is the stunned silence after Joe’s question. Domme nods though, after she’s able to reconnect her perceptions to reality. Joe definitely asked that, she reminds herself. “I have heard of it.” Joe’s not a wild animal, but she’s cautious, keeps her voice as neutral as possible around the topic.

“Have you done it before?”

“Once.”

“Did you like it?”

“It’s not a Won’t Do, if that’s what you’re asking.” It wasn’t her favorite, but Domme wonders if at the time she was just too young, too inexperienced for it. It’s something she thinks she could definitely try again, but not necessarily was a go to for her.

“It sounds…interesting,” Joe concludes, pulling the safety goggles off his face. Domme’s firm requirement and Joe didn’t fight against it. 

“Would you like to try?”

“Undecided. But you don’t seem too enthused.”

Domme presses the brush back into the knobby leg. Reminds herself the night stands won’t paint themselves. “I think I jumped into it before maybe I was ready for it. So I’ve always had sort of a…bitter impression of it.”

“If it’s not your cup of tea, I’m not going to force you.”

It’s not about forcing. It’s about trying, about opening up curiosity. What would it be like if Joe did want to try and did find that he liked it? What would that mean for Domme? She focuses for a moment on the leg, swiping gingerly at the curvature. “I’d be willing to try it again. Just once to see. You have like work dog energy to you though.”

Joe huffs, hands falling to his hips. “I’m offended you didn’t say golden retriever.”

“No, you’re too introverted for it. More like…a German Shepherd. You like having a job.” Domme emphasizes the point with the point of her brush over to Joe—who insisted on helping, who fussed with her about how when she takes on projects like this, he likes to participate in some active way. 

It’s silent for a moment between them. The only noise the soft strokes of the brush. “Well, I was waiting for her to say something like an Australian Sheepdog, so I guess I can accept German Shepherd.”

“Should I get you a collar?”

“No,” Joe returns, swift and firm, but with no true heat behind the word. “We’ll give it a try. But I think you might need a muzzle.”

Domme snorts. “You love me running my mouth. And everything else it does too.”

“While true,” Joe starts, squatting down next to her now, picking up the second brush that he insisted on acquiring too, “I still think sometimes I miss the peace and quiet before you.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It was.” And from around the back edge of the stand, their gazes meet, a gentle humor dancing behind Joe’s blue eyes. Domme’s gaze warm and soft as they pause their strokes. “I guess you could say that I just happen to enjoy the chaos you bring a lot more than whatever life looked like before.”

Their work falls into a silent rhythm. By the time they meet again at the top of the piece of furniture, Domme breaks the silence. “When did you get curious about pet play?”

Joe, paused in the midsts of moving the cans of primer and paint to the second stand, gazes up into the rather cloudless sky. “I found some old 3W’s when sorting through paperwork a few weeks back. The example one you made for me, that one had it listed as an example. But I noticed it wasn’t on any of the other ones. Got curious.”

“We can give it a try. But I apologize now if nothing changes for me on it.”

“It’s no skin off my back either way. If you really aren’t for it, then we don’t have it.”

“It’s not a hard limit, baby.” The air around them kicks back up with the fumes of the primer that Joe works in, his hand steady as he goes. “We can try it. But it helps me know what you’re looking to get out of it, ya know?”

“No, I get that. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do it just because I’m asking. But we can iron out the details, like we always do and take it slow and if it’s just not working for you, then it’s not working.”

It doesn’t work out for Domme, in the end. Even though they take it slow and it’s all discussed thoroughly, she can’t get the words over her lips, to call him a good little pet and give herself fully over into the moment. A feat normally much easier to do. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like giving in. There’s a little too much resistance, or maybe it’s hesitation. She can see it in Joe, the way there’s a little too much awareness behind in his eye, like he can’t give over either because of her. It shouldn’t be a new sight, this shouldn’t be hard in theory. And yet it is. Domme just can’t place way right now. 

But it sort of just fizzles out, never gets the heat behind it that it needs and her heart hammers behind her ribs in a way she’s not experienced in years. Makes her palms moist, sweaty with anxiety. Things have not worked out before. It’s the nature of the game. Some things work and some things don’t. It just doesn’t feel like it usually does. Domme slips down from the bench to her knees, the carpet digs into her flesh, but she doesn’t focus on that. Instead, she cups Joe’s jaw, strokes her thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Where are you?” she whispers. 

“With you,” Joe answers, one of his hands brushing over her thigh. “Where I like to be, if it’s hard to tell.”

“You’re such a smartass.” He’s not under, not totally gone and Domme’s grateful for it. It makes the transition a lot easier. 

“But you like it.”

“Well,” Domme starts and then laughs. The sound doesn’t have its usual humor behind it. The truth is that she does. But her mind is still not fully present, part of it still running through everything, still wondering what it is that she couldn’t get behind. Perhaps, it’s the years with Joe—his habit now becoming her habit now, an analytical persistence that hardly ever now refuses to give up.

“Not working, is it?”

“No, I don’t think it is for me.”

“It’s okay. Call it.”

But calling it, as Domme knows, as they both agreed, would end it all. The entire play would stop. Their entire focus would shift to aftercare. And that feels much too abrupt, too much of a brute response to something that could still be salvaged. “I can always transition this. We don’t—”

Joe shakes his head, moving his hold to her waist now. “It’s not working for me either.”

“Because it’s not working for me but you really ought to be focused on yourself.”

“Not when it comes to this. We’re a team. We always will be. It’s why those rings are on your finger. So, call it.”

“I’m sorry,” she utters instead, to delay the inevitable because Joe won’t change his mind but she likes to think maybe he could. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, baby. Call it.” 

Because it’s the rule. Even though it’s not working for both of them, it was Domme who paused first, so she’s got to be the one to end it. If it were Joe, it would be up to him to end it. But Joe’s stubbornness is make all Domme’s attempts to redirect to be thwarted. And maybe it makes the most sense, to give them both time to regroup. Maybe it would help her hands not to shake. And when they started to shake, Domme’s not sure. But Joe noticed it, certainly, because now the previous slight haze has dipped into something closer to concern. His gaze now earnest and urgent over her skin. 

“Dragonfly,” she whispers. And her eyes sting with tears but Domme refuses to let them fall. The first time she’s ever had to use her safe word. It taste too bitter. 

Joe tugs her into his lap, and that action alone tells her it’s real. It doesn’t feel like failure, but it doesn’t feel great either. “Thank you for trying, my love. I appreciate it.”

“I’ll always try for you.”

And they sit, for who knows how long, in the middle of the bedroom floor like that. Domme half atop Joe, her arms wound around his neck, faces buried into cheeks and necks. Co-regulation in damn near perfect form—simultaneous inhales and measured and slow exhales. They’ll talk later—as per their established rules. What worked and what didn’t will be thoroughly dissected. But for now it’s about caring for each other, intentional slowness, slipping into comfortable clothing, snacks as needed, closeness, soft words to make sure they’re okay for now. Neither one of them moves to do any of that just yet. Joe’s skin is much too warm to want to leave it and Domme’s trying with all her might to let the disappointment bead off her skin, wash over it but never to sink into her. Which is always easier said than done. 

There’s no rush for them though. Only when her shoulders don’t feel so heavy does Domme move first, stretching up to kiss at Joe’s stubbly chin. A gesture returned with several presses of his lips to her temple. And they move together, up off the floor. Domme pulling out shorts and Joe’s softest sweatshirt, Joe finds her favorite t-shirt—a t-shirt older than them both considering it came from one of her relatives and a pair of his shorts to her too. They work in tandem to change, fingers threaded around and through the others as they shuffle downstairs. Joe heads to the kitchen, Domme collects all the blankets and pillows. 

It’s quiet when Joe returns with her favorite pretzels in a bowl, two glasses of lemonade at the ready. Domme’s cocooned herself and opens her arms when he returns. “Looks cozy,” Joe offers. 

“Quite.” 

Her opened arms are an invitation, Joe knows that. But he can see the light frown pulling at her lips too. And that—that frown, simply won’t do. Joe sets the tray down onto the coffee table. The vents thrum with cool air. “If your right leg is Thanksgiving, and your left leg is Christmas, can I visit you between the holidays?”

It’s a cheesy line, terribly so, but it makes Domme snort with laughter as she nods. Joe slips between her legs, head resting on her chest and is relieved to hear the sound. “I’m going to rat you out the the writers of Deadpool that you stole their line,” Domme tuts. 

“Rat me out, that’s fine.”

It’s not until after dinner, when hours have passed for them, that Domme pauses at her work in the sink, the last plate in her hands. “I think it didn’t work because it felt too much like ownership.”

Joe slips the now dry fork back into the drawer. “And you don’t like that?”

“No. I don’t. I like partnership. I like trust. I don’t like feeling like I own you. Because I don’t. I couldn’t. It’s not right to me. It’s about choice, you know? It just felt like less of a choice to me.”

“I can respect that. It sounds like a hard limit then?”

She resumes her work, the rubber gloves squeaking a little as she readjusts her grip. “Yes, I believe so.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Another squeak rings out and Joe reaches around, fingers loosely wrapping around her forearm beneath the gloves. “Plate’s clean as a whistle, baby.” She only nods, the frown returning. But she flicks on the faucets and rinses the soap off before placing it into the drying rack. Joe doesn’t move from behind her, moves with every twist and turn she makes, taking up a cup next to wash. “You’re allowed to have limits.”

“I know, but I know you wanted it.”

“I wanted to try. And we did. And it didn’t work, but none of that means that I’ve suddenly casted you aside. I still love you. I still choose you. Every single second of every single day, okay?”

Domme hooks the now clean cup to the edge of the rack and looks over her shoulder, eyes cut up to look at him. “I love you.” It leaves her throat shaky and watery. 

“I know you do. And I know this is a little hard for you right now. Just know I love you.” There’s no additions, no conditions on it. There never would be. “I can finish the dishes if you need a second.”

Her sniffle is loud, and hard, but she shakes her head. “I need something to do with my hands.”

“Okay. Tag me in if you need to swap jobs.”

“I will.”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

*Incoming Call: Tumblr* 

“I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now. A little preoccupied the three 6’s*. Please leave your name, your message, and your number and I will return your call at my earliest convenience.” *Beep*

*6 feet, 6 inches, 6 figures.

1 Missed Call. 0 Voicemails. 

*Incoming Call: Tumblr*

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of: Joe. They are not available. Please leave your message after the tone.” *Beep*

1 Missed Call. 0 Voicemails. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Domme swears that Joe has energizer batteries as part of his chemical make up, tucked somewhere that she just hasn’t uncovered yet. 

Joe goes down hard sometimes—his eyes totally unfocused, breath shallow. Her palm is pressed into his chest, a hard and heavy press, as it can help him focus back on something tangible again after the drop into subspace. Most often, he’s listening to the thump-thump of her heart through her chest to help bring him back to the surface again. It might take him a couple hours, or the night for something especially harsh, to full reconnect and return to himself. 

But by morning, with his arm looped around her waist, Domme swears it’s like she didn’t even touch him the night before. Joe’s mouthing at her neck, his soft hummed and rumbly voice barely breaching her awareness. “You sleep okay?” he asks, tightening his hold when she startles just a little and then she settles and Joe never really lets go, just eases the grip a fraction.

She nods. “Hmm, yeah. You?”

“Yeah, like a rock.” Joe keeps pulling her in closer, and closer, flesh against his chest. His erection poking at her lower back and ass. 

“And something else is a rock too, I see.”

“You say that like you don’t like it.”

And it’s not that Domme doesn’t like it. It’s that she’s waiting for when this fades, for when they slow down. It hangs in the back of her mind—that’s how most other relationships happened. Something faded. Something changed. Something would always change. They were prepared for that, for how to keep the spark alive should either one ever feel like it was dying. So far, that hasn’t happened fully. Life gets busy, they slow down during the season, when there’s back to to back travel. There is quiet, but always with a flicker—their desire burning even if on low. Text messages that come in sporadically. Life updates from Joe when he’s out of town: ate oysters today and not nearly as fun as eating you or passing thoughts from Domme: I know you might be busy, but the house is too big without you around. I miss kissing your face. And your lips. 

Domme swears Joe’s got damn energizer bunny batteries in his DNA and she’s praying though that all her worry is for nought. That the’ll always want each other in the most innocent and most sinful ways. 

Her turn over is slow, head being the last thing to make the flip and Joe’s grinning, half awake at best, half asleep still at work, fingertips dancing along her spine. Domme hitches her leg, slots it between Joe’s, her thigh now pressing up against his hard on. “When have I ever said I didn’t like it?”

Joe’s hair scratches against the pillowcase, a strange sound muffled and soft in her ears. “I don’t recall a time you ever have.”

“Exactly, right.”

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If the post sex wind down had a WWE tap out countdown, Joe usually doesn’t make it past 2 if he subbed. He makes it long enough to climb into Domme’s arms, tell her thank you after the kisses, and then Joe’s out. Her breath and the rhythm of her heart pull him straight under, his body utterly melting into her. There’s little resistance because there’s little to resist. Joe’s warm, wrapped up in affectionate and loving embrace. He’s free to just exist, as messy and as complicated as that can be. 

Domme takes longer. Listens to Joe’s breathing, feels it ghosting over her skin. She’s keeping an eye on the red marks she can see, watching them fade out into a flush pink. Her brain’s cataloguing. Did he have enough water before falling asleep? She’ll have to make sure he has some once they wake up. She’s glad her hip didn’t cramp up like it sometimes does on her, so she’ll have to keep doing those stretches beforehand. When Joe unconsciously burrows deeper into her, she laughs and kisses his forehead. And it’s usually at this action, like Joe can tell she’s going in the opposite direction of sleep even while he’s not awake, the energy they share somehow alerting him, that tells her she can put all those thoughts at rest for later. Him digging in feels like: I know what you’re doing. Stop that. You don’t need that right now. 

So she drifts slowly, counting the brushes of her palm over his shoulder. One turns into two, two turns into three. Three turns into four. Four folds over into five. Five morphs into six. Six falls into seven. Seven slips into…sleep.

[heyydolly]

Heart of the Matter—Chapter 10: Quarry

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

CW: Descriptions & Mentions of Death, Mentions of Health Issues/Medical Conditions, Mentions of Abortion & Pregnancy. Please read with caution if you are sensitive to these topics.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________________

Stolen moments in ice cream parlours morph the back corners of Jeff Ruby’s which morphs into the quiet nights of a movie binge—Joe’s arms thrown around the back of the couch, Marlowe curled into his side. Her back pressed into his ribs, head turned to face his TV. Korey bounces in the gap Joe ensured was between the coffee table and the TV for her safety. Korey’s choreography is off by seconds and she belts the lyrics at the top of her lungs content to be off key, “Beauty school dropout / Go back to high school.” 

Joe laughs at Korey’s half mumbled words. Korey does not care if she’s right or wrong. Doesn’t care how she looks with her tiny bonnet secured around the plaits that feed into the two Afro puffs. A hairstyle that Joe can tell now is fresh—her black coiled strands still shiny with the fresh layer of gel. Korey’s a few shades lighter than Marlowe, but the more Joe interacts with Korey, the more he sees Marlowe in her and what he assumes is Malia too. 

Korey’s not afraid of life, of course, in the way most kids are unafraid. But in a way that’s different too. Carefree, wide, and all consuming. She takes charge in a fierce undeterred way only kids who have been taught to be unafraid can do. She has her manners—please, thank you’s, yes ma’am, no ma’am’s either promptly given or following a gentle reminder. But Korey’s not afraid to ask, nor afraid to say what she’s thinking. Her feet hurt, it will be known. If she’s hungry, she will let someone know immediately. If she has a question, there’s no hesitation to ask it. Not even in the slightest.Korey takes up space in every sense of the phrase and no one, and Joe means not a single soul, dares to tell her otherwise. 

Korey twirls herself into a puddle on the rug as the song fades. Her tiny chest puffing and her breath ragged.  “Are we still alive, bug?” Marlowe asks after a few seconds of Korey still on the floor. 

Her arm shoots up with her thumbs up paired with the action. “I’m alive!”

Inviting Marlowe over with the intention of also having Korey over was planned on Joe’s part. He knows it’s important to Marlowe that she has time with Korey and time with him too. It’s not easy on her part due to her packed schedule and Joe knows he can’t tell her to just take time off, or take time away. Marlowe requires a much more precise and subtle strategy. So if Joe can do something as small as extending his home to them both—under the guise of a sleepover, he’d do it in a heartbeat. The clock is ticking anyhow. In two weeks the first preseason game will descend. And before that, August will crest up and over the horizon in just a week. Joe wishes the calendar could skip the month, to go straight to September, yet there’s nothing to do but weather whatever comes. 

For now, there’s Marlowe who crawls off the couch, down to the floor; she trails the edge of the coffee table until she’s right next to Korey and her now bright green nails dance over Korey’s stomach. The toddler squeals, her laughter piercing the room even with the quiet chatter of the movie. “Auntie! Please! No!”

“Ah, the tickle monster requests payment in full.” 

“The tickle monster is mean!” Korey huffs. 

“Nom, nom, nom,” Marlowe snorts against Korey’s cheek. 

The coffee table still holds the unfinished juice cup. Korey’s tiny bowl of mixed nuts and some fruit is not empty but Marlowe warned earlier that Korey would undoubtedly work up an appetite again after the second watch of Chicken Little and with the first watch of Grease. Joe does worry that this particular movie isn’t suitable for Korey. Yet, his concerns don't seem to be shared by Marlowe. He doesn’t overstep—it’s not his place. 

Watching Marlowe right now, Joe’s unsure what kind of fog could descend, what could disrupt this level of care and love shared between the two of them. The sight makes his chest hurt—hot with hope and fear mixing. Marlowe loves that little girl so much; Joe can’t imagine Marlowe without Korey now. He can fathom a world where they are not together.

“Want another sip?” Marlowe asks, releasing Korey from her clutches. 

Korey stands, heaving, and drapes herself over the table. “Help, Joe! Please save me before the tickle monster takes me again!”

Joe only laughs, eyes darting over to Marlowe. Joe and Korey have hugged only a couple of times when he was picking Marlowe up from her house. Each time Joe always lets Korey be the one to initiate each encounter. Joe never wants to overstep, nor does he want to make either one of them feel uncomfortable. It’s about permission and it’s about making sure he’s reading Korey right too. A delicate balancing act but it’s not as hard as Joe once imagined it to be.

Marlowe nods at his silent question and Joe stands, slowly, giving Korey and Marlowe time to say no. It never comes. So Joe hoists Korey up, by her pits and places her onto the couch behind him. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, tickle monster, so leave my buddy and I alone and we can all walk away,” Joe warns Marlowe.

Marlowe takes a few seconds, eyes drifting up as if she’s in thought. She taps her forefinger against her chin once before speaking. “No.”

Joe laughs as Marlowe stands on the opposite side of the coffee table, her stance not quite in a crouch but with enough of a bend in her knees that he knows she’s more agile now than before. 

“You don’t have to do this the hard way, tickle monster,” Joe warns. He finds himself naturally spreading out his arms, knees bending ever so slightly. It’s not quite the position he’s used to being in behind his center, nor is it the three point stance he’s watched time and time again on the field, his current position is borrowed from it though. Ready, armed, and dangerous. As dangerous as one can be when in a tussle of wills against their girlfriend.

Korey laughs from behind him, “Bad tickle monster!”

“What if the tickle monster is just misunderstood?” Marlowe grins as she deepens into a crouch. She shuffles to Joe’s left but he can tell by her shoulders and feet that she’s not committed to it. He doesn’t even expend the energy at the fake out move.

“You can be misunderstood. But my friend and I are going to get out of here with no more tickles.” Joe hazards a stretch to his right, to psyche Marlowe out, but she doesn’t go for it. The two of them are locked into the limbo of who will misread the other first. Which for a solid minute or two yields no winter. Just the two of them faking but not never tripping up the other. Marlowe commits to the full shuffle and Joe’s quick to stretch. Yet, she just narrowly escapes the brush of his fingers. “Shit,” Joe huffs. 

“That’s a nickel,” Korey notes.

Joe nods though his focus is locked into Marlowe, who’s turning out to be light on her feet and pretty evasive, a little too evasive for the stroke of his competitive nature. She will make a mistake. Everyone does eventually. She will too. He knows it’s a silly little game, but it’s just serious enough. Marlowe’s eyes have narrowed, just a little, a bounce on the balls of her feet. Joe will not be bested. Not at this game. Not right now. 

Marlowe lunges—an all out action, an overextension and Joe manages to get his hand around her forearm. It’s not a tight hold. Just enough strength that when her momentum catches up, he can spin her around and then wraps her up in his arms. She’s a fit of giggles against his chest. “No, you’re supposed to let me win!”

“Can’t do that,” Joe whispers into her cheek. “Watch out, Korey,” he warns louder this time. 

The thwack and thumps of her body crawling up the cushions echoes for a few seconds before her voice hits the air. “Clear!” Korey shouts.  

Joe takes a quick look and spies Korey up onto the corner he’d been in a few minutes ago. “We’re going down.”

“Careful,” Marlowe warns softly but she gives into him, letting her weight go a fraction at a time. Joe drops back into the couch. It’s a controlled drop—eased back into the cushions. Joe hits first and then Marlowe follows him down next, hips falling off to the side but her legs draped over his lap.

“Are you going to behave, tickle monster?” Joe asks, his arms still wrapped around Marlowe’s frame. 

“I might,” she laughs.

Korey crawls over, her tiny frame pressed against Joe’s shoulder and bicep. “No more tickles.” It comes firm with a waggle of her finger. “I’m tickled out.” 

Marlowe nods once. “No more tickles, bug.”

“But,” Korey starts, dragging out the word before she works her fingers over Marlowe’s exposed ribs. Marlowe seizes, body twisting into Joe’s. Her laughter is sharp. It’s controlled, the way Marlowe’s body tenses, she doesn’t thrash. Korey only works her fingers for a few seconds before she stops. “We even now?

Marlowe pants around her agreement, “Even.” 

The corner of Marlowe’s eyes glisten—the fresh tears from her laughter wetting her skin, catching in the recessed lighting of his living room. It’s compulsory; Joe wouldn’t be able to fight it even if he wanted too. His lips find the outer corner of her eye and press his lips there, holding the tear to the flesh. The tear is salty, of course, but warm against his tongue. His hold loosen around her, palms sliding over her forearms. “Okay?”

It’s a soft question, enough volume for Marlowe to hear it given her hum, yet not loud enough to attract attention. Korey’s returned her attention back to the movie and for a small moment, the bubble around Joe and Marlowe begs not to be popped—it’s only the quiet of their breathing, the ghost of Marlowe’s exhale over his chin, the ghost of his over her cheek. A tiny little cocoon just for them. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good.” The word’s all an exhale before he inhales again against her cheek, taking in the soft citrus scent of her facial lotion—a faint scent that would otherwise evade Joe if he was not cataloguing it all. Her hair and body products have an earthy sweet edge to them. Not heavy, not overpowering but grounding. When she leaves, some of it lingers in the threads of his shirts, weaved into the fabric of the blanket or cushion she leaned into. Her perfume is muskier, matches the edges of her raspy voice—all patchouli and warm. But her facial wash and lotions are lighter—the crispy glint in her otherwise intoxicating aura.

“Do you know my tab? I lost count at 15 cents.” Joe’s usually good about his language around Korey. It’s an easy habit he’s built thanks to pressers. But he’s no stranger to a word slipping out here and there. 

“That extra one brought the total to 30 cents.” 

“She’ll be able to afford a whole packet of skittles off me.” 

Marlwowe’s scoffed laughter is short and small—another wisp of her breath caressing the day old stubble on his chin. “You’ve clearly lost track of the cost of skittles.” 

“They can’t have gotten that expensive. Besides, if I pay in advance, then I’m good for a while.” 

“I doubt you need to pay in advance. You’re doing great so far.” 

His heart stutters—a skipped beat that almost, almost takes his breath away. His inhale choked halfway, you’re doing great so far. Joe has his nephews that he sees during the holidays, in the spring and early summer—all mostly in passing as the fun uncle who rough houses with them and collects their Christmas list with a grin. The knowing kind of smirk that says they’re going to always get the one super cool item off their list to their parents’ dismay. But both his nephews are older than Korey by a couple years. It feels less delicate, less fragile with the boys. Joe feels less uncertain. It’s all a little more unknown to Joe with Korey.

But he’s doing great—not good, not fine, not okay, but great. An echoed sigh in his ears.

Marlowe means it. She doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean. Though at times she teases and is coy, Joe knows if Marlowe says it, she means it. Words are rarely minced. Thoughts are rarely shrouded in hesitation. She shoots it straight and the praise, gentle as it could be from her lips, makes his spine tingle. 

“I’m trying,” Joe answers. Like he needs to put distance, leave room for error. Like he’s not worthy of the praise just yet. He’s capable of flaws. He has his shortcomings. 

“You’re doing, like Yoda said.”

Do or do not. There is no try. Joe snorts at the reference. Though he took it to mean that trying is a way out, as a way to absolve of any real effort. Perhaps he can see how she means it. That effort is the doing, even if it’s imperfect, even if it’s wobbly that’s still doing. 

“Are you referencing Star Wars to turn me on?” He hums, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“No. But if it’s working, I will also accept that.”

“No Star Wars!” Korey interjects. “PopPop already started.” 

Joe wants to laugh at Korey’s words; he can tell by the way she widens her eyes and pops up from her spot on the floor that she is tired of the films herself. Her exhaustion is exaggerated but clear. But Joe knows what it means unlike Korey. He squeezes, arms snaking tighter around Marlowe. It’s not even August. He’s prepared for that date, counted down the days—had reminders in his phone already prepped to call, schedule food drop offs if necessary. He’d planned the couple days before the first preseason games to snag Marlowe, get her away from life even if it was only a few hours, allow her the space to vent if she needed. 

But grief doesn’t wait. It never would. 

“No, bug, we’re only going to watch Grease. And then build the fort. Okay?” Marlowe’s voice is calm like it always is with Korey. But she holds a little tighter to Joe, rings her hands over his forearms as she speaks.  

“Thank you. I finished my snack.” 

“Good job, bug. Anymore juice?”

“A little. Almost done. I want the biggest fort ever please.”

“We’ll do it. No problem. Need anything else?”

“No,” Korey answers, settling back down. “I’m full. Thank you.”

Marlowe most likely won’t have a conversation about her mental well-being in front of Korey. But Joe puts it in his back pocket, decides he’ll wait until Korey’s asleep, until it’s just them. Because it’s not even fucking August yet. Grief doesn’t seem to care though. It operates on its time table, at its own pacing, leaving everyone victim to it. 

For the next hour and some change of the musical, Joe finds himself only capable of watching Marlowe, the way she works her teeth over her bottom lip, the way her hands don’t stop dancing around his forearms. Though she takes Korey’s bowl and cup into the kitchen, the washing quick, Marlowe returns immediately to his side, burrows herself into him. 

August has descended early. A fact so irrefutable after Joe and Marlowe stack the pillows, draping blankets, tucking in corners in the way Marlowe stands in his kitchen. Korey’s fast asleep now, her usual 8PM bedtime long gone as the green glow of the microwave reflects 9:43. She lasted until about 9 and even Joe saw the bob of her head, body completely weak against the tug of sleep before her fort was even complete. Marlowe slipped Korey into her arms, and into the fort—a whispered prayer under the blankets that Joe couldn’t see, only hear, had him close his eyes too—before Korey’s official time of sleep was called. 

Now all that’s left is the fog. Clearer now in the way Marlowe’s eyes don’t dazzle like before. Marlowe’s joy and demeanor with Korey isn’t faked, but is just a layer. Just the surface and now without the need, now alone, the shrouds of sadness can bubble to the surface. Marlowe won’t even look Joe in the eye. Everything in Joe screams at him to fix it. Make her smile. Tell her Malia would be proud, that Malia would want Marlowe happy. Yet, those sympathies are hollow even in Joe’s mouth, like his teeth will crush them before he can get breath behind them. 

“You’re too far away from me,” Joe settles for, easing in closer. Unsure if Marlowe will dodge him. 

She doesn’t. Stands with her hands wound until his stomach brushes over her wringing fingers and Marlowe winds around him. “He didn’t finish the first movie. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing though.”

“I hope it’s a good thing. I’m concerned about you though.”

“I don’t know about me.” A singular sentence but leaves her shaky, Joe feels it battering against his chest. “I wish you could’ve met her. I wish Korey could have her mom. But I want to be happy. I don’t want to be here forever. But I don’t want to leave her behind. It’s heavy.”

“What makes you think you’re leaving her behind?” Joe squeezes at Marlowe’s shoulder. “Where’d you get that idea from?”

“Because what else does it mean if I move on? If I forget her? But I’m tired of being here too.”

Joe’s not sure Marlowe knows the meaning of the phrase to forget. Not with the way she pays attention, not with the sharp gaze she has, the fierce way she sees. Joe wants to push back, wants to tell Marlowe that’s not possible. But there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head. Would she believe him? “Tell me about her. Then I can carry her too and that way you’re not leaving her behind.” 

It’s a romantic notion. Possibly even too romantic. Joe knows it. But it’s clear that Malia means a lot to Marlowe and he meant it when he said he’d weather the storm for the both of them. If it means carrying this, Joe will do it. No hesitation.  

Marlowe peels back from his chest, eyes glassy. “Do you know what you’re asking?” 

A double check that Joe doesn’t need. “I’m asking maybe a lot of you. And you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me. But I won’t let you forget Malia. You can continue living and not forget her in the process. Not if you tell her about me. I’ve been told I have a pretty excellent recall.” He adds the last sentence with a soft smile, hoping, praying that Marlowe believes him. 

Marlowe’s eyes dart over his face, dusting over his brows, back to his eyes, over the slope of his nose and back to his eyes again. Joe can’t tell what she’s looking for, a crack, a grimace, some internal wavering. But Joe’s not going to say just anything to Marlowe. He knows it’s not productive to say things he doesn’t mean with her. “And you don’t think by sharing more about her, I’ll give everything I have left away?”

The question, soft and shaky as it’s asked, makes Joe’s chest sting. There’s so much earnesty in her voice, awe at the idea that maybe he understood something she’d been dancing around. The question disguises a realization that Marlowe seemingly hadn’t wanted to put words or action behind just yet. Maybe it’s putting words to a fear Marlowe’s had for a while but never wanted to confront. Joe’s not entirely sure either way. 

The thing Joe is sure about is her, is them, is that he is strong enough for the fog’s early descent. “No, I don’t. I think you might give Malia more people to love and more people to love her through you in fact.”

“I’ve been so scared to do that, talk about her too much.”

“I understand why,” Joe hums, one hand skimming over her back. “You don’t want to lose her entirely. Take your time, Marlowe. I’ll still be here.”

“Thank you. I know it can’t be easy. But I do appreciate your patience with me.”

Easy’s not the word he’s used. Because Joe’s not looking for easy. He’s looking for what feels real, and solid, what he’s sure can withstand the test of time. Being patient with Marlowe, helping her do the things that terrify her so that she can have more out of life is the kind of work that doesn’t feel like work, even though it is. Joe wants those crevices, the rocks that she’s left unturned. He wants those moments where she’s being a little devilish too—he’s sure those pictures will haunt him in the best way forever. But he can’t have one without the other. Being with Marlowe feels like the kind of thing that sets in motion the path that he might ever have again, a choice he’d make over and over and over again. 

“Of course, Marlowe, of course.” 

The rest of their conversation is low in the light glow of the oven light, side by side as they work down their late night snack of choice—the last of some sorbet for Joe, a lime popsicle for Marlowe. They don’t talk about Malia. But Marlowe talks about how she almost didn’t wind up in the world of makeup artistry, how she’d gotten an Accounting and Finance degree with a plan to go get her master’s once she graduated, a tool in her back pocket to break into the corporate world if getting her cosmetology license failed her in the end. 

“So, legally speaking,” Marlowe grins, the last half of her popsicle still wrapped in the thin plastic, “if you ever needed your nails done, I can do them. I do keep that licensing up to date.”

Joe takes a look at his hands, nails bed littered with some hangnails, all short due to his nervous habit of biting them. “You really think you could save these?” He turns his hand around for her to look. 

Her eyes are swift, but calculating and Marlowe nods once. A definitive and assured motion. “If you follow my aftercare instructions to the letter, absolutely.”

“And what took you away from nails? How did makeup become the thing?”

“Malia.” 

The slurp of her work at the popsicle echoes around the pause. It dances on his tongue for more, to immediately delve into the details. But Joe’s got to take this slow. “If I asked for more, would you be in a space to share it?”

Marlowe’s answer isn’t immediate. She stares off into the living room where one lamp is one on the far side of the room. Dimmed enough not to wake Korey but bright enough to just barely see. When they get finished in the kitchen and Joe and Marlowe take the sofa to sleep, it will be turned off. Marlowe’s mouth opens, jaw dropping just a hair like words are supposed to come but they don’t. Joe can’t tell if she wants to tell him or not but he thinks so. She doesn’t look like she did in the restaurant; she’s not spacey and forgone. It’s contemplative. Her brows come together as her answer formulates in her head.

They hang in the suspended almost words for a minute, maybe two before Marlowe answers, “The short version? I can do that.”

“Then I’ll take the short version, please.” The inclusion of the please makes them both pause, glancing at each other in confusion, before it dances over into amusement. Their laughter is muted, exhaled breaths as their shoulders dance in delight. “I think being around Korey all evening has rubbed off on me,” Joe snickers. 

“I’ll be sure to tell your mother you still have your manners. But, I used to do Malia’s make-up for her because she never had the patience to do it herself often. I started with just her eyeshadow; I liked the colors. Had an art phase. Then I learned more and more.”

“You having an art phase makes sense.”

Marlowe scoffs, her shove at his hip small and with hardly any force behind it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Have you looked at yourself, Marlowe? The hair, jewelry, the way you dress, it screams art phase. You left behind like 15 rings on the bathroom counter.” Joe spotted the collection of rings and bracelets on the bathroom counter as he dropped off the extra set of towels for Marlowe—warm from the dryer—with Korey hot on his heels freshly dressed in her pj’s from her bath earlier.

“It’s ten rings,” Marlowe emphasizes the point by holding up both her hands, backs facing Joe. 

Almost every finger has a ring except for her ring fingers, with stacks on the left index and the middle right fingers. There’s swirls and gemstones woven in the mixture, thin dainty rings mixed in amongst the chunkier ones. A dance over her digits, all in gold. If Joe ever needed to wonder what her preferred metal was, his answer is glaringly obvious. “Correction: you deposited ten rings onto the bathroom counter.”

“I’ll give you the longer story soon.”

“Whenever you have space for it, Marlowe.” Joe scrapes into the edges of his containers, working not to be too loud but not wanting to waste any of the sorbet either. The spoon clicks along the rounded edge softly. But her answer all those months ago, back in LA, makes even more sense. How her family has all of her alive and dead alike. She gives everything to them. Every drop of herself. It’s a wonder she wakes up in the morning with anything left. 

“You mentioned a brief foray into baseball, right?” Marlowe muses, referencing a conversation from weeks ago. A conversation that was only brought up by Joe’s excursion out to New York for a panel. He’d enjoyed himself at the event, even laughed at himself during his recount of how poorly he performed on the pitching station. 

Joe laughs around his embarrassment—the conversation coming back in small bursts, the pitching, hockey, basketball, her whispered encouragement: But you had fun, and that’s all that matters to me —before he places the empty container into the counter. Marlowe’s glance over towards him is shrouded in amusement. “It was very brief,” Joe answers. “I suited basketball and football better.”

“Your stint with the headband then makes more sense. It feels very baseball.”

“Oh, so now you’re trying to use my own logic against me? I see how it is.”

“It’s a useful tactic.” 

“And how do you even know about the headband?” Joe can’t recall a time he’s worn it around her nor a time that he’d even explicitly mentioned the item either. 

“Your organization’s social media team works hard. Your poor scalp needed sunscreen from the photo I saw, like the rest of you does too though.”

Joe hadn’t broached the topic of social media in a while. He’d assumed if things were getting bad Marlowe would say something. But he wonders if that’s cowardly of him, like if he could avoid it, then it wouldn’t really be a problem. “The helmet helps,” he counters, “a little.”

“Still need sunscreen.”

Joe huffs, a groan leaving his throat at the thought of sunscreen on his skin. “It leaves me feeling greasy. I really don’t like that feeling.”

“There’s some aerosol ones. I like Every Tone by CopperTone. The spray is a little less slick feeling on the skin. Can get it at the drugstore too.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Joe teases, resting his palms into the counter to carry a bit more of his weight, only a fraction of it. He’s already stowing away the information, engraving it into his memory the next time he happens into the grocery store. 

“I’m far from a professional about skin care. But I do know some estheticians if you’re ever looking for a recommendation. And some dermatologists too. From what I’ve gathered of their expertise, daily use of sunscreen is the general consensus.”

“Deeply connected, I see.”

“I try.”

Joe smiles over at her. Marlowe’s working down the last bite of her popsicle, but she catches his gaze, face widening to prompt him to continue. “‘Do or do not. There is no try.’”

“Give me a break,” Marlowe huffs, gently tapping at his foot with hers as she walks towards the trash can. The scoffed laughter still counts in Joe’s book, still worth the corny joke just to see the sliver of a smile on her face. In her departure she manages to collect the empty container of sorbet too, stuffing her wooden stick and plastic inside before tossing the whole lot away. 

“How is everything? On your socials, I mean?” Joe feels like he’s asking it wrong. So he tries again. “There’s no crazy commenters or strange bookings on your site, are there?”

“Define crazy.”

“Harassment, I mean.”

Marlowe shakes her head no, a rapid action that if she still had her earrings in would tap against her chin and jaw. “What makes you so worried?”

It’s a measured question, each word hitting with the same weight as it falls from her lips. Marlowe’s too fucking good at that, cutting down to the white meat, leaving his nerves exposed in ways that Joe’s never had someone else see him before. His friends could read him well, ones that spent the years with him. But those relationships were always playing with their knuckles taped; they were gentle and sometimes coy with their check ins. Marlowe’s cutthroat. Her words are bare knuckled and Joe can only take each blow, only wants to take them—raw and harsh as they might be. 

“The stuff with Paige. I don’t want that to impact your business or your livelihood. I worried that after I commented that people would drag you into that mess.”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“So is there something that you need to worry about?” The phrasing of Marlowe’s answer sets off every alarm in Joe’s head. He pushes up off the counter, shuffles the measly nine or so steps between them. 

“I’m used to getting a strange DM here and there. I can usually tell by the preview of the message if it’s worth opening or worth blocking and moving on.” 

But whether or not Marlowe’s seen it before doesn’t matter to Joe. It’s the fact that it’s there in the first place. Joe understands that perhaps, given the reach Marlowe has, the volume in her following, some harassment is to be expected. But Joe can’t fathom a singular reason as to why anyone would feel the need to harass Marlowe. 

“Is there any extra harassment that you’ve noticed since then?” Because with Marlow each exacting word matters. 

She sighs, taking his hand with ease. “Some.”

“Define some,” Joe returns, free hand slipping over her chin and jaw. Her cheek is full and squishy against his palm. 

“I’m okay, Joe.” 

Not an answer to his question. It’s good to hear and Joe does believe her. Sees it in the steadiness of her gaze that it’s not totally out of control. Yet, his biggest fears seem to be coming true. That’s what unravels Joe, that’s what’s making his heart race. If it gets bad, what if Marlowe decides she’s better off alone, without him? What would Joe do then?  “The longer you don’t answer, the worse I imagine it is.”

“In a week, it’s like four or five more messages than usual.” 

“From?”

“Two I’d say.”

Marlowe said it wasn’t bad. But it seems like a steep increase. He has to believe, take Marlowe at her word. But the worry buzzes at his skin. “And you’d tell me if it was getting bad, right?”

“Yes, I will tell you when it’s getting bad.”

‘Will’ is different from ‘would’. Will implies that it’s an agreement, an action that Marlowe is consenting to. Joe stated it like a wish, like he was praying still rather than asking. But Marlowe’s so careful, she’s paying attention. Marlowe sees. Joe’s never been more grateful for her care and the promise she utters like there’s no other option left. 

It’s Joe who has no other option than to kiss her, seal her lips with his and exhale down her throat a broken and overflowing, “Thank you,” while his fingertips hover over the few centimeter sliver of skin between the bottom of her t-shirt and her shorts. 

A space his palm finds even as they settle for sleep, his thumb a lazy but steady drag right over her belly button underneath the blanket that even Joe notes makes Marlowe shiver just a little. A space his fingers are still when he wakes up—a face full of the red cheetah print satin scarf that Marlowe tied up before she curled into his chest last night greeting him. A little of the scarf has slipped, exposing the dark sides of her hair—still just as short as the day they met. 

“Good morning,” Marlowe whispers, her voice huskier for the lack of use, thick with sleep still. 

Joe hums at the sound, letting the shudder run down his spine before he presses his lips to the back of her neck, right before it becomes shoulder. “Good morning.”

The room comes alive to him. The lights from the TV bouncing around him and he peeks between squinted eyes to see the blue cartoon dog on Korey’s PJ’s lighting up his screen—Bluey Joe’s come to learn, alongside Muffin, Bingo, and Socks. “Does she know about Blues Clues?”

“Yes, I do. Good morning, Joe!”

“Good morning, Korey,” Joe returns a tad louder than probably necessary, peering over Marlowe’s shoulder. The blanket fort is still holding strong so he assumes Korey is still beneath the protection of it.

“Bluey is still better in my opint—wait.” Joe knows he shouldn’t. But the snort leaves him and he presses his lips into Marlowe’s shoulder to quiet the sound. Korey’s so close. It’s easy to understand what she was trying to say. Yet, the little girl is too wise for her years that makes Joe laughs. There’s some rustling, a few thumps and then Korey appears, sans her bonnet, out from the blankets. “How do you say it, auntie?”

“Oh-pin-yin.” Marlowe’s voice is clearer now as she answers, but she winds her fingers through Joe’s, presses her back into him a little bit more too.

“Opinion,” Korey recites. “And that means to me, right? Like someone might think different.”

“Yes, bug.”

“Thank you. And, hey, I’m trying, Joe,” Korey defends, her laughter infectious as it leaps off her shoulders. “It’s a big word. I’m only free years old.” Korey holds the corresponding number of fingers up too—as if to emphasize her point. It takes her a second to get the last finger to cooperate but her tone is clear—she is trying her best. 

“I’m sorry, Korey,” Joe starts. He’s unable to hide the grin. “I knew what you were saying. Just didn’t think you’d whip out opinion in casual conversation.”

“I’m trying to be big and smart like you and Auntie Marlowe.” She pairs the sentiment with a shrug. Like it’s obvious. 

Something warm stirs in his chest. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of idolization. Wouldn’t dare conjure the idea of it in any context. Yet there’s something in the way Korey says it. He’s just Joe to her, just a guy who’s dating her aunt. But it’s like he matters. Of course only in the way perhaps, Joe matters to his nephews, familial and as an elder to her. It’s like being invited into the fold—a thing Joe hadn’t dared considered, that he is family or on the way to being.

Marlowe pushes up off the shared pillow and slips her feet to the floor behind the blanketed fort. The scarf only takes a second to readjust. Joe eases his hand back, over Marlowe’s hip for the briefest of seconds. He watches as Marlowe pulls her shoulders back, spine snaking to the right. She glances over her shoulder to him, her eyes wide and lips pursed. Amusement is painted over her face. “Yes, Joe?”

He shakes his head, the laughter behind his lips peeling them back into a smile. “I’m not doing anything.”

“So what was—” Marlowe stops before she finishes the question and shakes her head. 

Realization dawns on Joe as she pushes off the sofa. She enjoyed that, probably a lot. A simple touch. Something that Joe hadn’t anything by. It’s kindling to the flame. Joe would never hide his attraction to Marlowe and he knew, given her confession in his kitchen the day of their first ‘official’ date, that she found him attractive too. Yet, neither one had really acted on it. Joe’s not used to taking things slow, not as of lately. He does not want to scare Marlowe though, doesn’t want to push too much too fast. But now Joe knows better than that. Now Joe has gas, a stroke to his ego that he doesn’t really need. Just a simple touch is all it took to fluster her. 

Marlowe continues on to Korey, settling criss cross applesauce onto the floor. “Being big and smart means you still have to practice your alphabet, and tracing letters after breakfast.”

“Can I do numbers first? Please?”

“Alphabet in the morning, bug. We’ll do numbers this evening.” 

“I like numbers better.”

“Numbers are fun.” Marlowe’s gentle as her fingers pull and smooth over Korey’s hair. “Bonnet slipped off, huh?”

“It lasted. But I got hot.”

Joe pushes up next, a smile still dancing over his lips. “I’ll trace letters with you, Korey, if you’d like?” Joe offers. He absolutely does not need to think further about how Marlowe might shiver when he touches her with a much more heated touch, so he might as well distract himself. “My penmanship needs some help anyway.”

“Deal, Joe. What we doing for breakfast?”

The french toast is thick on the plate, syrup sticky and sweet. The entire house is full of the cinnamon smell, coated too in a layer of the musk of the bacon. Soft clicks can be heard as forks hit the plates below interjected by soft rumbles of Marlowe’s voice, or the chirp of Korey’s bubbly response. Sounds that settle around them and even follow long after they’re done, long after the plates, pans, and sticky hands are washed—voices bleeding through the cracks in doors, around corners, laughter unfurled from chests. 

Joe’s worried about how quiet his house will be in just a few short hours. A worry that feels silly, but still settles into his gut heavy after Korey closes her workbook, all the pages Marlowe circled in the bright red pen completed and double checked. Korey peers up, stretched out across the corner of the coffee table to look at the few sheets of printer paper in front of Joe. Joe’s gone from looping through the alphabet with Korey, to drawing out football plays, a collection of X’s and O’s and arrows, tight ends cutting in, wide receivers looping back, running backs slipping through. 

“PopPop draws those too, sometimes,” Korey offers. 

“Do you have a favorite one?” Joe questions, capping the black marker he’d been using. He slips a few of the sheets closer to Korey for her to shuffle through as she likes.  

“I don’t ‘member the name. But I can draw it.” 

“Okay, draw it for me, Coach.” 

Korey giggles at the nickname, picking up the green marker from the pile between them. “Are you being silly, Joe?”

“Just a little.”

“I like silly, so it okay.” Her work is rather swift. The line of four circles is interrupted by the singular X and then she drops three more circles behind the original line. One circle directly behind the X, and the other even further behind. Joe watches the arrows, a steady drag of the marker over the page. He takes in the center’s break left, the right side breaking further in that direction. 

“Is this a slant play?” The final arrows aren’t drawn. But Joe can see the direction this rendition is heading. 

“That sounds right,” Korey answers with a nod. And when she places her final arrows and dashes, Joe can indeed see it’s a slant play. 

“You drew that perfectly.” The words bubble up and a small piece of laughter comes up with them. Though, given the way Korey handled his blabbering about space, it’s no real surprise that she drew the play so well. “Does your granddad teach you about football?”

“A little. I like watching him draw them. He does it for me during games sometimes. When there’s a really big play so I can see better.” The double ‘t’ comes out more like a ‘d’ sound, but Korey’s excitement is palpable. 

“Why’s this one your favorite?” Joe questions, tapping her green rendition. 

Korey peers back down at the page, her head tilting to the side. Her face scrunches up in thought. “It looks cool,” Korey starts, voice quieter than normal. She looks back up to Joe with a clarity sparkling in her eyes. “And PopPop said it was special.”

Joe turns back to the page. There, so obviously there, Joe understands what Korey doesn’t get. The slant play was the nail in Trey’s coffin, the play that unfortunately injured his knee in the unfortunate slip. The dog pile on Trey only added further stress to the injury, too. But it strikes Joe deep in his gut that rather than being scared, or angry, or resentful of the play, Trey holds it as reverent. Seemingly still speaks highly of the thing that he could so easily say destroyed him. 

But Trey’s the kind of man that loves to play the game. Joe just wonders what playing can look like to Trey now. It won’t ever be the same as suiting up, slipping into the pads. But couldn’t Trey have just a small piece back? 

“Do you have a favorite play?” Korey asks.

The question pulls Joe from his thoughts and makes him turn his head to look at Korey again as he nods. “A couple, yeah.”

“Could you draw one for me?”

“Yeah, of course I can, Korey.” Joe finds a fresh sheet of paper and uncaps the black marker again. He’s much more careful with his circles and arrows than he was before, not that it needs to be perfect, but that it’s much more legible. 

Korey slides in a little closer, quiet at first, and just as Joe goes to drop in the final arrows she speaks, “Auntie says that you and her like each other.” It’s all a harsh whisper that’s not truly a whisper. But it’s as close as Korey gets. “Is that true?”

Joe’s shoulders bounce with his laughter and he peers up to Marlowe, perched on the couch. She’d been reorganizing the shared bag with the last of their clothes after she got dressed for the day. Marlowe’s work is rather silent until now as she shakes her head to herself, finalizing the last of the toiletry bag.

Joe turns to Korey and nods, dropping his voice into a whisper that he knows isn’t hiding anything. “I do like your aunt. But you can’t tell her.”

“I won’t tell. Do you like her a lot?” Korey prompts, pushing in closer to Joe. 

“Yeah, a lot.” 

“Like PopPop likes Gma?”

The room stills. Joe’s sure he could hear an ant crawling over his floors. Time freezes, hanging like a guillotine above him.

Joe doesn’t want to lie to Korey. And he certainly doesn’t want to crush her curiosity. Yet, the question is unnerving and exacting. It gets to the true heart of it all, to the unspoken desire that both Joe and Marlowe were old enough to understand the kind of weight that level of adoration and devotion carries. His throat throbs with the rhythm of his erratic heart. Because of course Korey is just as good at this as Marlowe is, even if Korey’s skill is unintentional and accidental. 

“Well, one day, I hope to,” Joe starts softly, soft enough that he prays Marlowe can’t hear. The words are shaky as he puts breath to them. “But that kind of level doesn’t happen in just a few weeks though.” Or the six months they’d been talking either, but Joe’s not really going to count it.

“Hmm, I guess you’re right. I don’t know how much I like PopPop after he has broccoli. He’s very stinky after it.”

A singular sentence cuts out all the tension. 

Joe’s internal dilemma of how to face Marlowe after such a question dissolves instantly. Joe’s and Marlowe’s howls of laughter ring out into the high ceilings and Korey joins them, tickled at their delight. “But you can’t tell him I told you,” Korey explains. “It wasn’t me.”

“You got it. It wasn’t you.” Joe’s agreement is carried in part by the linger tufts of his laughter. 

The levity in Korey’s confession is enough of a break that Marlowe, upon her clearing the tears from her cheeks, announces that it’s probably time for them to get back home. The morning sun is giving way to the impending noon. The time Joe’s had with them both is far from long enough. It was no small miracle that Marlowe was able to keep a Friday night into a Saturday free, considering she’d been asked a couple times by clients to be squeezed in for various reasons. A feat in and of itself, second only to Joe actually picking them up. 

Marlowe hooking up Korey’s car seat into the backseat of Joe’s car took ten minutes, but it was more than worth it in the end. The few hours, even though it was technically two calendar days had all been worth it. Marlowe might’ve mused that his house felt like it was missing him in it, that she was waiting to see Star Wars posters down the hallways, but to Joe, what was missing was them. A fullness that only other people can bring, that only Marlowe can bring. A fullness of having Korey running laps through the living room as she waited for the movie marathon to start, her voice bubbling with questions Joe couldn’t decipher fully at times. That’s what Joe wants to fill his house. 

The last buckle clicks into place of Korey’s car seat. Joe memorized the brand for future reference—Graco Baby in a soft pink—but he’d been trying to study how to get Korey in and out of it safely. Marlowe’s fingers move with ease, assured with each snap and tug. It’s nearly too fast for Joe, though he catches the majority of it. Yet, much like the hair, Joe is sure he’ll get the hang of it faster than he thinks. The only thing Joe’s yet to master though is ensuring he picks the right vehicle to use when he’s picking both Korey and Marlowe. Korey’s car seat and Joe’s propensity for sports cars do not mix. Though he’d offered to switch it over to his truck upon getting home last night, Marlowe insisted it would be easier to leave it as is. 

“So,” Joe starts, easing back out into the street. The speakers play music from his phone at an acceptable volume, not his usual rattle, to keep Korey’s hearing in tip top shape. “A little birdie might’ve told me that a private conversation between Korey and I was leaked.”

“I don’t know if leaked is the right word.” Marlowe’s snickered retort warms his chest. It knocks again at that spot that she’s occupied that just feels right. 

“I don’t know if my answer was too much.” He says it low, afraid to even open the door. But this isn’t the time for coy. “It’s not my goal to scare you off.”

“I want to see where this goes.”

Joe spares a glance, a quick flick to his right. Marlowe’s looking at him already. He can’t see all of her face, just enough to see the small quirk of her lips. His throat bounces, the thrumming fast as his heart beats rapidly in his chest. “You do?”

“I do.” The sound of those two words are enough to make his fluttering heart settle. “I am doing this scared, so I will need help.”

“Doing it scared is still doing it. I’ll be there. For every step.” The words are easy to say, Joe would have to actually put action behind him. He can do that. He would do that, show up, exactly as promised. 

It’s a short drive, at times too short—this is one of those times, when the distance doesn’t feel long enough. Joe knows when he eases to a stop in front of the house, his house will be empty again. That he’ll have Marlowe in the text, in phone calls. A version of her that he cannot touch, can’t inhale the warm and heavy edge of her perfume anymore. A scent he hopes has managed to seep into his pillowcase that they shared long enough to last past tonight. 

Marlowe’s keys click in her hand as she works them into the lock. The driveway is full. His shoulder carries their shared bag. Marlowe’s got a hip full of Korey. “PopPop!” Korey calls out as the door eases open. 

The car seat is still in Joe’s car, a second trip that waits for them. But Joe follows Marlowe inside of the foyer. The house feels a bit more too still, but there’s noise, voices that are soft as they flutter through the air. Korey slips down from Marlowe’s hold and the stairs creak just a little as Trey descends the steps. “Ah, there she is!” 

Korey is scooped up, arms looping around Trey’s neck. “Hi.”

“Hi, baby girl. Did you have fun?”

“Yes, I did. We made the biggest blanket fort ever.”

“She fell asleep in the middle of it,” Marlowe teases. Korey huffs, but concedes that she might’ve fallen asleep before it was finished. 

The stairs creak again to Regina’s descent. Joe smiles at her, slipping the strap down off his shoulder. Regina’s hug is tight, but quick before she speaks. “I thought I heard you. How are you, Joe?”

“Good. How are you?” The second the question leaves his lips he wants to take it back. Joe knows it’s probably not well. Yet the returned question is second nature. 

“That’s good to hear. Doing okay right now. Thanks for asking.” Korey’s excited retelling as she gives her grandmother a hug seems to swallow up the tension of Joe’s blunder. 

“Hey, Trey?” Joe starts, just before Regina and Korey make their way into the living room. It’s not do or die. Joe knows this, but he feels himself steeling like he does before games. This is only an offering, a thing Trey can turn down and Joe wouldn’t take an ounce of offense to it.

“Yeah, Joe?”

“You can shoot this down. I’d get it. But I’d like to extend an invite to you to visit during one of our practices. You don’t have to stay long either or anything.” 

Trey blinks, for a moment his face opens in shock. Then it clouds, like he’s about to reject it outright. Tell Joe that it’s too much, which Joe does understand if it is. Yet, Trey doesn’t get the chance to definitely say. His next words cut before they get air as Marlowe eases into his side, an arm wrapped around Trey’s waist. “Think on it.” Her voice cracks under the weight of the words, breaks three words into four as if she’d added the please verbally. 

Trey watches her, head tilting. His lips part and before he can speak, Marlowe shakes her head in return. A silent conversation. One Joe wishes he could understand but only watches as it stretches on for two long quiet minutes. 

Trey sighs and nods in the end. “Thank you, Joe. I’ll think on it.” 

________________________________________

Her phone is too heavy.

Not literally, but Marlowe’s watching the text bubbles and she doesn’t know if she has the strength to pick the phone back up after she just set it down onto her nightstand. It’s Joe texting, so Marlowe reads over them, even if she can’t lift the device itself up. Joe’s Have you had dinner yet? I have a place in mind I think you might like follows behind his Hey, I hope you slept better last night. Call me on your lunch. Or just let me know when you have a break. The texts are hours apart with no physical text back though Marlowe did respond. 

Marlowe hadn’t had much of a break. Twenty minutes between clients but she still called Joe. There wasn’t much said, just a crackle of the speaker as they exchanged breaths, confirmation that she was in fact alive. Joe didn’t even ask how she was doing, simply greeted her before stating: Whatever you need from this space, take it. All Marlowe wanted then was quiet, some place to just exist without the pressure to perform. She didn’t even eat much of her lunch, picked at it just enough to say that she had eaten. But not enough to say that she was really satisfied. 

All that surrounded Marlowe at work was the pressure to perform. Conversations to carry, laughs to make sure came at the right time. Nothing about her job was really ever quiet. So when presented with the space just to have quiet with someone that didn’t want anything from her, she clung to it until the knock sounded at her door from her client. 

Marlowe should’ve listened to her mother about closing her books for today, should’ve just taken the day to herself. Yet, Marowe insisted she would be fine, that working would take her mind off the reality. Instead, the reality suffocated her, made her feel like she was underwater. Like she was watching herself from outside of her own flesh, not quite controlled like a robot, but orchestrating the entire affair like a puppeteer, pulling at strings to make muscles moves. 

Malia died today, she responds, pecking at the keyboard with the side of her right finger one letter at a time.

It’s not accurate. Today’s not the day Malia died, that was years back. But August 4th is the anniversary of her death. Three full fucking years without her sister. So the best Marlowe has is that Malia died today, because Malia is dead. There’s no other way to say that. And August 4th is the date she died. 

I’m on my way. 

Marlowe can’t decide if it’s relief that’s biting at her chest. But its teeth are razor sharp and the palm she passes over her flesh doesn’t ease the ache. Her screen goes dark, the timer finally putting the phone to sleep. And it leaves Marlowe in the middle of her bedroom, still pulling at strings, still trying to get herself to move and yet she can’t. 

Three years without Malia. Three years since Marlowe’s last been tucked into her sister’s embrace, the two of them giggling at something trivial—a text from some random guy, stories of their childhood. Three of the longest fucking years of Marlowe’s life. Marlowe blinks and the wall holding her insect and flora diagram art prints finally clears up before the tears blur it again. 

Three long fucking years. 

“Marlowe, my angel, it’s me. It’s Joe.” His palm is warm between her shoulder blades, a steadying weight on her spine that finally allows Marlowe to come up for air. 

“I miss her so much.” It erupts, a volcano of every ache Marlowe’s ever held. The sobs claw their way over her throat and Marlowe can’t stay on her feet. The weight knocks out her knees. Joe’s arm is tight and strong around her. However, instead of forcing her up, he moves with her, letting them both kneel down to the carpeted floors. 

“It’s okay to miss her.”

“I couldn’t save her,” Marlowe sobs. “I couldn’t stop her.”

Not that Marlowe thinks anything could’ve stopped Malia once she made up her mind. But it feels like Marlowe should’ve tried harder, should’ve done something different, if not better to let Malia understand just how damning the choice she was making was. Marlowe’s not sure any of that would’ve changed anything. That’s the worst part, knowing that if Marlowe had done anything different, that was still no real indicator that fate would be different or any kinder.

Malia’s bell was rung the second the pregnancy test illuminated that second dark pink line and there was no way to unring it. 

Marlowe’s not sure how long they stay on the floor, how long she sobs into Joe’s chest. She’s not sure how long she stood there looking at the space her phone took up, but not actually seeing it. Time doesn’t matter here. Because all that’s left is the ache. Joe’s voice is low, a melody around her sobbing but when her throat goes dry and there’s nothing left to be shaken out of her bones, Marlowe listens. 

“You’re safe, Marlowe. You’re safe here to let it all out,” repeated over and over, interjected with, “Let it all out. I’m here.” A warm reassurance that loops over and over in her ear. 

The cotton of his t-shirt is soaked, wetter than her cheeks, and sticking to her skin just a little. Undoubtedly her face is a mess too, tracks of her tears, trails of the snot she leaked. Her mouth is dry, voice rough and hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re human. I don’t want or need an apology.” 

The scoff doesn’t have any real humor behind it but Marlowe peels out from Joe’s chest, taking in the tension in his jaw, the sheen to his blue eyes that are tainted just the faintest of pinks, like he’d been crying too. “Dad would love that joke.”

It eases his jaw relaxed a little, his lips quirking up for just a moment. Not long, but enough. “Just don’t tell him it was never my intention to make such a dad joke. Here.” Joe eases out, stretching towards her nightstand and plucks a bottle of water from it. Not there before him, Marlowe knows that much. The plastic cap cracks by the single twist of his fingers. Joe follows the passed water bottle with several tissues dapped over her cheeks and under her nose as Marlowe swallows down the first sip.

“Care to tell me why you worked today?” There’s no judgment in the words, nor in his touch. One hand cradling the back of her head as Joe swipes away the last droplets of snot from under her nose. He’s gentle around the septum clicker, the edge of the nose ring, and the top of the philtrum. “Not hurting you, am I? Don’t want to snag anything.”

Marlowe’s “No, you’re not hurting me,” is immediately followed up with Joe’s softest, “Good.”

Marlowe continues on to answer his question, “And I thought I could forget for just a few hours. But I was wrong. Spent the whole day outside of myself. The 18th is her birthday and I don’t know if I can do a repeat of this.”

Joe’s silent for a moment, eyes darting over her face. Marlowe spies the calculations. How she’d mentioned that Malia was two years older, how her birthday is two weeks after the date she died. “That’s fucked how close that is. I’m really sorry, Marlowe.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

The tissues fall into the trash with a soft swish, rustling against the plastic of the bag lining it. “Can I ask you two things?”

“By some counts, that would be one of them.”

He snorts, fingers brushing along her kneecap. “Two after that one.” Marlowe nods for Joe to continue, working down another sip of water. “Will you sit outside with me to eat? I’m personally starving. And second, which now that I think about it is less of a question, I’d like to understand better what you meant when you said you couldn’t save Malia.”

Marlowe hadn’t explained hardly anything at all. Curiosity on Joe’s part is just natural. It is scary. The memories, the knowledge of her sister is all Marlowe has left. But Joe said that he wouldn’t let her forget, that he’d carry Malia too. Maybe the age old adage is correct—sharing is indeed caring. 

“Yes. To both,” she exhales. 

The hallway is quiet. There’s no commotion from the room next door though Marlowe does look back just to see, to listen for that whispered voice—this time there’s nothing as if Malia knows what is about to happen. Marlowe’s not sure if it’s a good thing or bad thing yet. But the fact that there’s nothing makes her stomach flip. Was she already losing Malia? Would that stop her from following through on her word?

In the kitchen, the air is thick with the smell of food—fresh and not the distinct smell of the lasagna that her mother cooked. Marlowe doesn’t even get the chance to investigate further before a hand slides over her lower back. Not Joe’s because his palm is still pressed into hers. “Come here.” The command is soft from her mother, arms opening wide. 

Marlowe obeys, curls into her mother’s shoulder and inhales—warm vanilla and home invades her nostrils, reminds Marlowe of the times she’d curl into her mothers lap to hide away from the scarier parts of the movies they watched. “You were right,” Marlowe confesses.

“I applaud you for trying, Mars. It’s okay not to be strong all the time.” 

The plastic snap of a lid rattles the air, soft and deep murmurs start up behind it but Marlowe stays in her mothers arms. Seeking the same comfort now as before, a reminder that she is safe. Even if her chest still aches. 

“Thanks again,” her father starts behind her, “for bringing us dinner. You really don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I could do, all things considered,” Joe answers. So that explains why there hadn’t been the hum of a pasta sauce in the air earlier. 

“Auntie Marlowe?” Korey pipes in, voice tiny in a way it never is. 

Marlowe slides out of the hug and peers down at Korey. “Did I scare you, bug?”

“No, not scared. Worried. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“Yeah, bug, I get it. Auntie’s going to be okay though.” Marlowe’s mindful not to apologize in front of Korey or to Korey. None of these emotions are shameful even though it kills Marlowe to still be here, to still feel trapped in the loop. 

“Can I give you a hug?”

“I would like that, yes.” Marlowe squats down and invites Korey in, a thing the little girl doesn’t seemingly need as she rushes in. 

“Sometimes I feel bad because I’m not as sad,” Korey confesses. It’s soft, a true whisper this time. It is a bittersweet relief that coats the inside of Marlowe’s mouth and chest. She’s grateful that Korey doesn’t feel like she’s missing a ton. Yet, Marlowe’s frustrated that it’s come to this, that Korey watches their grief and doesn’t know how to hold it. Not that a three year old should have to know what to with grief. 

“You don’t need to feel bad, bug. It means you care.”

“Is it bad that I don’t miss her all the time?”

“No. It’s not bad.” Marlowe’s too scared to say more, doesn’t want to force Korey into a box or a feeling that she doesn’t actually have or need. So she leaves it there that it’s not bad to not miss Maia. 

“How do you do it?”

“Do what, bug?”

“Smile when it hurts.” 

The sting starts again, the welling right at the bottom of her lashes tells Marlowe she’s going to crack again. But Marlowe keeps Korey wrapped in her arms as the wave descends again over Marlowe. “Because you give me reasons to keep smiling. Because there’s still rainbows to chase, and puddles to splash in, potions to make in the backyard, hugs to have, blanket forts to build, vegetables to fight us over, books to read, numbers to learn.” 

“I like that.” 

“I love you,” Marlowe hums, arms tightening just a little around Korey. Her tears slip and she lets them track down her cheek without fuss. 

Korey fake chokes at the tightened embrace, body going limp in Marlowe’s arms. “Too tight but I love you too.” 

It’s clear to Marlowe now that she’d been crying for much, much longer than originally estimated as she spies what remains in the containers. There's plenty of food left, but it’s clear that there was more of it. One missed dinner wouldn’t end the world, but it still irks Marlowe just a little that she missed it. Joe works alongside her dad, both of them shuffling and passing plates back and forth, collecting forks and knives from the utensil drawer, setting the microwave’s timer, grabbing cups. A mostly silent coordinated effort between them. 

The outside is warm still, the earlier storm’s not quite enough to cool down August’s searing touch. Their plates are full of grilled chicken, rice, and veggies—Mediterranean by the looks of it. The steps are dry enough unlike the chairs where the cushions are undoubtedly still damp. Marlowe’s stomach growls at the smell again—a deep bellowed sound that she can feel just as much as she hears it. 

“Please ignore that,” she huffs, wisps of laughter trailing her words. 

“Did you ever eat lunch?”

“Not enough. Didn’t have much of an appetite.”

“There’s more left if you’re still hungry after this helping.”

Clink, an echoing sound as Joe cuts into a piece of chicken. Marlowe collects a forkful of rice first, testing the waters first. “Did you wait to eat dinner?” she asks after finishing her first bite. 

“I had a feeling I should wait. And I ate lunch later than usual,” Joe answers with a shrug. “Plus, I know you try to eat dinner with your family most of the time so I just made a giant order.”

“What would you have done if I told you I did in fact eat already?” Marlowe means it as a tease, tries to grin up at him, but her face is tight from the tears. 

“Oh, I was halfway here by the time I sent that text from the restaurant. Food was being delivered regardless.”

A kindness that would not be stopped. She’s not sure how to repay it or if it needs to be repaid at all. Perhaps it’s all a silly thought instead. In the warm evening, Marlowe catches a chill, a wispy wind over her cheek: Tell him about me. And there’s no fighting it now. 

“Malia died four months after giving birth.” Marlowe pauses, the bite of chicken still hanging from the prongs of the fork. “And I guess I should first say thanks for dinner, for doing that. I do appreciate it a lot. But also, since you asked, she was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect.  Which, Malia did have surgery for but she was always being monitored because of it. Doctors pretty much told her not to do anything that would put too much stress on her heart.”

“And I assume when she realized she was pregnant there were concerns on if she’d survive it or not?”

Marlowe nods at the question. “If either one of them would. Korey was pretty small when she was born. She’s better now. No developmental concerns. But Malia’s body—it was a hard four months. Her heart was so fragile. They weren’t sure if she’d make it through another surgery either. The only thing we could do is watch. I love Korey, don’t misunderstand me when I say this. But I think we all talked to Malia about aborting. Just for her safety.” 

Joe turns, face crumbled—a mixture of horror and concern furrowing his brow— but his touch is calmer, steadier over her elbow. “It sounds like Malia considered all her options, weighed out the consequences.”

“Sometimes, when I’m feeling selfish, I like to think she didn’t. I know she did.” Because Malia made her choices fiercely and with thorough consideration. It just meant that Marlowe would be left behind. Malia and Marlowe spent hours on this same deck, talking, arguing at times too about what Malia was doing, how risky it was. “Sometimes,” Marlowe continues as Joe cups her cheek, his thumbs brushing away the tears, “I teased Malia, when she was in the hospital for the last time, that she was too chicken shit to handle a fire sign daughter as a fire sign mom.” It’s a wet tuft of laughter that follows the tease. “Malia would’ve, of course, argued that in fact she was brave for doing it anyway. But she was brave about everything.” 

“I can’t argue against the woman who had a baby knowing it could end poorly for her. I know how that will end for me.”

“Poorly for you too,” Marlowe snorts. 

“Exactly.” 

It’s quiet between them, the weight settling firmly now into the wood beneath them, into both of them of what happened. Now Joe knows why Marlowe’s so terrified of August; everything of herself laid mostly bare. Marlowe wants to say something, do something to break the heaviness, but the marrow of her bones feels like lead now. So she leans into Joe’s palm, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the pad of his thumb eases over her cheek—a steady and relaxing stroke. 

Joe’s voice pierces the quiet first, “Thank you for telling me, Marlowe. I’m sorry this happened, that you and your family have carried that for so many years.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Of course. Think you can eat some more for me?”

Marlowe nods, peeling out from the touch. Her hunger has not been forgotten, another growl echoing still belling for more. “I absolutely can.”

The evening cradles them as Joe and Marlowe settle shoulder to shoulder. Their empty plates returned to the kitchen, the sky dropping into a faint purple in the distance. A sign that night will come, but has not arrived just yet. The wooden steps are unforgiving, but Marlowe’s too afraid to go back inside to take those steps up to her room again. Doesn’t know what will be left and she’s not sure if she’s ready right now to find out. It’ll have to happen eventually. But Marlowe wants to steal as much as she can from this moment, tuck it between her ribs and her heart. 

Joe’s palm is callused, a bumpy texture as she runs the pads of her fingers over it. When she turns his hand over, faint dotted marks greet her, it’s clear the faint lines and dots are where stitches once existed, a thin rubbery texture to the spots—his hand dotted a constellation with its own stories to tell. Stories that she could keep safe too when the time for him to share them came. That she’d hold his hardships just as gently as she was caressing his hand. 

“Malia and I were planning to start pole dancing classes before she died.” It felt stupid then to have wishes, to have dreams as Marlowe watched her sister fighting to get through each day. “I don’t know if it gave Malia something to look forward to. If it made her feel less like she was dying.”

“Maybe,” Joe concedes, keeping as still as possible next to Marlowe. She can feel the tension in his muscles like he’s afraid to move and startle her. 

“I never made it to the first class.” Marlowe rests her chin into his shoulder. “You’re tense.”

“It tickles a little.” She pauses her mindless tracing at the words just as he adds on, “But I like it.” Joe says it low and hushed, pained in a way that tells her to not stop. So Marlowe resumes, a soft trail over his palm lines, short and sweet as she rubs the lines. Wonders if Joe’s ever cared to have his palms read, if they too have confessions to share even if he’s written his own story over them. If Joe cares about that sort of thing.

“Afraid to leave her behind, I take it? If you took a class.”

“Yeah,” Marlowe answers, tracing a vein up towards the crook of Joe’s elbow. “I still get the emails though.” It feels stupid now to have never unsubscribed, to have held onto the promise and not actually seen it through yet.

“Think you’ll go to a class eventually?”

Marlowe snorts—she hears the almost hopeful edge to the question— and cuts her glance up to Joe. “Asking to see if you’ll ever get a show?”

The grin is impossible to hide, the boyish curl of his lips says it all. Marlowe can just start to see the change of color in his cheeks beneath the tan of his skin as he ducks his head for a moment—he had thought about it. “Admittedly, I did think for two seconds about that. But give me some credit for not actually asking. This is a serious moment and question—because I know what it means to you not to lose her sister again.”

“I haven’t yet. But I guess there’s a reason why I haven’t unsubscribed.” 

“You are busy right now teaching Korey the stanky leg. So I get it if you don’t get to it immediately.”

Marlowe huffs her laugh at the reminder of her latest dance lesson that she and Korey had. A video that Korey begged to send to Joe to see what he would say. He’d been generous and gentle as always in his response, Korey’s becoming quite the prodigy.

“And you probably think I should take at least one class? See if it’s really a loss or not.”

Joe eases his hand back over, takes hold of her knee—a quiet steadiness in the touch. Marlowe presses into his side, hand caught lightly in the hollow of his arm, just below his bicep.  “You said it, not me. But I would agree.”

If Marlowe’s not a fan of not keeping her promises, then she should start there too. Hold onto the things that she promised her dying sister—taking care of Korey is an easy given, and yet, everything else feels like if Marlowe does them she might sever her own limb like wild animals do when they’re caged. Marlowe’s no wild animal, so if she does this, what else would she call it but survival? 

Q would call it living. And Joe would too, she’s sure. 

Marlowe wants to say she’ll sign up for the next class. But words are promises and Marlowe wants to keep them. So she holds off, lets it dance around in her tongue behind closed lips just to see how they taste. If they taste like bile or if they taste like hope. For now, that’s unclear. It’s a weight and taste foreign but not immediately hated. Maybe one day she can make that promise.

The sun’s long set, the faint purpling turned into the darker twilight. The air cools, enough to feel nice but not enough to be cold. Or maybe that’s just how it feels next to Joe, his body heat radiating from him like a sun as it seeps through the crocheted lime green shrug over the white tank Marlowe’s dawned this morning. “Do you have a favorite constellation? Or star? Care at all about that sort of thing?”

“What do you mean that sort of thing? Astrology? Star signs, and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“For myself—no.” His lips parts like Joe’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. He stops there. 

Marlowe catches the faintest feeling that there is something else, something beneath the pause. “But you would for someone else?”

“For you I would.” Joe says it simply, a fact that no one should dare refute. Like Marlowe shouldn’t dare stop her line of questioning. “I’m not saying I’d believe in it. But I’d listen.”

She’s not asking him to believe. Joe’s a man of facts, a thing she can see in how his press conferences are late because he’s spending extra time throwing. A man of repetition, work ethic, and drive. He’d never be a man of the stars, even if Marlowe sees the divinity in it all. “I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“It’s a good thing I like coffee. And to answer your question, no, I don’t have a favorite constellation.”

“More focused on black holes shrinking?”

“Something like that,” Joe nods. “Do you have a favorite constellation?”

“I don’t necessarily pick favorites with the stars. But there’s one that feels poignant lately. We can’t see Orion right now; it’s in the daytime sky unlike in the winter. I’m interested too in learning about my ancestral mythology but that’s neither here nor there. Orion’s in the daytime sky right now for us, and there’s versions of his story that vary: him falling in love, making unwanted advances, angering gods, boasting about his hunting abilities. He meets his end mostly the same in each version, by claw and tail of a scorpion. Both Orion and the scorpion hang in the sky, apart from each other, as if not to have to face off again in the afterlife. Though some say that scorpion still chases after him up there. And I’ve wondered if it’s shame or pride that Orion feels up there.”

“But you’re not dead, Marlowe.”

She hums, resting her head into him now. It’s not about who’s alive and dead. “I’m trying to decide if Malia’s actually haunting me or if I’ve put a version of her in my head of my own creation that misses me like I miss her, that calls out to me because I ask for it. Orion can’t turn around, but I can. So is it pride? Is it shame? Is it surviving? Is it living?”

“Do you want my answer?”

“If it’s another Dad joke, please spare me.”

“It was an unintentional dad joke, but a good one nonetheless.” His move is slow, arm slipping from her hold to snake around her shoulders instead. They move like water, fluid and slow, coordinated without an awkward pause. Joe leans into the wooden railings, Marlowe leans into Joe. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. Her arms encasing his waist. “Though, I guess my answer matters much less since it’s your grief,” Joe murmurs. 

“What if it’s all of it? Living and surviving and shame and pride?”

“What if it is everything all together? What then?” Joe poses the sentiment back, a soft reflection for Marlowe to peer into. 

The night starts to echo around them, the chirping not as eerie as it used to feel to Marlowe when she was younger. The sound reminds her of returning to Virginia, sitting on the bricked steps of her grandmother’s old house. The one that her grandmother, grandfather, and dad built additions onto with their own hands. A certain level of charm to the brick one story home, vinyl in some parts—the additions— and the yard in an eternal bloom too with Lady Day’s impatiens plants lining the foundation. The house that Malia and Marlowe both learned to drive at, even with the back country road that whined around like snakes. The summers spent racing down to the creek, feet slapping over the pavement before thudding into grass. 

What if it is everything all together? A question that echoes between her ears, only to be met with the chirping of memories passed. 

“Why’d you pick it up?” Malia screeches. 

Malia spotted the creature initially, her scream alerting Marlowe in the midst of polishing the silverware while their father worked on Lady Day’s riding lawn mower outside. Malia was supposed to be putting the freshly laundered sheets back onto the bed they were sharing in the guest room. Marlowe rushed from the kitchen table to the back to find Malia dancing on the mattress as she pointed to the ground. Malia’s words smashed together in her terror, but Marlowe understood ‘tails’ and ‘moved so fast’ enough to piece together something had gotten into the house. Marlowe slipped all the doors closed between rooms before she hurried back towards the bathroom snagging one of the cups Lady Day used for mouthwash and a tiny flap from the cardboard box that once operated as packaging. The hunt for the creature took a solid ten minutes with Malia tucked onto the back corner of the mattress and Marlowe on her hands and knees. 

“He’s not going to bite,” Marlowe returns. The gecko blinks back up at her, squirming at the fact that it’s been caught. She keeps a sturdy grip on its body, so as to not pop off the tail and lose him again. The creature is clearly scared, feet still scrambling even though it’s far from the ground. 

“You don’t know that!”

“He’s kind of cute.” Another squirm before his head turns toward Malia. “I think he likes you.”

“Ew, ew, ew! Keep that thing away from me!”

Marlowe’s mindful, though, of the way Malia presses a hand to her chest not to stress her sister out too much so Marlowe drops the critter carefully into the small cup and then slips the piece of cardboard over the opening.  “Get the door for me.”

Malia watches the paper cup like a hawk to the ground for food. “It’s not going to die in there, is it?” Even though Malia’s not a fan of the insects and critters, she still cares about them, never wanting any of them to kill it. 

“Not as long as you get the door for me fast.” 

“And you’re going to take it far, right?” Malia’s hands tremble for a second over the lock but it clicks and Marlowe steps over the towel that’s failing at its job to keep creatures from slithering in underneath the door. 

“I will take it far. Don’t worry. I know you’re a baby about this.”

“I am far from a baby. Just—don’t get bit and keep your pockets turned inside out.” The last time Marlowe returned from dropping off one critter another one somehow found a way into her pocket. Marlowe denies placing the frog into her pocket. But everyone knows exactly how it happened. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Marlowe huffs around her grin. There’s a shuffling from the inside of the cup, the gecko still displeased at its capture. So Marlowe is quick with her tapping at the outdoor slides to wake up any spider, or other lizards that have slipped inside. Nothing slithers out so Marlowe slides in gingerly, socked toes searching for anything that doesn’t feel right. Nothing happens and then Marlowe carries on, Malia’s indignant huffs cross the hazy afternoon air. 

“What you got there?” Lady Day calls out. 

“Gecko,” Marlowe hollers back, gesturing to the edge of the trees at the bottom of the property. “Taking it out so Malia doesn’t have a second cow.”

“Lawd. She okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good.”

The grass crunches under Marlowe’s feet during her twenty odd yard walk. Marlowe glances back over her shoulder and spots in some shadow, but mostly in clarity Malia’s figure, hovering in the door. “Close that door. You letting the cool air out,” Dad hollers. “Mars is safe!”

“But she ain’t far enough yet,” Malia calls back. 

Marlowe walks another five yards and then eases down into her squat, placing the cardboard onto the ground first. There’s a fierce rattling and then the cup flips over just as Marlowe releases it. Its small black shiny body slithering away, deeper into the foliage without so much as a look back. “Stay safe, friend,” Marlowe whispers. 

“I will be checking pockets at the door,” Malia returns as Marlowe approaches. 

Marlowe’s pockets are indeed turned inside out, cardboard in hand and raised, paper cup discarded into the trash barrel for the next time the trash is burned. “You do know they’re more scared of you than you are of them, right?” Marlowe snorts. 

“I’ll believe when they tell me but since bugs can’t talk, I’ll continue to be a scaredy cat.”

“It was a lizard.”

“Same thing,” Malia huffs with a wave of her hand. 

“It’s not,” Marlowe sighs, taking the three tiny bricked steps in two strides. 

At the end of the summer, Malia heads off to college—the same university their father attended hours and hours from them, would take a flight at the fastest, days in the car at the slowest. But Malia wants to go to an HBCU and get out of Ohio, even if only temporarily. Things that Marlowe understands. They spend so much time down here, it is a second home. The only thing that kept them in Ohio from Marlowe's understanding was their mother’s family. A string frayed, but still keeping them tethered. Lady Day refuses to leave this house, the last of her husband that she still has aside from the photos and memories. So she remains and the entire town looks out for her. 

Malia’s departure is a countdown the entire family has marked, watching her more intently. Hoping, praying there’s no calls in the middle of the night, in the middle of the week that leads them all rushing to a hospital, praying they’re not too late. And the thought of Malia being so far away stings the pieces of Marlowe that she doesn’t like confessing to, but is sure everyone can see—how much she loves her sister. 

“You gon be okay once I leave?” After so many years of sharing the same schools, it does feel strange that when Marlowe returns in September it will just be her. That there will be no one else to get Marlowe confused with, except of course for the teachers that have already had Malia in their classrooms. There will be no one to sit with at lunch on the first day, a built in defense to loneliness. 

“I’m a big girl,” Marlowe laughs and the sound shakes in her throat. “I’ll be okay.”

Marlowe presses her lips together, a few tears slipping down her cheek. She’s quick to brush them away, sniffle back down the new wave of emotion. Marlowe survived those two years in high school by herself, and she survived the four years in college. But it was always known, or at least assumed, that when she returned it would be to Malia. Now, the only person Marlowe has to return to is herself—a being she doesn’t quite recognize anymore in the reflection, but wants to get to know better. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” Joe coos from above her. “You don’t have to hide here. Promise you don’t.” There’s a tiny push up and the soft crunch of some rustling. Joe produces a couple more tissues from his pocket, prepared clearly in case Marlowe needed them again.

What if everything Marlowe was trying to hide from is everything she needed to run towards? 

What if she doesn’t have to tease it all apart and have nice boxes of before and after, progress and failure? What if it can all just be? The grief with the joy and the highs with the lows. This is not a new concept. It’s one Marlowe’s juggled before, but couldn’t seemingly hold it, like a jar with an unrepaired hole in the bottom—always leaking, the idea never being able to stick. Now it doesn’t feel like it’s leaking from the bottom, instead it feels more like overflowing. A container equipped to hold but taking on too much of whatever it is. 

What if all it ever was was living?

What if all Marlowe has to do is keep living? 

[burrowsbaby]

Stop this was so cute idk why

[isaadore]

tysm for the tag, @wintfleur !!

put a song for every letter in your username !

I — " illegal " by pinkpantheress

S — " sharpest tool " by sabrina carpenter

A — " add up my love " by clario

A — " all too well (10 minute version) " by taylor swift

D — " don't smile " by sabrina carpenter

O — " open arms " by sza ft. travis scott

R — " read your mind " by sabrina carpenter

E — " end of beginning " by djo

no pressure 🏷️ @goldsainz @hugleclerc @lovesickhughes @lovings4turn @hughesfilm @ivyquity @v6quewrlds & anyone who would like to join !

[v6quewrlds]

tagged by @isaadore <3

put a song for every letter in your username !

V: video - kaytranda feat. ravyn lenae

6: ohio - crush (i don't have a song in my playlist that starts with 6, so o instead?)

Q: quit playing games (with my heart) - backstreet boys

U: used to you now - jack & jack

E: en el olvido - omar apollo

W: what a feeling - one direction

R: redemption - zacari feat. wodumo

L: love in this club - usher feat. jeezy

D: don't speak - no doubt

S: stormy weather - etta james

no pressure 🏷️ @starsinthesky5 @hoodharlow @be-ready-when-i-say-go

[heyydolly]

Thanks for tagging me @v6quewrlds (even though I def cried because of how long my url is)

put a song for every letter in your username !

B: breakdown. - yungblood

E: Egypt Remix - Westside Gunn, Doechii

R: Rill Rill - Sleigh Bells

E: Even in the Dark - Nasimiyu

A: Are You The One - Basement

D: Dance, Dance - Fall Out Boy

Y: Youngblood - 5SOS

W: Wound - Slow Joy

H: Happy - Black Belt Eagle Scout

E: Everything Black - Unlike Pluto, Mike Taylor

N: Nettles - Ethel Cain

I: I Can't Stand the Rain - Ann Pebbles

S: seems like time moves forever. - Tommy Richman, mynameisntjmack

A: Ass Swung Low - Arca

Y: You Were Mine - Tami Neilson

G: GET A JOB! - Jack Kays

O: Orlando - Cherie Amour

tagging: @irishmanwhore @yelenasbraid @mrs-delaney @calumslovesong (if you don't want to suffer like me, i get it!) & anyone else who wants to do it!

[calumslovesong]

Thanks for tagging me @be-ready-when-i-say-go

put a song for every letter in your username !

C: Call me when you know better- Calum Hood

A: Astrovan- Mt. Joy

L: Lovesong- The Cure

U: Untitled- Knuckle Puck

M: Mantra(Sun Girl) by Hana Ni

S: Secrets from a girl(Who’s seen it all)- Lorde

L: Luna- The Smashing Pumpkins

O: Oh, It is Love- HelloGoodbye

V: VCR- The xx

E- Everybody Wants to Rule the World- Tears for Fears

S: Slugs- Slow Pulp

O: Omaha by Grasshopper Takeover

N: No. 1 Party Anthem- Arctic Monkeys

G: Georgia - Vance Joy

Tagging anyone who wants to give this a go!

[lewismcqueen-deactivated2026020]

🎵 𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓!!!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10 (tagged by @tsunodaradio !)

hello cro - extended, Varra

you first, Paramore

more than a woman, Aaliyah

kiss it, Jae Stephens

howling, XG

kissing in public, Destin Conrad

video, KAYTRANADA feat. Ravyn Lenae

p.b.s., Destin Conrad feat. Lil Nas X

loyalty, Kendrick Lamar feat. Rihanna

2 the music, KAYTRANADA feat. Iman Omari

tagging (no pressure!): @comraderoscoes @henneseyhoe @httpsserene @snowseasonmademe @spiderbeam @saintslewis @userhamilton @cinnamorussell @piastriprincess

[notdeonn]

🎵 ON REPEAT!!!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

thanks for the tag @lewismcqueen

1. folded - kehlani

2. about the money - t.i. ft. young thug

3. lady marmalade - christina aguilera, lil kim, mýa, & p!nk

4. saving all my love for you - whitney houston

5. symphony - absolutely

6. here’s where the story ends - the sundays

7. it had to be you - frank sinatra

8. barracuda - heart

9. my, my, my - johnny gill

10. i like it - debarge

tagging: @ayeshami @amirawrah @coffeevacation @dexastres @elyseesarchive @goodgyalgonebadd @irishmanwhore @jessnotwiththemess @kyoshithewriter @kjlovesbigwilo @lev-1-1 @muglermami @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

[leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro]

🎵 ON REPEAT!!!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

thanks for the tag @snowseasonmademe

1. Okay- Usher

2.Bleeding Love- Leona Lewis

3.Your Love- Nicki Minaj

4.BOA- Megan Thee Stallion (my playlist is very shady)

5.Pookies Requiem- Sailorr & Summer Walker

6.W.A.Y.S- Jhene Aiko

7.Heaven Can Wait- Micheal Jackson

8.Mirrors- Justin Timberlake

9.There goes my baby- Usher

10.Don't make me wait- Sabrina Claudio

tags: @dima-lfc @whoevenisthiz @kmlottin @szariahwroteit @dexastres @irishmanwhore @ayeshami @greyishbach @9kylian @kjlovesbigwilo @amirawrah @goodgyalgonebadd @anxiouspepper28 @rmadridcore @haartemis @lev-1-1 @camaluvs

[irishmanwhore]

🎵 𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓!!!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10 (tagged by @snowseasonmademe and @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro!)

she ready – key glock

6 inch – beyoncé ft. the weeknd

hey now – kendrick ft. dody6

coffee – miguel

ii hands ii heaven – beyoncé

sunny dayz – key glock

flamenco – beyoncé

burning blue – mariah the scientist

back to life – zayn

he think i love him – megan thee stallion

tagging (no pressure!): @borikenlovee @yelenasbraid @be-ready-when-i-say-go @platinumsim @anxiouspepper28 @dexastres @starsinthesky5 @v6quewrlds @sacred-healing

[starsinthesky5]

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

thanks for the tag @irishmanwhore <3

1. false god - t swift

2. cross your mind - shelley

3. red - t swift

4. wicked games - the weeknd

5. dreams - the cranberries

6. crystal - stevie nicks

7. fuck me eyes - ethel cain

8. come down soon - lizzy mcalpine

9. everytime - ariana grande

10. my fun - suki waterhouse

tagging (no pressure!): @yelenasbraid @joeyb1989 @ladyluvduv @hoodharlow @glittter-vamp @emmyblues @joesheadband

[nineverce]

thanks for the tag arch and @irishmanwhore!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

1. sex money feelings die (slowed version) — Lykke Li

2. Take My Mind — WizTheMc, bees & honey

3. good girls — josie edwards

4. Formation — Beyoncé

5. Mother’s Daughter — Miley Cyrus

6. think later — tate mcrae

7. sports car — tate mcrae

8. Beautiful Stranger — Laufey

9. Burn Me — Jonah Kagan, Sam Barber

10. Seventeen Going Under — Sam Fender

tagging (no pressure!): @burrowswomen @honeyncherry @hannahjessica113 @be-ready-when-i-say-go @joeyburrrow @joesheadband @ladyluvduv @emmyblues @joeyb1989 @jburrgf

[heyydolly]

thanks for taking me @irishmanwhore and @yelenasbraid

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

Call Me When You Know Better--Calum Hood

Smokestack Twins--Ludwig Göransson (Sinners Movie)

Raw--6ix, Joey Valence & Brae, FELIX!, KYLE, Buddy, Blu

Te Amo--Slow Joy

Pulldrone--Ethel Cain

Level--The Raconteurs

Nettles--Ethel Cain

Bust Your Knee Caps--Pomplamoose

Bloodbath for Birds--Squalloscope

Sleepyhead--Passion Pit

Tagging: @hoodharlow @mrs-delaney @verticallychallenged95 @heavyhitterheaux @calumslovesong @malumsmermaid (and anyone else who sees and wants to join in!)

[calumslovesong]

Thank you for tagging me @be-ready-when-i-say-go!

rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist, share the first 10, and tag 10

1. All I ever Asked -Rachel Chinouriri

2.loml- Taylor Swift

3.Igloo- Kiss of Life

4.Bunna Summa- BunnaB

5.F&MU-Kehlani

6.Affirmations-Flippa T

7.Serial Lover-Kehlani

8.Typa- Glorilla

9.Folded-Kehlani

10. Savannah- Jensen Mcrae

Tagging anyone who wants to do this!

[bowtiepasta-deactivated20260309]

TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE

tried to reblog the original post but it was gone so here we are i guess. thanks for tagging me leigh!!!!! @poemeater <3 i love you to pluto and back come kiss me now

currently reading: nothing actually. walk of shame

last song: man in the mirror — michael jackson

last film: captain america brave new world

last series: new girl season 3, mha season 2 (rewatch), wbk s2

sweet/savory/salty?: savory + salty!!! but i would give up both kidneys for some cinnamon sugar pretzels rn

tea or coffee: tea always

working on: packing to move states in july, weeding through some rough friendships that no longer serve me, picking up guitar again, and. well. kinktober ‘25

no pressure tags 🤍 @carminechrollo @admiringlove @madaqueue @cheralith @bouqette @mochiqa @mosskissed @storiesoflilies @toadba @tokeposts @hiraethwrote sorry if you’ve been tagged i tried to choose people i haven’t tagged in awhile/at all hehe

[taoisms]

prev reblogs <3 thank for u for the tag cid!!!!!

currently reading: fellowship of the ring (listen;;;;;; lol)

last song: uH? been a while since i've listened to music actually....

last film: return of the king (we marathoned all the lotr movies this past weekend okay)

last series: peaky blinders (just started!!)

sweet/savory: savory! :)

tea or coffee: i drink coffee more but tea makes me happier, i think lol

working on: ???? life ??? i should be working on the brat series bUT ALAS lmfao

no pressure tags!! @dira333 @rabbbitseason @hiraethwa @sodaneko @aimfor-theheart @cursedyuri @limerlove + anyone else who wants to do this!!!

[dira333]

currently reading: Forever Home at Honey Bee Croft by Jessica Redland (this author might be giving me my spark back)

last song: Hesitate by Hazlett, OSKA

last film: probably Minecraft in cinemas, can't remember anything else

last series: Leverage, I love it, though I'm currently stuck

sweet/savory: both please

tea or coffee: all kinds of teas that don't include caffeeine and those weird herbal coffee alternatives if I'm feeling fancy

working on: my health. I fought an AC and lost. Badly.

no pressure tags!! @arisaturn @haikyu-mp4 @sippn-the-tae

@shoulmate @solvisun @dearru @true-deru @alienaiver

@reverie-starlight and everyone else who'd like to join, my brain is awful at remembering names

[marisolls]

tysm for the tag dira !

currently reading. multiple books tbh they’re overwhelming

last song. syndulla by she’s green

last film. dirty donna (prroductt on yt)

last series. juvenile justice

sweet or savory. both!

tea or coffee. tea ♡ i as much as possible refrain from drinking coffee but sometimes it can’t be helped

working on. my very wrecked sleep schedule (im always failing)

no pressure tags! @seneon @stellar-headquarters @luvmequmi @cancelledkat + anyone!

[stellar-headquarters]

yay thank you for the tag solvi :D

currently reading. psychology 101

last song. crush by 2NE1

last film. cells at work! live action

last series. love next door (my mom asked me to join her ><)

sweet or savory. both! you can't stop me

tea or coffee. tea because i'm not at risk for a bathroom run heh

working on. making original characters, my wips, arts and crafts, sleeping sched, make-ups for my internship absences... A LOT AHAHAHA

npt: @kameyyy @mayyhaps @3p1logu3 @evesfairytale @twiishaa @hellkaiserinphoenix + anyone that wants to join

[kameyyy]

thank you stellar!! <3

currently reading: cadence of time by redhairedhunter on ao3 (PEAK jing yuan fic)

last song: susan smith by wych elm

last film: k-pop demon hunters (i think)

last series: mob psycho 100

sweet or savory: anything i'm like a vacuum

tea or coffee: coca-cola zero sugar

working on: my summer fic exchange draft, atsumu fic jokes in the background, currently hinking hard about a hsr streamer hybrid-smau, drivers license.. yurrrrrrrr

npt: @oleander-cup @kaalwanan @bouqette @kissunday @megapteraurelia + anyone who wants to join

[kaalwanan]

thank you kameyyy <3

currently reading: the idiot by dostoyevsky

last song: spin me around by the marías

last film: kiki's delivery service (rewatch)

last series: LMAOO coffee prince... my cousins and i binged it while we were in the philippines and kept talking about how it was so ohshc core

sweet or savory: idk both i love food too much

tea or coffee: tea!! i hate coffee most of the time

working on: writing consistently on here, getting my driver's license, preparing to go back to school, overcoming some grief

npt; @warfairie , @kuronarnze , @adoresia , @peaktora , @chevxyn , @livteracts (sorry if you've already been tagged/don't like partaking in this type of thing !! 💔)

[kuronarnze]

THANK YOU VANNAHHH 🫶💗

currently reading: Lafcadio Hearn's Japan

Last song: A little bit harder now by She wants revenge

Last film: UH I don't remember 💔

Last series: chibi maruko-chan (my literal childhood series)

Sweet or savory: sweet, cause I have a big big sweet tooth 😋

tea or coffee: mostly tea since I only drink coffee if I'm sleep deprived 💔

working on: some requests, my 500 follows event, uh I'm having summer break so I'm just relaxing irl 😭😭

npt !! @sinsxo @etherealrin @yoichiin @floweiralx @neeeooon @saeamy @jellychee

[sinsxo-deactivated20260119]

thank you aika (& vanielle) for the tag! 🫶🏻

currently reading: sunrise on the reaping last song: endless sky by ale araya ft. greek last film: k-pop demon hunters last series: the first frost sweet or savory: def savoury tea or coffee: probably tea, i don’t like coffee </3 i’m a chagee addict working on: my 500 followers event series and an upcoming sae collection + all the requests in my inbox!

tags ; anyone who wants to join

[kissagii]

hopping in on this since it seems fun!

currently reading: the way of kings (rereading)

last song: ruin by the amazing devil

last film: the life of chuck

last series: kaiju no. 8

sweet or savory: sweet!!! i love savory but my sweet tooth is unmatched

tea or coffee: tea 100%

working on: a few fics, learning to crochet, prepping to go back to school

tags: @satortilla, @yoichiin, @ncfh, @saexy, and anyone else!!!

[ncfh]

ty ty for the tag !!

currently reading. naruto shippuden

last song. friends by chase atlantic

last film. f1

last series. the summer hikaru died

sweet or savory. sweet !! i love oreo cheesecake its my fave.

tea or coffee. tea! i drink chamomile everyday

working on. uni projects and trying to write for kakashi

no pressure tags: @saeist @sinteiro @kaiser1ns + anyone else who’d like to join !! :3

[sinterio]

awww thank so much for the tag!! <33

currently reading :: ariadne by jennifer saint

last song :: ruby with the sharpest lies by des rocs

last film :: wicked (rewatch)

last series :: squid game (season 3)

sweet or savory :: ohhh i love them both! though, currently, I'm more inclined to more savory cuisine (especially with chicken. currently feral for that one)

tea or coffee :: coffee runs in my blood on rotation

working on :: 3 kpop demon hunters wips (save me). currently more inclined to finish my rujinu angst fic BUUUT my love for historical x reader might overpower that. just might but it carries great possibility.

🏷️ :: @miruscenic, @rosesaints, @satangcrush, @lonely-north-star + anyone who wishes to join!

[cheretoru]

tysm for the tag echo!!

currently reading: sword of summer by rick riordan (re-read)

last song: another soul by MICO

last film: hunger games mockingjay part 2

last series: billy the kid (look i have a tom blyth problem...he's a dream)

sweet or savory: are you seriously making me choose...kidding right now i'm leaning towards sweet !!

tea or coffee : tea !! (coffee only during opportune moments)

working on: k-pop demon hunters WIP w jinu x reader, back to school prep (i already don't like this), re-conceptualizing/rewriting my Psyche and Eros fic for choso <33

(no pressure) TAGS: @rosesaints @madaqueue @toadba @satangcrush + anyone who wants to join !!

[rosesaints]

thank you thank you for the tag! smooches <3

currently reading: y/n by esther yi.... halfway through and i recommend, it kind of reads like a psychological horror/suspense, but i've been locked in so far!

last song: david by lorde

last series: bob's burgers season 15! she's a comfort show, i'm at the episode where tina goes to camp and accidentally goes to an etiquette boarding school for young ladies

sweet or savory: i've definitely been craving more sweetness recently! i baked a key lime pie this weekend to satisfy that itch and i'm so excited to dig in :P

tea or coffee: iced tea with lemonade in the summer BANGS

working on: best guess chapter 3 and sleep on the floor, dream about me chapter two!

(no pressure) TAGS: @devililithh @berzattosmuse @loganficsonly @yasministration + anyone else who feels like joining :)

[yasministration]

ahhhh thank you for the tag mara!! please let me know if bob's burgers is actually worth the hype also

currently reading: The Psychopath Inside: A Neuroscientist's Personal Journey into the Dark Side of the Brain by James Fallon

last song: off my bones by elisabeth may

last series: abbott elementary (finishing up s4)

sweet or savory: both!!!!

tea or coffee: coffee, but i'm not really a drinker of either (ill have an iced spanish latte when going to a coffee shop but i'm not a regular coffee drinker)

working on: a not a random boy fic, and my 7k celebration requests

no pressure tags: @leeny-leens, @godricgryffinsnore, @wintrsoul, @prettydaisygirl, @mischievousmoony, @msmk11, @inkydelusions + anyone who wants to join!!

[blondykebarbie-deactivated20260]

Thank you!!!

currently reading: beach read (Emily Henry)

last song: Summerboy (Lady Gaga)

last series: h2o!! Back in my obsession

I’ve answered the sweet/savory and tea/coffee before!

working on: a theo nott fic, and hopefully madame

npt: @voidsxntry @daisyjonesgf @foodiegoogie

[sunnliqht]

thank you sm @msmk11 for tagging me ilysm 🤎 i miss h20 i might need to rewatch it!

currently reading: just finished “salem’s lot” stephen king (i loved it for the most part) also all my books on libby are on hold for 5 weeks+ :)

last song: volcano - the moving stills

last film: life after fighting - fucking crazy of a movie

last series: smallville - started season one again

sweet/salty/savory: all of them but sweet the most

tea or coffee: neither lol maybe a white monster

working on: changing all my layouts for my recs and finding a new theme for my blogs

npt 🏷️ : @pizzaapeteer @nervoushottee @amiableness @flowersforbucky @starktonyx @geminiwritten @lilyypotter1234 @sacredsorceress @kaylasficrecs

[geminiwritten]

omg, i almost forgot about this but thank you @sunnliqht for tagging me! i love these games sm 🖤

currently reading: a false start by elsie silver (i'm slugging through her first series okay)

last song: it's alright by mother mother (highly recommend)

last film: scooby doo (also highly recommend haha)

last series: schitts creek (comfort)

sweet/salty/savory: sweet

tea or coffee: coffee

working on: jake seresin fic!!!

npt: @love-chx @sortagaysortahigh @queensinxs @quietbluetune @mahaloapollo @thevillainswhore @roniii-ii @scarletmika @cherrys-muses

[sortagaysortahigh]

Going thru my notifs as we speak and this is the first thing i see im finna cry o em gee!!!!! Im ngl yall i do not have 9 ppl off the dome to tag so PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DO THIS!!! Uh heres a few npt: @hoodharlow @tootstoots @multifanenthusiast @arachine id tag more of yall but i genuinely cant remember shit rn!

Currently reading: never flinch by stephen king

Last song: sunshine & rain by kali uchis

Last film: idk i rewatched burlesque and few days ago, havnt finished any films since then

Last series: fx’s adults

Sweet/salty/savory: salty

Working on: a joaquin angst fic <3

[hoodharlow]

PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE

Tyyyyy to @sortagaysortahigh for tagging me <333

currently reading: the striker by ana huang

last song: Belinda's cover of Él me mintió

last film: the ballad of songbirds and snakes (it's a good movie to put on to mop lmao)

last series: the simpsons

sweet/savory/salty?: a little bit of everything, idk I'm Mexican and we eat all 3 combined lol

tea or coffee: iced coffe but on occasion I drink green tea with apple juice

working on: bodyguard!Joaquin x princess!OC, Justin and Amilia, the elevator request for Tee and Joe and Marlene

I'm tagging: @heavyhitterheaux @sacred-healing @be-ready-when-i-say-go @v6quewrlds @icecoldbloodtype @irishmanwhore @ijustwantedplums @emmyblues @glittter-vamp @starsinthesky5 @yelenasbraid @karajaynetoday and anyone whobsees this and wants to do it <333

[heyydolly]

thanks to @hoodharlow for tagging me

currently reading: how far the light reaches (e-book) by sabrina imbler and blood sisters (audiobook) by vanessa lillie

last song: breaking dishes by rihanna

last film: sinners (2025) by ryan coogler

last series: sneaky link (netflix)

sweet/savory/salty?: sweet and salty please1

tea or coffee: tea. i distest the taste of coffee. (i blame the coffee my PaPa let me drink when i was like 6/7. i loved him so much and wanted whatever he had. every adult warned me i wouldn't like it, but he was like if you want to try it and phew, instantly knew that man was on something different with his black coffee)

working on: Heart of the Matter chapter 13. marinating on married sub!joe and the wedding. fixing my finances (paying credit card debt). getting into a leadership role at my job. working through my tbr list and using my two library cards to my advantages.

tagging: @mrs-delaney @irishmanwhore @v6quewrlds @calumslovesong

If you see this and want to do it too, tag me in it when you do it!

[calumslovesong]

Thanks to @be-ready-when-i-say-go for tagging me!

Currently reading: The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix

last song: Cry Baby by Janis Joplin

last film: Because of Winn-Dixie. (10/10 comfort movie)

last series: Forever (Netflix)

sweet/savory/salty: sweet and salty is the way to go🙂‍↕️

tea or coffee: both depending on my mood but usually coffee.

working on: getting back into writing poetry, redecorating my apartment, and finding a second job so I can pay off my debt 😅.

tagging: anyone who sees this and wants to do it!

[heyydolly]

craving—a 'sub!joe' blurb

Inspired by the Sports Illustrated cover dropping today. Wedding planning can be stressful, but what's a better stress reliever than a fiance?

CW: 18+ content (smut).

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main mastlerlist

____________________________________

There's no real warning.

Well, there was one, but Joe was casual about it. A singular sentence that at the time seemed so innocent. And besides, between her job, his schedule, and coordinating the time zones of their friends, to find the best date and time for all the wedding party to come into town for suit and dress fittings, between juggling the flights for those coming into town and hosting accommodations, the Sports Illustrated cover slipped her mind. Important to her and to Joe, but not pressing given all the things they’re responsible for at this particular moment.

The frustrating thing: Domme’s been at it for days now, fielding emails from everyone involved. And today, today seems to be the worst of it, and of course, the day before everyone comes into town too. The emails range from: dog got sick, spent the night at the vet. he’s all good, nothing serious. if i seem frazzled that's why to This is your wedding, I know. But I worry the bridesmaid color is too trivial. Others are tamer and more expected bumps in the road: Flight was delayed this morning. Scheduled to leave this afternoon now. If that fails, I’ll rebook but will be there for tomorrow! 

Joe was the one that suggested that even though she'd normally work remote on Thursdays to take the day off. He noticed her shoulders driven up to her ears, how she laid at night staring at the ceiling sometimes, fingers fretting over and over themselves—as if cataloguing everything left to do, everything that didn’t go right—before he'd pull her closer to him, turn her to her side to face his chest and whisper into her forehead, "I've got you. You don’t need to worry about any of that right now.”

It's not hard to see how the planning has gotten much larger. Not impossible to do, but that's the thing about Domme, she makes the impossible seem so utterly possible. Joe wanted to bring a wedding planner into the mix, someone else to help mediate with them. Someone who knew what they were doing to help guide them. But Domme said that she could handle it. That she would handle it. So far, she has handled things pretty well, coordinating vendors, venues, getting Joe’s fittings schedule, scheduling her own wedding dress fittings, make up trials, hair trials. She made it look almost too easy.

But this Thursday morning proves to be a more formidable opponent than originally accounted for. Domme's staring down at the emails, eyes threatened with a sting. Just one thing, she thinks to herself, I just need one thing to go fucking right this weekend. All they needed to do was survive this fitting and they’d be in the home stretch, only a few more months. An early spring wedding that seemed almost too far out at times. But it was better to get the leg work out of the way now, in the throws of summers, so that Joe could focus just on his season when it started. They’d be able to handle the last final touches once his season was over too. Domme wanted to wait until summer but Joe pouted, ‘If I have to wait until summer, I think I’ll die. At that point, it might as well be a courthouse wedding. I’ll do it. I’ve Googled what to do.’ So spring it is, with enough gap any and all postseason required games built into the cushion. 

Yet the emails feel a little insurmountable right now. Like for everyone she answers, three more take its place. “Jesus,” she exhales, digging her palms into the socket of her eyes. Would the email ever end? Domme inhales, holds it, and then exhales. She repeats the action three times before she opens her eyes again and drops her gaze back down to her laptop screen. 

The email she'd been reading collapses, and just beneath it she can see a reply that she did not draft already floating through the webs, Thanks for letting us know. Hope he continues to feel better. If you need anything while you’re here, just let me know. -Joe. 

Domme watches as the next email fades, falling from the unread section to the read section in the inbox. She exits the smaller box where she’d been staring down at the email Joe already replied to before chasing down to the next one. By the time she opens it and rereads the snarky body, a reply is resting at the bottom. The color has been established for weeks now, if you had a problem with the color bridesmaids dress, the window for those concerns was then when we explicitly asked for feedback. We compromised to allow everyone to wear a different style of dress as long as it was the right color for their own comfort. If that no longer works as a compromise for you, we are sad to hear that, but will have to ask you to leave the wedding party. Let me know before you arrive tomorrow if can no longer participate. -Joe. 

Domme skims the reply a second time, heart slowing in her chest. It sucks. But Domme suspected that Tania, her old college friend who had drifted from Domme in the time she started to date Joe, might’ve had ulterior motives for rekindling the friendship a year and a half ago. Domme wanted to give Tania the benefit of the doubt, but confided in Joe that her gut always lurched just a little whenever Tania’s name showed up on her screen. Yet, Domme wanted to save face, wanted to meet her friend with compassion and grace. And things seemed fine, they really did. 

But the second the news of the engagement hit the horizon, as soon as the ring dazzled in person for the first time, the tides started to shift. Not majorly, not enough for Domme to bring down the axe herself, but enough for the axe to come out of the closet. Off handed remarks about relationships, and love lives and how if Tania was dating someone like Joe it would be different for her too. 

Comments that Domme tried to downplay when she recounted them to Joe. But of course, Joe wouldn’t stay in the shadows forever. He’d agreed to let Domme take the reins but that he'd always have the right to intervene if it seemed like it was going too far. Apparently, picking a fight about bridesmaid dresses is a step too far. So, it’s Joe who swings the axe, Let me know before you arrive tomorrow if you can no longer participate. 

Domme’s phone lights up. She sucks in a breath, noticing Tania’s name on the screen. She can only stare at it. Of course Tania would call her. Of course, Domme would get dragged even further into this ridiculous fight. It’s one dress, for one evening. Couldn’t Tania just suck it up for one night? Domme doesn’t care if the dress hits a GoodWill’s donation floor the next day. It didn’t matter past the wedding. 

Joe pushes off the kitchen counter, stretches for the device and then hovers, fingers curled to the shape, but not picking the phone up. “May I?” Joe asks. 

Their eyes meet, a hot blue flame where his eyes are usually so calm. Domme nods, two bobs in total, before she can stop herself. She’d like to do it herself, but she’s already drowning. Can already feel the squeeze at her throat and knows she’d barely get a word out to Tania if she answered the call herself. Joe collects the device with ease. “Joe speaking,” he answers, after swiping to answer the call just before it goes to voicemail. 

Tania’s voice is all mostly a shrieking buzz, words indiscernible but Joe reclines back against the counter, one arm folded to his chest, the elbow of his right arm pressed down into the top of his left hand underneath. He waits, and waits, and waits. Doesn’t hum, doesn’t speak to acknowledge that he’s listening. He just breathes, in and out. Every inhale and exhale timed evenly. Domme can only watch, only take in the tick of Joe’s jaw. 

“We asked for feedback weeks ago,” Joe starts. “You’ve made your position clear. Additionally, you’ve made remarks as of late that have made both she and I uncomfortable. Comments about our relationship, about me, and it’s because of those comments and your email that you are formally uninvited to the wedding. You are no longer a part of the wedding party.”

Joe pauses again, more shrieking echoes out from the speakers. Joe’s words are hot when he speaks again, brows furrowed in the middle of his forehead. “I don’t really care where you are, you could be halfway to fucking Kalamzoo for all I care. I’m just glad you didn’t actually arrive at the airport. Because you need to understand three things: Do not show up tomorrow for the fitting. Do not show up at the wedding. Do not harass my fiancée either. In fact, delete her number. Forget she exists to you, because after today, after your behavior, you will not exist to either one of us. If I catch so much as a whiff of you harassing my fiancée over this, see you tomorrow, or hear that you tried to still come to the wedding, you will regret it. Have I made myself clear?”

It’s all Joe says before hangs up. He sets the phone down next to him, fingers working over his own screen. Another email crops up on Domme’s screen. Per our phone call, you have been removed from the wedding party, and uninvited from our wedding. -Joe. Domme should’ve trusted her gut back then, when she first felt the churn. When she worried that Tania wasn’t coming back just as a friend, but for something more sinister. Because in doing so, it would’ve avoided all this. 

“I’m sorry,” Domme starts but the shake of Joe’s head pauses the rest of the words.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, my love. Nothing.”

“If I just—”

“No,” Joe interjects. “You decided to give her a second chance and she showed her ass. That’s on her.” It’s fierce from his lips, but his gaze is not the fire it was before, softer now as he gazes at her. Almost pleading with her silently to believe him. “Her actions have consequences. Now, I need you to log off for the rest of the day. Unplug. Color or read. Something not on your computer or the phone, please, baby. I’m going to finish up these last few emails, alert the vendors and security about the change.”

“Joe, that’s going to take you forever. Besides, it’s not even 10 AM yet. We just got started.”

He shakes his head again, crossing the few feet between the two of them and eases the top of her laptop closed. “If anyone calls that’s important, I’ll get you. I’ve got it from here.”

“Joe,” Domme warns again. “I appreciate you handling Tania, but I’m okay enough to help you—”

“Okay enough is not enough for me. You’ve been dealing with a lot of this by yourself while I juggle other things. I know you can handle this. But right now let me take care of you, by handling this for you.” His voice is soft, words a whisper towards the end. 

“I don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

The grin is bright, bemused as it lifts his cheeks. “If I need you, I will get you. But a few emails and a few calls won’t take me down, promise.”

I’ve got you. Domme knows he does, but she’s supposed to be able to handle this. She had, but even she needed a break sometimes. Even she needed a breather. “Okay,” she relents, pushing off the stool and grabbing her bottle of water. “But I’m not going far. Just to the living room. Play myself in checkers or something.”

“I hope you win,” Joe laughs, peeling her laptop off the placemat and moving it closer to him. 

It’s maybe an hour, hour and a half. There’s no real way for Domme to track the time, but she listens to Joe’s voice low from the kitchen. His conversations are pretty quick, pleasantries before he cuts to the chase, “Yeah, I’m calling to update the number on the proposed catering tally,” or “I know it’s pretty early, and we might have a couple more updates before the wedding. But I wanted to let you know about…” Domme’s personal favorite was, “We decided to make your life a little easier, I guess, one less bouquet for you to stress over.”

The games of checkers are short and swift, as she turns the board around and around and around. Each move already known and merely meant to be a distraction. Something to pass the time away. The black and red pieces blur in a ticking of the clock, the hum of the record player she turns on—low enough to catch Joe if he calls out for her, but high enough for her to hum along to the songs. 

His entrance isn’t silent, the clattering of devices makes it evident that he’s moving on from the kitchen. Joe’s walk from kitchen to living room is short and Domme looks up, black pieces in hand waiting for another match to be set up. “Sounded tough out there,” she teases. 

“Pretty easy,” Joe agrees and then places her phone and laptop onto the coffee table. “Who’s winning?”

“Would you believe it’s me?”

Joe raises his brows and whistles. “I told you, you’re a stone cold killer with those plastic pieces.”

Domme drops the plastic discs back down onto the board, not in assemblage to play, but to rest. She pushes up to her knees before straddling over Joe’s lap. “Thank you, again, for stepping in like that.”

“You do the same for me all the time. It’s what we do.”

She knows that. Knows that Joe cares about her just as much as she cares about him. But it’s always a choice, it’s always them actively involving themselves. And that part deserved to be honored, praised. Domme leans up, nails teasing at his chin. “I know,” she whispers against his lips. “But I can still say thank you, can’t I?”

Her waist warms with the heat of Joe’s palms, smoothing at first before she leans in to kiss him and they curling into her flesh. Joe hums, deep from the back of his throat. “Yeah, I can’t argue with a little gratitude.” He grins as he says it, pulling Domme back in for another kiss. Slow and languid, unhurried as the record plays around them, horns tutting out their tune before fading out. 

It’s just a test rock, just the slightest hitching of her hips and Joe laughs, “Easy there, tiger. You haven’t even seen what I came to show you yet.”

The confusion is palpable, Domme pulling back from Joe. The air is cool as it slips between them. “Am I forgetting something?”

“Does me saying cover of Sports Illustrated ring a bell?” Joe’s reach for his phone is a blind pat, palm hitting the couch once, then twice, and then more solidly he makes contact with the device.

“Oh, shit,” she laughs. How could she have forgotten? Well, Domme knows how, but the news makes her giddy. “Now, it does. Let’s inspect, shall we?” She sits back against his thighs, taking the device from Joe’s fingers. The passcode is easy as she types it in from memory and then waits on the unlocked home screen. 

Joe directs her to his Instagram. “Check out the story,” Joe urges, and then his hands slide back down over her, from her hips down to globes of her ass. 

It’s a quick load, at first just the snapshot of Joe in the burgundy suit, water up to his chest. Domme blinks, feels her jaw dropping slack just a little. “Oh.” When she heard him say the cover of Sports Illustrated, she assumed it was like his others, dawned in the Bengals jersey, focused just on football. But his striking blue eyes bore back at her capture on film and her stomach flutters. “Oh,” she breathes again, tapping onto the post and swiping to the video. 

Smoke billows from Joe’s mouth and the end of the cigar and Domme can’t help the clench of her pussy, an involuntary flinch really. Joe slips his hands up, squeezes at her ass and then continues on, palms engulfing the small of her back. “I felt that,” he laughs, dipping his head into the hollow of her throat. “You like that? Me dolled up?”

Joe seals her skin up in a kiss, hot and just a hair wet as his tongue teases over her flesh. It’s not that Joe doesn’t look good on the days that end in ‘y’. Because god, does he look good on on every single fucking day. It’s that for him, even his propensity to not be comfortable in front of the camera, there’s something in his gaze that looks just a hair at ease, like he’s maybe got control of the room. It could all be fluke, the one picture where his discomfort is masked just perfectly so with the timing of the camera’s flash. But it’s untenable to Domme, that there is something in that sharp gaze. Something more confident, more assured. 

His hair slips through her fingers and though she’s trying to watch the video loop through a second time, tries to catch the glimpse at his chest that peeks out just a little between the lapels of the suit jacket, she has to succumb to the flesh beneath her. She focuses more on the way Joe works at her neck, slow, with the occasional nip of his teeth and she surrenders. Lets her eyes slip close. 

Domme’s breath hitches, a gasp that chokes on itself when Joe moves down, snakes his hot mouth down her chest in the open V-neck t-shirt. Something about it feels reverent, his lips soft as they meet her skin. Joe’s phone slips from her grasps. It lands with a soft bounce into the cushion and Domme takes Joe’s head into her hands, eases his head back. His gaze is glassy, mouth slack and lips parted but he grins all the same. 

It’s not a hungry kiss. There’s not a bit of a rush in the kiss, delicate as they take in each other, hands sliding over hips, and down pecs. Hums that spill out of their chests and down the others throat. Kisses that say I really fucking love you and kisses that answer I know because I love you. The kind of kisses that could stay just kissing, sacred but still heavy, still leaden with desired. 

The kind of kisses that boil at the pot without causing a burn. 

Joe tugs her in closer, over the erection in his shorts and groans at the feeling, lips parting open to let the sound escape. But he never seemingly forgets his goal, where he’d intended to take the movement because he lifts and Domme lets herself go with the movement until her back sinks into the couch cushions. Her legs part for Joe and he slots in, the same almost shy boyish grin lifting the corner of his mouth as her arms loop around his neck. 

“I really didn’t intend for things to go this way,” Joe confesses, lips brushing at her left cheek. “But then I felt your pussy, like you couldn’t help it, like you needed me. How could I say no?”

“You can always say no,” Domme corrects. Because there’s no use in forcing him to do anything. There’s no need for force. It’s about sight. It’s about the two of them being able to read each other. It’s about the study. The times they’ve gotten it wrong and learned how to get it right too. 

Joe moves, a slow drag from left cheek to right before he plants a series of kisses to that side of her face too. “I didn’t want to say no. There, that what you want to hear? The second it happened, that’s the second I knew what I wanted.”

His head isn’t heavy, just loose on his neck as she rocks her hips up. She settles the weight of his cheeks and chin between her palms. “And what did you want?” she asks.

“You.”

It’s one singular word. But it falls slow and assured. Domme’s eyes flutter close, hips rocking up again to meet his--the layers of their clothing don’t matter, both of them groan at the action. Their nights have turned into something beyond routine. Though they spend time together, they’ve fallen into a rhythm, they’re not neglecting each other. But there’s been less intentionality, more route memorization. It’s, if they can be honest, a little stale. 

But this feels intentional, the way Joe works back down her neck. The way they’re all but asking for the thing they both want. Like they want to savor this moment, utterly ridiculous to be on their shared couch, kissing, touching over clothes, dry humping like teenagers. But it’s exhilarating. Joe grinds down into her. Domme threads her fingers into his honeyed blonde hair and tugs, their grunts mixing in with the hum of the AC. 

 “Going to take my time with you,” Joe promises. 

“Thank god for it.”

Their lips meet again, sealing and slotting around the others, tasting as they meet and part, tongues greeting. It’s slow, and a little messy, but it’s perfect. Just them, just the echoes of lips meeting and parting. Just the soft huff and gasps as a hand travels to the hem of a shirt, but never fully under it. Dancing right at the edge of the fire and hoping to get burned, eventually. 

By the time the first shirt hits the floor, their lungs ache, lips swollen from their work. Then the second shirt hits the floor and it feels like being seared, flayed alive and left splayed for the birds to. But there’s no birds, just hot mouths, just Joe kissing over her breast, sucking a nipple between his lips. Just Domme digging her nails into the meat of his shoulders. 

The record’s long been stopped by the time Joe eases Domme out her leggings. He tosses them to the floor, hands sliding over her legs, up from her knees and over her thighs. Her panties have gone with them, a two for one removal and she swears if she ever wondered what it’d be like to stare down a wild animal, Joe would be the closest thing to it. 

Now he does look ravenous. Now he looks like, tongue darting out to wet his lips, a man willing to risk everything he’s ever known and had. Joe’s settled back onto his bottom for a second, hands pressed against her knees to keep them spread wide. “Do it for me,” he whispers, gaze zeroed in on her cunt. “Clench for me.”

She obliges, chest still heaving under the weight of Joe’s stare. Domme’s not sure where things are about to go, but she’s more than happy to settle in for the ride. 

“Again,” Joe requests. 

Another pulsate, and Joe drops one hand to his crotch, palm pressed and she’s not sure if it’s in relief or not, but she grins. “You know what would feel better?”

His gaze is slow as it crawls up her body, like he’s committing to memory every line of her, every curve, and dip, and valley catalogued. “What?”

“You inside. Me wrapped around your cock.” Joe presses his face into the cushion, the laugh falling apart around his groan. It’s muffled until she coaxes him out, her toes nudging at his thigh. “Don’t leave me waiting. Please, don’t.”

“Never that, baby.” 

It doesn’t take long for Joe to finish disrobing himself, and the couch dips again with the addition of his weight. Domme beckons him in even closer, stretching up to kiss him again for the first time in what feels like forever, though it most certainly has not been. Joe’s fingers are long and splendid, a welcomed stretch with the two digits he manages to slip inside. 

“Fuck,” he exhales, nipping at Domme’s bottom lip. “Baby, you’re dripping.”

“Need you,” she laughs. “What else do you want me to do? When you look like that? When you care for me like you do?”

Of course, she’s dripping. Of course, she is. It’s the only thing she can be, the only thing that makes sense. That is until Joe slips in, just an inch or so at first and then he withdraws, before he sinks back into her, further than before but not all the way. Domme wants to say thank you, but she can’t get her breath back before Joe pulls out and then pushes back in, bottoming out. Something mixture of a grunt and a moan fights its way out of her chest. 

It’s almost like floating, but Domme’s always aware, can still keep track of her surroundings. It’s like being underwater, she realizes when Joe finds his rhythm, the steady drag of his cock against her walls with the way the blood’s rushing to her head, body warm and overcome with the pleasure, but almost like she’s not perceiving it herself. 

“God, baby, look at you,” Joe huffs, hips still rocking steadily into her. “Like that?”

“So fucking much,” Domme whispers back, the shudder of him brushing over her clit stealing her breath. “Fucking love it. Love you,” she whines. 

“Yeah, I know you do.”

Every thrust feels like it could split her open and put her back together. She sighs again, arms looping around his neck. “Missed you like this,” she whispers. “When all you want is me. When you can’t think straight. It’s perfect. You’re perfect like this.”

Domme doesn’t even need to see Joe’s face to know that as he whines, his eyes are rolling back into his head. She knows this because she’s been here, held him in a semi headlock, her teeth and tongue playing at his ear, many times before. She knows Joe probably better than he knows himself. 

“C’mon, baby,” she encourages, all pushed out through her teeth. If not for the hot exhale of Joe’s breath, it’s easy to get lost, but she counts the breaths, learns to anticipate the timing. I’s all a dance and they are well rehearsed for it. “Swear no one else can fuck me like you do.”

Because it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing else is like Joe’s hot and desperate please. Nothing is like the way Joe’s begging her, a chanted, “Please, fuck, please.”

And she knows what he is asking. But she holds, she keeps the permission back on her tongue and instead breathes in tandem with him, body teetering on the brink. Neither one of them will last too much longer. Every thrust pushes Domme closer, and closer to her release. A drive to the action that lets her know that just as much as she missed this Joe did too. That they’ve both been craving each other in a way that needs no words really. 

“Give me everything,” Domme exhales just as the hazy edges start to pull at him. Right when she can tell Joe can’t keep it together, she gives him the permission. “Let go for me, baby.”

It’s another gear, for Joe to be like this, lost in just the feeling. “Thank you, oh fuck, thank you,” he exhales into her shoulder. But every snap is faster. Every thrust hits deeper. There’s no worry about making this look pretty, about the aesthetic or optics. It’s just the feeling. 

And god, it feels fucking great. 

Joe cums before Domme, a stuttered and grunted release, yet it never stops him. And soon, by a minute, maybe two, Domme’s seizing, head thrown back as the coil in her belly finally releases, snapping under the perfect tension of Joe’s hips.  

“Fucking perfect,” Joe mutters against her throat. “You’re fucking perfect.”

The chill hits harshly in the comedown. Even with Joe’s body still stretched against hers, Domme can’t fight back the shiver that overtakes her. Her lips are pressed into his hairline, voice a whisper, “Hmm, thank you, baby.” But even to her own ears she catches the way her teeth chatter, only for a second, and then it’s gone. 

His arms tighten around her. “No, thank you.” They do this volley, the back and forth of gratitude but neither one of them is ever annoyed by it. Knows it’s coming from a place of love, for reciprocity. “I love you.”

Another shiver hits twice as violent as the last one, snatching the I love you off Domme’s lips and Joe drags his head up and out of her chest, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. “Swear we’re getting your iron checked,” he mutters.

“It’s always been like this,” she laughs, but helps as best as she can to get the blanket to cover them. Part of it she’s learned is just the rush finally leaving, her body and brain dumping every bit of energy into those moments.

“I don’t remember it being this bad though.”

“You okay?” Domme questions. 

Joe sighs but nods. “We’re talking about you though.”

“I’m fine.” And she is. She feels fine, just wishes the last tremors would leave her already. 

His eyes are assessing, one brow raised higher than the other. “C’mere.” Joe slips between Domme and the couch, easy as he goes. When he’s firmly planted, he pulls Domme’s bare frame closer. His chest is warm, warmer than the blanket and Domme inhales, nose pressed into the center of his chest. “Get you warmed up before we clean up, okay?”

Stains come out of couches, most of the time, they know. Domme slips her arm over his waist, palm flat against the ripples of his back. It’s silent for a moment. She should say something affirmative, that she understands his proposition. Yet, in the warmth of his embrace, in the quiet and steady slide of his palm over her spine, those aren’t the words she wants to offer Joe. Because okay doesn’t convey her gratitude for him sticking up on her behalf. Okay is such an inadequate response to the care Joe’s extended. Instead she whispers back the thing she’d meant to say moments ago, taking it back from some theoretical place into something tangible, “I love you, you know?”

“I know,” Joe hums back. “You never let me forget it. And I never want you to forget it either, that I love you.”

[sportscloset]

YESSSS HONEYYYYYYYY.