[coasttocold]

If you're here for the writing...

Masterlist/Recs/Favorite Writers

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[coasttocold]

Joe Burrow x OC Warnings: angsty, HEA Word Count: 2.7k Summary: Joe Burrow Foundation event, several months into dating Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 4.5 BLURB Part 5 Part 5.5 BLURB Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 THE END 10.5 - First Hangout with Friends Hard Work Pays Off (BLURB)

We were cuddling on Joe’s couch after dinner one night, half watching some game show while he scrolled through his phone.

"What time do we have to get to the venue before the golf thing for the foundation event next week?" I asked.

Joe didn't look up when he answered, “Six, I think."

I just nodded.

"So like, what’s the attire for the mixer part of this thing? More cocktail attire vs business casual?"

That got Joe’s attention and his eyes lifted from his screen. I watched as a strange look crossed his face. My stomach immediately tightened.

"What?" I asked carefully

He set his phone face down on his knee.

"About that..."

By his tone alone, I already knew I wasn't going to like whatever came next out of his mouth, so I took a moment to brace myself.

"What about it?"

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, looking anywhere but at me.

"My mom doesn't think you should come."

The words floated between us for a moment. For a second, I honestly thought I'd misheard him, but the look on his face told me I had heard him right the first time.

My tone was careful and controlled when I said, "What?"

"The foundation invitational."

"I heard that part."

I watched Joe’s jaw tighten.

"It's not personal."

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh, closing my eyes tightly.

"How exactly is that not personal?"

Joe shrugged. "It's just a foundation thing."

"I know what it is," I said carefully.

Every year his foundation hosted this golf invitational before football season really got started. Sponsors, donors, board members, volunteers, local business leaders. Nothing fancy. People walked around with drinks and talked, got to take pictures with Joe and other past and current Bengals elite. That was it.

I had trouble keeping the bite out of my tone when I asked, "So why can't I go?"

He sighed.

"My mom thinks it might be awkward."

"Awkward for who?"

He hesitated, which was never a good sign. Joe never hesitated. It was part of what made him a great quarterback. He was always careful, cataloging every interaction, so he could make split second decisions.

"My family."

My brows lifted.

"Your family finds me awkward?"

"No," he rushed out.

I wasn’t letting him off that easily. "Then explain what the hell you’re trying to say to me."

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and shoved his fingers through his hair like I was frustrating him. Good. He’d know an iota of how I was feeling then.

"You know how my mom is."

Actually, I didn't, not really. We'd known each other for less than a year. Dating for only a few months now. Most of the interactions I’d had with his mother had been polite but distant. Never openly rude. Just...cold. Like she was waiting to see whether this relationship would last before bothering to get to know me.

Apparently, she already had her answer. I tried not to let it bother me.

"Not really," I said quietly.

He frowned at the change in my voice.

"Come on,” he begged.

"No, seriously.” I sat back against the couch with my arms crossed across my chest as I looked at him carefully. “Explain it to me."

I watched as Joe’s expression shifted into one I was beginning to recognize more and more. It was a look he got whenever someone questioned his mother. Like he was on the defensive.

Joe shrugged. "She just thinks the event should stay focused on the foundation."

"I'm confused."

"So am I."

"Am I your girlfriend?" I asked slowly.

He blinked. "Obviously."

"Then why am I somehow a distraction?"

"That's not what she said!" Joe blurted.

I looked at him through narrow eyes. "But that's what you're saying."

He groaned and I could tell he was getting frustrated, ready to shut down over this conversation. “Why is this is becoming a whole thing?"

I stared at him before I slowly blinked. "A whole thing?" I repeated.

"Yeah."

Joe stood from the couch and wandered toward the kitchen, not once looking back at me.

"It's one event."

I laughed coldly, not because it was funny. I laughed because I genuinely couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was harder to believe that Joe didn’t hear how insane he was sounding defending this.

I stood and followed him.

"It's not the event."

"Then what is it?" he asked frustrated, not turning to look at me as he aimlessly dug through the fridge.

He was acting like I was being difficult or like I was the one creating a problem that he just wanted to go away.

I moved in front of him, closing the refrigerator and forcing him to look at me.

"The issue is that your mother doesn't want me there."

"It's not that simple," he bit out.

"And you didn't tell her she was wrong."

I watched as his shoulders stiffened. The silence answered the question I hadn’t asked, I had just known. It caused a tightness in my chest at the realization.

"You didn't," I said quietly.

"I didn't think it was a big deal."

There it was, the phrase that immediately made my anger spike.

Not a big deal.

Maybe to him it wasn’t a big deal, but it actually was to me. While this was new with Joe, what we had been doing took a lot from me, meant a lot had changed for me. I let Joe in. And while I hadn’t known much, if anything, about football before, I was doing what I could to learn his world, so excluding me from something so huge in his life, it felt like a big deal to me.

I scoffed. "Of course you don't."

I watched as his eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means this isn't happening to you." I rolled my eyes.

Joe crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. "You're acting like she banned you from my life."

"No." I shook my head. "I'm acting like my boyfriend's mother excluded me from something and my boyfriend just shrugged and said, “yes mommy”."

I watched the tick in Joe’s jaw jump.

"That's unfair."

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

Joe stood taller and pointed at me. "We haven't even been together for a year."

The second he said it, I watched his face change and the realization crash over him that he knew it was the wrong thing to say. I could see it on his face, but the damage was done.

I felt like my world had been ripped from under me.

"Oh."

His expression changed instantly. "I didn't mean it like that."

I shook my head, swallowing the lump in my throat as tears began to well. "No, I think you did."

"That's not what I was saying."

I nodded slowly. "Right."

"What I meant was my mom doesn't know you that well yet."

I rolled my eyes. "So that's the excuse?"

"It's not an excuse," Joe defended.

"Then what is it?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out because there wasn't a good answer. The truth sat between us heavily.

His mother didn't think the relationship mattered enough and apparently neither did he.

I grabbed my purse from the kitchen table, blinking away the tears that had swelled up.

Joe’s eyes tracked my movement.

"Where are you going?" his voice raised, a little panic lacing his words.

"Home."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Joe let out a sharp breath.

"You're leaving over this?"

The question hurt more than I expected because he still didn't understand. It was clear he still thought the problem was the event and not what it represented.

I looked at him for a long moment carefully.

"I'm leaving because when someone treated me like I don't belong, you decided it wasn't worth the argument."

I watched his expression soften as he registered the hurt in my words.

"That's not fair," he said softly.

I shrugged, putting my purse on my shoulder. "Maybe." I swallowed. "But it's how it feels."

For the first time all evening, Joe didn't have a response and somehow that silence felt worse than the fight itself.

Two days later, Joe showed up at my place because I had stopped answering his calls and messages.

He stood outside my place, pounding on the door for a solid minute, before I swung open the door.

I glared at him, his fist raised like he was about to knock some more before he dropped it.

"You really weren't answering my calls."

"You noticed." I watched Joe flinch as my words landed.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment, before I stepped aside and Joe walked in, stopping just before the couch.

"I know you're mad."

I let out a short laugh and slammed the door.

"Mad?"

I turned and looked at him with glassy eyes. I watched Joe’s face flicker in pain as he took me in.

"You know what?" I said quietly. "That's actually the problem.”

"What is?"

"You think I'm mad."

I watched as he frowned.

"You're not?"

"I'm hurt."

I looked away from him.

"It wasn't her," I said. "She's never liked me."

"That's not true-" Joe tried to argue but I gave him a flat look that quieted him.

“That’s not what broke me, Joe,” I said quietly. "You stood there and you let her say it."

My chest felt heavy as I let the words swirl around us.

"I didn't think-"

"I know." I let out a breath slowly. "That's exactly what happened. You didn't think."

I watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that it hurt because it was true.

"I thought it was one event," he said quietly.

I laughed bitterly. "It was never about the event."

"I know that now."

"Do you?" I asked sharply. The distance between us felt enormous. "It's always your mom, Joe. You tell me to ignore the comments. You tell me she just needs time." I watched as his head dropped. "You tell me not to take things personally." I took a shaky breath. "But every single time she pushes me away, you ask me to be the understanding one."

I knew Joe couldn’t argue, because I wasn't wrong.

"And then the one time I needed you to choose me..." my voice broke. "...you didn't."

I hadn't wanted a speech or a fight. I didn’t need some grand declaration. All I’d wanted was for him to choose, to say one sentence.

She's coming with me.

That's it. And he'd failed.

I let out a bitter laugh. "That's an understatement."

"You're right."

The immediate agreement from Joe is a surprise to me. I watched as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I was scared."

My expression softened slightly.

"I was worried about keeping the peace." His voice comes out rough. "And I made peace with the wrong person." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "My whole life," he said, "I've kept everyone happy. My coaches." He shrugged. "My sponsors. My family." Joe’s voice dropped. "My mom."

I watched Joe carefully, my expression softening slowly.

"I got so used to letting things go that I forgot what it looks like from the outside." Joe looked at me softly, carefully. "From your side. I wasn't keeping the peace. I was protecting myself from an uncomfortable conversation." My eyes widened slightly. "And it cost you." Joe paused, stepping toward me. "It cost us."

"I keep telling myself I didn't mean to hurt you,” he said, his voice rough. "But intent doesn't really matter when the result is the same." Tears filled my eyes. "When she said those things...I should've said you belong there," He continued.

The words hung heavily between us. No excuses or qualifiers. There was no blaming anyone else, there was only the truth.

I stared at him for several seconds.

“You can’t keep choosing to keep her comfortable at my expense, Joe.”

"I know."

"Not just today."

"I know."

Joe stood in front me, his hands grasping my arms and forcing me to look at him carefully. I could see the sincerity in his eyes.

"Not just when it's easy."

"I know." His voice broke.

Because this wasn’t about the foundation or one awful conversation. It was about every future decision, every holiday, every future family dinner. Every moment where he's forced to choose whether silence is easier than standing with me.

"I should've stopped it. I failed you,” Joe said shakily.

“Do you mean that?" I asked carefully.

"Yeah." Joe said instantly, without hesitation. "More than I've meant anything."

I looked away from him, trying to collect myself. It took everything in me not to believe him too quickly.

Trust wasn't rebuilt in one conversation. It wasn't fixed with flowers or apologies or grand speeches.

Joe stood just close enough where I could smell the mint on his breath mixed with his heady cologne. For the first time all night, I really looked at him, trying to see if he had an ounce of hesitation but I found none.

"My mom called this morning." My eyes snapped up to him.

"And?"

Joe shrugged. "I told her she owes you an apology." My breath caught and he nodded. "And I told her that if she can't treat you with respect, she's going to see a lot less of me."

“You really said that?” I asked.

“I should have done it sooner,” he admitted. "I thought I was going to throw up the entire conversation."

I laughed at him as he said it, my words getting choked around a sob I couldn’t continue to hold back.

I laughed through my tears. "You are such an idiot."

"I know I messed this up." His eyes searched mine as he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. "But I'm not asking you to forget it." He paused. "I'm asking for the chance to do better next time, because there will be a next time."

I stared at Joe as he became this man who had finally stopped defending his mistake and started owning it and that, more than anything, was what softened me. I didn't need perfection, I just needed someone willing to stand with me when it mattered, a true partnership.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and watched him relax as he gripped me tighter, like he was afraid I might disappear.

"I'm still angry," I murmured against his chest.

A laugh shook Joe’s body.

"Fair."

"And your mother still terrifies me."

"Also, fair."

I smiled just a little and tilted my head back.

"But this is a start." Joe pressed his forehead to mine.

“I love you,” he murmured against my lips.

“I love you too, you idiot,” I murmured back to him, taking his lips in a deep kiss.

For the first time since I walked away a few days ago, it felt like enough.

[burrowsgem]

this deserves its own post bc why does he look so good 😮‍💨

[kazzzistired]

Feeling inspired... Might put off writing and think about it the whole time

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Noah Sebastian x OC Word Count: 10.7k Warnings: swearing, slight stalker vibes, fingering, oral (f receivinging), sex, hint of anal play. Summary: Six weeks after their one night, Zoey haunts Noah's every thought. PART 2 of Gone at Sunrise

Tags: @platespaghetti @itsfarbettertolearn

[NOAH’S POV]

It was the middle of the night but we were still going strong. The red RECORDING light blinked on and a sudden silence settled over the studio. Just behind the glass, Jolly leaned over the recording set up.

"Whenever you're ready,” Jolly said with a nod.

I adjusted the headphones over my ears and tapped them three times. Yeah. Ready. Right. The problem was…I wasn’t ready. For the third time in an hour, I stared at the lyric sheet and my eyes went hazy, the sheet suddenly blanked every time I went to open my mouth.

The sheet music felt like a song that refused to become a song.

Jolly's voice crackled through my headset, "Want to take five?"

"I'm good," I said shortly.

Jolly rolled his eyes. "You said that twenty minutes ago."

I grunted. "I'm still good."

The silence at my bitterness stretched. It wasn’t fair to take my bitterness out on him, and my shoulders deflated at that.

"Okay."

I rubbed my hand over my face and looked around, letting my shoulders drop.. The studio was dark except for the soft glow of the recording equipment. Famous gold records lined one wall and across the room, expensive guitars hung on another.

This room was where history had been made in the music industry. Some of the greatest hits, from love songs to anthems, had been born iin here.

Tonight, apparently, it was the one place that was haunting me. I looked down at the page in front of me again, but nothing.

No matter how hard I tried writing about anything else, my mind kept drifting back to her. Zoey.

Six weeks. Six stupid fucking weeks.

It was just one night and somehow she'd become the ghost haunting every melody that I could think of. Every time I closed my eyes, the memories arrived uninvited.

That hotel room where the early morning light leaked through the curtains. Her asleep beside me, her chest rising and falling with quiet puffs of air that made me smile.

I could still remember the warmth of her shoulder as it tickled against my arm. I remember watching her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as she zonked out.

Then my memory flashed to the moment I’d gotten out of bed. How I had quietly wandered the room, picking up my clothes as I went. I beat myself up every time I remember the moment I had decided to leave without saying or doing anything.

Idiot.

I couldn’t help but beat myself up about it every time I recalled it. Not that leaving without following up was anything new to me, I'd left before.

Relationships were complicated enough and one-night stands were supposed to stay simple. They were supposed to stay clean and contained. But somehow, this one hadn't.

Zoey had been different. Maybe it was because she'd made me laugh or that she had challenged me. More than likely, it was because she'd looked at me like I was just another man on the street. She hadn’t looked at me in awe or put on some performance. There was no pretending from her, she was just a genuine person, curious about me, not the famous musician she had seen perform.

Somehow, that had gotten under my skin more effectively than admiration ever could.

The studio door opened and Folio stepped inside carrying coffees.

"Intervention time," he said, handing the drinks out.

I accepted one.

"Thanks."

Jolly sat beside me on the couch. I sipped my drink carefully, mindful of the heat.

For a minute no one spoke.

"Who is she?"

I nearly choked.

"W-what?" I sputtered.

"The woman."

"There isn't a woman."

"Sure," Folio scoffed.

"I'm serious," I said indignantly.

"Then why have you written four songs about the same person?"

I just stared, my mouth opening and closing like I was a fish.

Jolly raised an eyebrow.

"You think I can't tell?"

Silence.

"Damn," I muttered, looking away.

"Exactly."

I laughed in spite of myself.

Folio leaned back on the couch.

"So?" he probed.

"So what?"

"Tell me about her."

I shrugged. "There isn't much to tell."

"That's usually the most dangerous kind of woman."

I looked away toward the microphone waiting in the booth, where the unfinished lyrics sat.

"Met her after a show."

Jolly nodded.

"Okay."

"Spent one night together."

"Okay?” Folio said.

"I left before she woke up."

I watched as Folio and Jolly winced.

"Ouch," Folio hissed.

"Yeah."

"And now?"

I stared down at the coffee in my hands.

"And now I can't stop thinking about her."

The confession sounded pathetic spoken aloud.

Jolly, however, didn't laugh.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"No."

"Her number?" Folio followed up.

"No."

"Last name?"

A beat.

"...No."

Jolly blinked. Folio leaned in, looking embarrassed by me.

"You don't know her last name?"

"It never came up."

"Noah," Jolly’s voice was bland.

"I know."

"If you feel this way…that’s insane that you know so little about someone who captured your attention?" Folio was confused, probably just as confused as I was.

"I know."

Folio laughed long and hard.

"You're obsessed with a woman whose last name you don't even know."

"Thank you for that helpful summary."

Jolly stood up and made his way to the studio door.

"Look, for what it's worth?"

"Yeah?"

"The songs are better because of her."

Then he left and the door clicked softly shut behind him. The silence returned to the room, enveloping me and Folio. I just sat there for another minute before I walked into the recording booth and settled onto the stool behind the mic.

The microphone hung in front of me, waiting for me. I flipped to the latest page of lyrics and found the song I’d been fighting all week. The song that was obviously about her, no matter how much I tried to pretend it wasn’t.

I took a deep breath and let it out. I looked down at the first line and suddenly I swore I could hear her voice, just subtly. Then her laugh.

I could see the teasing smile Zoey had worn when she'd accused me of having such a soft stage presence for the sounds I could make on stage.

A smile spread across my face before I could stop it.

Jolly's voice came through my headphones, "You got something?"

I just adjusted the microphone. "Yeah."

"You finally figured out the song?"

I shook my head. "No."

"What then?"

I looked down at the lyrics to the words I’d been avoiding, the truth I'd been avoiding.

Zoe was a woman I'd known for less than twelve hours, someone who still occupied far too much space in my head when I had bigger things going on. She probably hadn't thought about me once since that morning, which made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

I laughed softly. "Turns out," I said, "I figured out what's been wrong with it."

"What's that?"

I stared at the page in front of me, fingering the corner of it.

"It's not a song."

Jolly waited.

"It's a confession."

And for the first time all night, the words started coming as the beat played in my ear. I pulled the pencil from behind my ear and started scrawling across the paper furiously.

Most of the crew had gone home hours ago, so the studio was nearly empty by midnight. Only a few lamps stayed on, with amber light casting shadows across all the cables, guitars, and half-empty coffee cups. I sat alone in the studio while the latest take played through the speakers, sans headset.

It was my voice, my melody with my lyrics, but it all was sounding strangely distant. It felt like someone else's story.

Jolly, Nick and Folio had called it a night. The sound engineers had disappeared. Even the cleaning staff had come and gone, though you couldn’t tell with the mess I re-made.

But I was still here, listening, thinking, stalling.

The song ended yet again and silence filled the room. I knew I should have left. Instead, I hit play again on the sound I had listened to countless times now.

The first notes drifted through the speakers. Every time it played, there she was, just not as a memory this time. She appeared like a feeling. It was a sharp, unexpected pull she'd had on me from the moment we’d met.

A knock sounded against the studio door and I startled. Before I could answer, it opened. Folio stepped inside carrying a takeout bag.

"You alive?" he asked, jiggling the bag he held.

"Barely."

"Good."

He gently tossed the bag and it landed on the couch.

"Food."

I just glanced at it.

"You're a hero."

"I know."

Folio moved to drop onto the sofa and put his feet up on the table in front of him, while we just sat and listened to the song still playing softly through the monitors.

After a few seconds, he smirked.

"This about her?"

I groaned, running my hand through my hair.

"You too?"

"Oh, come on," he smirked.

"There is no 'her.'"

"Right."

Folio pointed up toward the speakers. "Then who's memory is haunting every track on this album?"

I just flipped him off, causing Folio to laugh. The conversation drifted to other things after that.

Tour dates. Equipment problems. A disastrous interview from the previous week. Normal, safe topics. Yet somehow my attention kept slipping. I kept drifting while the song continued looping quietly in the background.

A line of lyrics triggered something, a small detail. Or, well, a memory. Suddenly I was back there, in that hotel room with Zoey.

The hotel room had been cool from the air conditioning, goosebumps dotting my skin. I saton the edge of the bed with my boots in hand, my shirt half done. I was fighting with myself, trying to convince myself leaving was the right decision, that I had to get to the bus before anyone started asking questions.

A sleepy, soft sound escaped from Zoey, something between a sigh and a hum, never fully committed to either, but it was enough to make me look toward her. She was buried in the tangled white sheets, with one arm stretched across the mattress, reaching for where I once laid. Her messy hair spilled over her pillow in an uncontrolled way that was just so…real. It wasn’t anything like the well kept, put together woman she swore she was day in and day out.

The curve of her cheek pressed into the pillow and faint crease was drawn between her brows. From where I was, I could see, almost feel, how soft her lips were. I just say there, watching her, and then her eyes started to flutter, just enough. They were filled with exhaustion and unfocused, but then she saw me and gave me the briefest of smiles.

A small, barely there smile. No performance or expectations, just full of pure warmth.

"You're up early," she murmured, her voice had been rough with sleep.

My gut twisted sharply, painfully. It felt dangerous, the way her words hit me, because in that moment I had seemed to want something ridiculous.

To stay, crawl back into bed with this woman I had just met. I wanted to ask what she wanted for breakfast and  spend the day with her. Something inside of me yearned to learn every insignificant detail about her life. That alone was a terrifying thought. So I did what I always did…I smiled softly at her, encouraged her to go back to sleep, thankful she hadn’t paid attention to see my boots in my hand.

But every time I closed my eyes late at night, I could still see that sleepy smile, hear her voice thick with sleep.

"Noah."

I slowly blinked and the studio snapped back into focus. Folio friend was staring at me with his eyebrows drawn.

I shook my head, shaking Zoey from my memory. "What?"

"You vanished."

I looked away, embarrassed.

"Sorry," I muttered.

Folio smirked, I could hear it before I even saw it.

"You were thinking about her again."

It wasn't a question but my silence was answer enough. Folio shook his head and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You know, there's a pretty simple solution here."

I snorted, looking at him.

"Yeah?"

"Find her." Folio shrugged and the words landed harder than they should have.

Find her.

As if it were obvious, like it was even possible. Not like six weeks had passed or that I hadn't spent every day convincing myself I didn't care enough to try.

Folio grabbed a fry from the takeout container completely casual and plopped it in his mouth. He was completely unaware that he'd just detonated a bomb in my head.

"Seriously," he said. "You're famous, stubborn, and apparently writing an entire album about this woman who’s practically haunting you." I stared at him, my eyes narrowed and he just shrugged. "It seems easier to find her than keep suffering."

The room fell quiet around us and the joke hung in the air. I didn’t laugh though, because for the first time since that morning in the hotel room…The idea didn't sound impossible.

It sounded necessary, because I could still feel the split-second certainty that walking out had been a mistake.

[Noah’s POV]

The first thing I noticed walking through my front door was that the house was too quiet. After months of touring, crowds, rehearsals, interviews, and studio sessions, silence should have felt relaxing.

Instead, it felt like a trap. I hated the silence, because silence left room for thinking and thinking inevitably led back to her.

I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter and watched as they slid across the countertop and clinked to the floor. My phone buzzed with texts and calls I fully intended to ignore. Yet somehow, the moment I walked in, the enormous house felt empty.

He wandered to the fridge and opened it, not really sure what I was looking for so I just stared. I closed it after a minute. Then instead of walking away…I opened it again. Magically, nothing interested me inside of it still.

"Fascinating," I muttered, and my voice echoed through the silence.

The wasn’t that I was hungry or bored, the problem was that my brain had latched onto one specific thought and refused to let go.

Find her.

Folio had tossed it out so casually back at the studio, like a joke or a suggestion. Something that he had laughed off. But I couldn’t, instead it had followed me home. Now was the center of every thought I had like an annoying splinter.

Find her.

I grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off, but I didn't drink it. I paused right before it hit my lips, because immediately another thought followed.

Don’t.

I frowned at my inner battle, my thoughts warring.

Find her.

Don't.

Find her.

Don't.

The argument started again, the same one I'd been having since Folio suggested it.

“You barely know her,” I thought.

I know.

“One night. It was only supposed to be one night,” I reminded myself.

I.know.

You don't even know her last name.

I know.

Then why are you still thinking about her?

I leaned into the counter and tipped my head back against the cabinet. That was the problem, I didn't have an answer as to why I couldn’t get her out of my mind, at least not one that made sense. I'd known her for less than twelve hours. There were people I had dated for months in the past who occupied less space in my thoughts, that didn’t consume me this way.

It was absurd, objectively ridiculous. Yet somehow every road led back to her.

Every song and unfinished lyric. Any quiet moment I had to myself. Every solitary hotel room. Every flight that I was left alone with my thoughts.

I left the water bottle on the counter without recapping it and wandered into the living room. I paced out of it, into the hallway and then back into the kitchen, my body just as restless as my mine. Like if I moved enough, the movement might somehow solve the problem of Zoey constantly being on my mind.

It didn't though, because the memory of her followed me. Memories, pieces of conversations. Always in fragments.

The way she'd looked at me or the way she laughed. How she'd somehow managed to make fun of me and flirt with me at the same time.

I felt my lips twitch at the thought, even though I tried to fight it. It was dangerous, to think of her like this, to let her consume me so much. I walked into the living room dropped onto the couch, immediately reaching for my phone in my pocket. I paused and set it face down on my thigh, hiding the screen from me.

“No. Folio was insane,” my thoughts screamed. “I’m not going to hunt down a woman I'd spent one night with. That would be crossing several lines.”

I paused.

Didn't it?

Probably.

Maybe.

My eyes drifted back down to my phone and then I looked away while I continued my internal argument.

What if she doesn't remember you?

Impossible.

“Wow, that’s arrogant,” I muttered.

But still… I hoped it was impossible.

What if she does remember you and wishes she didn't?

I cringed because that one landed harder. It was entirely possible for that to be true. She could be angry, or she could hate me. It was likely she told the story about the asshole musician who snuck out before breakfast.

Which would be completely fair, I would deserve that version of me to be known. The idea of that though landed heavy in my chest. I leaned forward, my forearms resting on my knees, causing my phone to fall to the floor. I stared distantly at nothing. For weeks I'd been pretending the lingering thoughts of Zoey was just curiosity. That it felt like an unfinished story or a loose thread. I’d convinced myself that she was something temporary.

The truth was becoming harder to avoid.

I actually missed her and it wasn’t just the idea of her. I missed her voice and her laugh. It was about the specific way she rolled her eyes when she thought someone was being ridiculous or the way she'd challenged every easy answer I gave and pushed for more. Most of all, though, I craved the way she had looked at me like I was a normal person, not some gossip fodder.

I let out a groan, running my hand across my face.

"Jesus Christ."

Thinking about her like that, it made me feel insane.

I stood and started pacing again. I saw my reflection in one of the windows, I looked restless and uncertain. It wasn’t a version of myself that I was particularly proud of. I looked away and shoved my hands into my pockets. The silence settled into the room once more.

Find her.

Don't.

Find her.

Don't.

Then, without warning, a specific memory from that night surfaced and it was sharp enough to steal my breath away. It was after round two or three, when we were tangle in the sheets, laughing about something. Zoey was telling a story.

I let the memory come back to me, to let myself remember every detail.

For the first time in weeks, I stopped fighting the memories.

[Noah’s POV]

“Fuck, you taste so good,” I groaned into her pussy, causing Zoey to gasp out and fist the sheets in her hands.

She let out a keening sound, fucking her hips back into my face, causing me to grip her hips tighter, to keep the pace of my tongue in her folds in time with her movements.

I darted my tongue inside of her heat, my teeth running gently over her clit, just enough to cause her to cry out.

“That’s it, pretty girl. You like my mouth on you?”

Zoey couldn’t form words as she writhed on my tongue breathlessly.

“You taste so fucking good on my tongue,” I said, pulling away to catch my breath, causing Zoey to whine.

I flicked my tongue out, swiping through her folds again and again, causing Zoey’s body to fight for it’s pleasure. I sucked her clit roughly, reaching out to grasp her hair at the base of her neck to bring her closer, causing her to cry out in desperation. It made me smirk.

“You’re so fucking hot,” I groaned, seeing her eyes water with pleasure. I thrusted three fingers into her, adding to the pleasure I was trying to wring from her body, knowing she was already warmed up from earlier.

My tongue swipede through her folds as I pumped, down to her other hole, where I swirled my tongue quickly, causing Zoey to fall forward in shock as she cried out.

“Ohmygod!” she cried out, flat on her stomach as I continued to thrust my fingers and tongue inside of her. Quickly, she was clenching on my fingers so hard, it felt magnificent, but I didn’t stop, instead I continued fucking her with my fingers hard and rough. She tried to squirm away, but I used my free hand to pin her to the mattress and continued to fuck her with anything but my cock. Zoey managed to cum again, before I roughly flipped her over and reacdh for another condom from the box I had sent up from the front desk.

I pushed into her, bottoming out, causing her to throw her head back in pure bliss. I fell forward, my forehead resting in the crook of her neck as we both adjusted to me filling her again. She clenched around me, causing me to grunt.

“You feel so good,” she cried out, her nails raking down my back. “But I need you to move.”

Zoey arched her hips, moving in whatever way got her the friction she was ecraving, causing me to smirk. I rolled my hips against hers, causing us both to moan at once, and I wrapped my lips around her nipple before tugging with my teeth, causing her to arch into my touch.

“Fuck,” she screamed, a tear falling from her eye as pleasure wrapped around her. With one hand on her hip, I fucked into her roughly, holding her body closely against mine as we fought to chase our pleasure. Carefully, I slipped a hand under her, my finger finding her puckered hole before I swirled around it. Zoey let out a choked sound before she pushed back against my finger, letting me know she  was enjoying the foreign feeling.

“Noah,” she choked out. “Please.”

I smirked and fucked her harder.

“You wanna cum for me, Zoey girl? Huh? Desperate for my cock, aren’t you,” I groaned breathlessly. I hammered into her, my finger slipping into her forbidden hole as I fucked her harder into the mattress, and Zoey leaned in to kiss me, our mouths fighting for dominance as I fucked her into the mattress, wringing every ounce of pleasure from her that I could, until she’s screaming into my mouth.

With three more careful thrusts, I filled the condom and collapsed on top of her, careful to not put my whole weight on her. We were both breathing hard for a minute, before I rolled off of her and pulled my cock from her warmth. I slipped the condom off, tying it off before I plopped it onto the floor.

I pulled the sheets back before slipping us both under, pulling them up to cover her hips, leaving her breasts exposed.

Hours later, we were tangled up in hotel sheets, the room lit only by the city glow filtering through the curtains. I lay on my back with Zoey’s head on my chest, drawing circles on it while she talked, mostly because I liked listening to her.

"...and then Margot got herself locked in the storage room,” she said with a giggle causing me to laugh.

"How?"

"Nobody knows. Including Margot."

"That’s impressive."

"That's her specialty."

Zoey rolled onto her side, smiling at me.

"She still works there."

My brow furrowed at the randomness. "The one you worked at?"

"Yep."

"Do you ever go back?"

She snorted, like I was asking an absurd question, before she shrugged. "Constantly."

"Really?" I asked, twisting a lock of her hair around a finger.

"It's basically my second home."

"You go that much?"

"Margot's there," she said it so simply.

That explained the smile she held, and I grinned.

"So you're saying you still get free coffee."

"I'm saying she’s my emotional support barista."

I laughed and pulled her closer to me, causing her to relax in my arms.

"What's she like?"

Zoey groaned. "Way too much."

"Meaning?"

"Zero volume control and no shame. Every thought she has becomes everyone's problem."

"I already like her."

"Of course you do." She pointed at me. "That's exactly the kind of encouragement she doesn't need."

I smiled softly at her, gazing into her eyes.

"What café is this, anyway?".

At the time, it felt like a meaningless detail, but it was an important piece of her.

[Noah’s POV]

It was a story I'd barely been listening to at the time, except apparently I had been listening because suddenly the details were sharp and clear. A local café she'd mentioned three separate times, not because the café mattered. It was because one of her friends worked there.

I thought about it and the thought landed so abruptly I almost laughed.

No way.

Silence enveloped the room and I stood still for a moment.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

I went back to the living room and picked up my abandoned phone, opening it to Instagram where the private account I kept hidden loaded automatically. It was my little secret corner of the internet, where no management team or publicity staff lurked. It was safe from millions of followers. It was mine, only mine. The search bar appeared and my thumbs moved quickly across the keys.

The café's account appeared almost immediately.

I clicked it and started scrolling. Nothing. I kept scrolling until I found a tagged photo.

It was a group picture. The café was busy, the staff milling about while capturing the peace of the room, how calming it was to be there and buckle down. My pulse jumped. One of the women from a picture Zoey had shown me was there behind the counter, a friend she'd talked about that night.

“The loud one,” I thought to myself. The one who'd apparently convinced everyone to take a road trip despite having no actual plan.

I remembered because Zoey had spent ten straight minutes roasting the woman while smiling the entire time, truly loving her friend who was chaotic and charming. I clicked the tags on the photo, finding the one attached to her friend. I went to her profile, thankful that it was a public one. My stomach dropped. For six weeks, I'd had nothing. No last name or phone number. Not a single way to find her. But suddenly there was a thread that I could pull to unravel it all. The profile was full of photos, comments, friends… Eventually I found a tagged picture featuring her. Then another and another. Each picture started revealing a little more about Zoey.

Her last name, the city she lived in. Just outside LA.

The sight of her smiling in those photos hit harder than I expected. She looked happy and comfortable. It was a reminder that she was real and not frozen inside of a memory, some idealized version I'd built over weeks.

Just... her.

Something twisted inside of me. Without thinking, I clicked on her profile.

Private. Of course.

Still, I tried sending a friend request anyway. It was meant to be simple and harmless. I watched as the request sent and I stared at the screen.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Then…Request declined.

I blinked and let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Wow."

The rejection had taken maybe thirty seconds. Less than that, probably, which meant she was online and that somehow made it worse.

I scrubbed a hand across my face.

Fair enough.

From her perspective, some random account had appeared out of nowhere and wanted to see her private photos. Of course she'd decline. It wasn't meant to be personal. Hopefully.  I stared at the screen then went back to the friend's profile. This was a terrible idea. An absolutely terrible idea.

Which was why it was so absurd when I found myself opening a message window. I started to type. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.

The first version sounded creepy and the second just sounded insane. Somehow, the third was both. I dropped onto the couch with a groan. The house remained silent around me. Usually I welcomed the privacy it brought, but tonight it felt empty. I looked back at the photo, where Zoey was caught mid laugh, completely unaware she was currently ruining my ability to function like a normal human being.

Six weeks and I still remembered the exact sound of that laugh. I remembered the sleepy smile she'd given me that morning before falling back to sleep. I thought back to walking out of that hotel room and feeling, for the first time in years, like I'd been making the wrong choice.

Enough.

I had to send the message or close the app and accept that I'd never know. I took a deep breath, then started typing. For the first time since leaving that hotel room, I hit send before I could change my mind.

[Zoey’s POV]

"You have got to see this."

I looked up from my coffee. Margot was already sliding into the chair across from me, phone in hand, expression somewhere between amused and concerned.

That usually meant trouble.

"What?"

"This weird message I got."

I took another sip.

"How weird?"

Margot unlocked her screen and shoved it toward me.

"Like, serial-killer weird."

"That's a strong opening."

"Read it."

I glanced down at her phone and saw that the account she was showing me that waws messaging her looked generic enough. It was a private profile with almost no followers and barely any photos. Private.

Hi. This is going to sound strange, but I'm trying to get in touch with your friend. Her name is—

I stopped reading. When I saw my name, my stomach gave a small, unexpected drop. Margot continued talking even though I paused.

"He says his name is Noah," she said, taking her phone back and scrolling. My breath caught.

Noah.

The name felt like she was pressing on a bruise that was still tender six weeks later. I forced myself to keep reading. The message continued. It was stilted, awkwardly polite. It was also painfully sincere. There was nothing inappropriate in the message. It was just a stranger trying to reach me through someone else.

I went back to my coffee.

"That's weird."

"Right?" she asked, furiously scrolling through her phone.

"Probably a bot," I offered lamely.

"That's what I thought." Margot tossed her phone onto the table. "Or a scammer," she said.

"Definitely. Or a murderer."

"Less definitely," she pointed out.

Margot pointed at me. "That's exactly what a future murder victim would say."

I laughed.

"Ignore it."

"Oh, I am."

"Good."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Why do you look like you swallowed a penny?"

"I don't."

"You do."

I grabbed my coffee and brought it to my lips.

"I just think it's creepy that a stranger asked you about me."

Thankfully, Margot let it go. She let the conversation move on. I was still stuck on one word though.

Noah.

Not because I thought the message was actually from him. That would be ridiculous. Six weeks ago, I'd gone to a concert I never should've been at in the first place. I wasn't a concert person and I really wasn't a spontaneous person. I was a work-too-much, stay-home-on-Friday-night, answer-emails-at-midnight kind of person. The concert had been a fluke. It was friends dragging me out of my apartment because apparently my hobbies consisted entirely of working and acting like an eighty year old. But somehow that one random night had led to Noah.

One night. Then nothing.

The Noah I'd met wasn't the kind of man who sent mysterious messages through friends. No, the Noah from that night was the kind of man who disappeared before breakfast without leaving so much as a note. The thought left an annoyingly sharp little ache.

Six weeks and it was both irritating and embarrassing how I still thought about him more than I wanted to admit. It was honestly a little insulting. If he hadn't wanted to see me again, fine. Whatever. We were adults. He still could've said something. He had the chance to leave a note or hell, send a text if he'd bothered to ask for my number.

Anything.

Instead I'd woken up alone, stared at the empty side of the bed, and spent the entire morning feeling stupid for being disappointed.

Margot was saying something about a customer from work. I nodded at the correct moments but my attention had drifted. Back to Noah. Always back to him. The stupid thing was that I hadn't meant to care. That night was supposed to be simple. A weird exception to my normal life, a fun story to tell some day.

It was meant to be one reckless decision involving an attractive singer I'd never expected to see again.

End of story.

Instead, somehow, he'd lodged himself permanently in my brain. I still remembered his laugh and his ridiculous confidence. God. That smile. I hated that I remembered it so clearly.

"Earth to Zoey." Margot waved her hands in front of my face wildly.

I blinked. Margot was staring at me.

"What?"

"You disappeared."

"Sorry." I shrugged.

"You do that a lot lately."

I looked down at my coffee.

"Do I?"

"Yep."

Margot's eyes narrowed.

I could tell her what had me so distracted but the reality sounded even worse spoken aloud. It had been a single night. Then gone with no explanation. No goodbye, no follow-up. Sometimes I told myself I was only fixated because there had been no ending. That I had nothing to replace the what-ifs Noah had left me with.

Other times…The dangerous times…I admitted the truth. I simply missed him. I missed talking to him and laughing with him. I ached at the possibility of whatever might have happened if he'd stayed.

Margot reached for her phone again.

"I'm blocking fake Noah."

"Good plan."

A few taps later she tossed the device aside.

"Done."

I nodded, barely paying attention because my thoughts had already wandered again. I was back at the hotel room. I was transported into that sleepy morning light where I was waking up alone and finding the empty side of the bed. Aching with the hurt that had followed. It didn’t hurt because he'd left, it hurt because he'd left without saying anything. It had me wondering, for the hundredth time, whether Noah had ever thought about me after he walked out that door.

The answer was probably no. People didn't spend six weeks thinking about someone they barely knew.

...Right?

I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug.

Across the table, Margot was already telling another story.

For the rest of the afternoon, one stupid thought refused to leave me alone.

Noah.

I couldn’t stop wondering whether forgetting him was ever going to get easier.

[Noah’s POV]

By day ten, I had memorized the menu. Not out of a need, but because I'd run out of other things to do.

Day after day, my tea sat untouched beside my laptop, the screen up on the same blank document I'd been pretending to work on for nearly an hour.

The bell above the door chimed and my lifted automatically. It wasn’t her…Again. I slumped back into my chair. Across the room, a barista caught my movement and smiled. At this point they all seemed to know. Not the details but just enough to find it amusing and to recognize the pattern. Especially the same disappointed look every time the wrong person walked through the door.

A text appeared on my phone.

FOLIO: Any luck?

I typed, No.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

She still ignoring you?

I glared at the screen because technically, yes she was still ignoring me, even though that implied she'd actually seen the message. Which, admittedly, she probably hadn't. Maybe she had, which that possibility was significantly worse.

The memory of me sitting on my couch, staring at the blank message screen surfaced immediately. How I sat staring at the blinking cursor, rewriting the message twelve times before deleting half of it. How I second guessed all of it several times before eventually settling on something simple and honest.

But there was nothing, no acknowledgment. Not a single indication she'd ever seen it. A week of silence. Then another.

The message remained unanswered, floating somewhere in the digital void.

I had tried telling myself that was answer enough. That if she wanted to talk to me, she would respond. It should have been the end of the story, except somehow it hadn't felt finished. Maybe that was because the message hadn't gone to her.

Not directly.

It had gone through her friend, someone who'd probably thought it was a scammer or a stalker. Which would be fair enough, honestly.

The entire thing sounded ridiculous.

Hi, know your friend Zoey? The musician she spent one night with and never heard from again would love another chance.

It was not exactly a compelling argument.

My phone buzzed again.

FOLIO: This is getting sad.

I typed back immediately.

You're getting sad.

FOLIO: You've been sitting in that cafe for ten days.

I've been working.

The reply appeared almost instantly.

FOLIO: You're a liar.

I flipped my phone upside down, irritated because Folio wasn’t wrong. The message I sent had gone nowhere. Her friend Margot never replied and Zoey’s profile stayed private. Every digital door had closed on me, which was how I'd ended up here day after day. At first, showing up felt insane to me. Then it slowly felt slightly less insane and now it had become routine.

An embarrassing routine, but still a routine. Because what was the alternative? Doing nothing? Going back to wondering about her forever? The thought made my chest tighten. Across the room, a barista called out.

"Another tea?"

I looked down, it was still fairly full.

"...No."

"Good."

The barista nodded approvingly.

"That was becoming concerning."

I laughed despite myself. The bell above the door chimed again and my eyes lifted. Automatically.

A woman entered with dark hair and a Similar height. For half a second hope flared in my chest before it vanished. Wrong person. Again. The disappointment I felt was immediate and, judging by the sympathetic look the barista shot me, clearly visible.

"Damn."

I pointed at him.

"Don't."

"I'm not saying anything."

"You are with your face."

The guy grinned.

"I'm just wondering how long you're planning to keep this up."

That was the question, wasn't it? I looked toward the entrance to the door I'd spent nearly two weeks watching, at the door that held the possibility that had somehow become impossible to let go. A sane person would stop, would've stopped after the ignored message. They’d have given up after the declined friend request, at the complete lack of encouragement. Instead, here I was ordering the same drink day after day, sitting in the same chair. Sitting here, waiting for a woman who had absolutely no reason to want anything to do with me. The realization should've discouraged me. Instead it just made me laugh quietly to myself because apparently I was already too far gone.

The barista shook his head.

"You're down bad."

I sighed.

"Unfortunately," I mumbled.

The guy pointed toward the door.

"You know she might never show up."

I looked away toward the window at the city outside, searching for literally anything except the truth.

"Yeah."

The answer came easier than expected because every day I'd already considered it.

Maybe she stopped coming here.

Maybe she'd moved.

Maybe she wasn't interested.

Maybe she'd forgotten me entirely.

All possible and reasonable, yet somehow I still showed up the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. It was as if some stubborn part of my being refused to let the story end with an unanswered message and a hotel room disappearance. It was as if seeing her one more time mattered more than my pride which was unfortunate because I had always been very fond of my pride.

Until her.

[Zoey POV]

It was a Thursday afternoon at The Cup, the same café I’d been going to since I found it in college by working here. I always sat at the same corner table in the back and faced the window to people watch. Sometimes I would bring work, others I would bring a book. Occasionally, I just sat and enjoyed people watching, catching up with Margot as she worked her shift. It was the familiar comfort of routine, and it usually helped.

Lately, not so much.

"You're not listening."

"I am."

"You're literally on the same page you've been on for ten minutes."

I glanced down at my book. Margot was unfortunately correct.

"Maybe it's a really good paragraph," I defended.

"It's not," she said plainly.

"How do you know?"

"Because I've watched you blink at it for ten minutes."

I sighed and closed the book. Lately every quiet moment left room for thoughts I was trying very hard not to have. It always came back to thoughts involving a certain singer with a stupid smile and terrible timing. Six entire weeks and nothing. No texts. No miraculous reunion. Just me repeatedly proving that I was apparently capable of developing feelings for someone I'd never really known, and that was humiliating.

"You're doing it again." Margot waved her hands in front of my face.

"What?"

"The sad thing."

I furrowed my brows. "I don't do a sad thing."

She scoffed. "You absolutely do." Margot took a sip of her drink. "You get this look."

"What look?"

"Like somebody kicked a puppy in front of you."

I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

The bell above the café door chimed and neither of us bothered to pay attention knowing it was just another customer. The afternoon crowd came and went constantly. I reached for my coffee and attempted to open my book again, tried to focus on it, but I failed. A familiar ache reached the surface and I had to force myself to try not to rub at my chest where it physically hurt.

Noah, again. Always Noah.

I hated it. Especially now that it was six weeks later, I still thought about him, wondered about him. I still replayed everything from that night, from the concert, to 7 Eleven, to his hotel room. The conversations we had, the chemistry that was out of this world. Everything had felt unexpectedly easy that night with Noah.

Then the morning hit and I was left in that empty hotel room and the realization that he had left without a note, no goodbye. Nothing.

A stupid part of me still wondered why.

"Zoey."

"Hmmmm?"

Margot frowned. "Okay, now you're definitely somewhere else."

I smiled weakly before I offered a quiet, "Sorry."

The bell above the door chimed again and this time a shadow fell across our table. I assumed it was a barista bussing the table, since Margot’s break had become an extended one, or somebody looking for a spare chair. Without thinking, I looked up and suddenly forgot how to breathe.

Noah.

My mouth went dry at the realization that he was standing in front of me, very real and not a figment of my imagination. I pinched myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream because for a second my brain simply refused to process what I was seeing. The café and the sounds of it disappeared. My vision narrowed and I suddenly felt disoriented. It was really him, I realized, as I stared into his eyes, saw the expression they held. The unmistakable shock on his face, like he'd found exactly what he'd been searching for and he couldn't quite believe it.

Neither could I.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.

Noah opened his mouth and then quickly closed it. He was apparently as speechless as I was.

Across from me, Margot looked confused between us.

"Uh..."

Neither Noah or I said anything.

"Zoey?"

Nothing.

"Do you guys know each other?" The confusion was thick with her question.

The question shattered whatever strange spell had settled over us and I blinked. Then Noah blinked. Margot looked back and forth between us, more confused than I’d ever seen her before.

"Okay, definitely yes," she muttered.

Heat rushed to my face.

"No." A pause. I groaned. "Okay, yes," I admitted.

Margot's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.

"WHAT?"

Several people looked over at us because of course they did. I wanted the ground to open up and suck me in.

Noah looked vaguely amused despite his obvious nerves.

"Hi," he said softly.

The sound of his voice hit me harder than expected. It had been six weeks and somehow it was exactly the same. It was warm and familiar. It screamed danger with the way my stomach flipped.

Traitor.

"Hi," I squeaked out.

Wow, excellent conversation, Zoey.

Across the table, Margot was practically vibrating.

"Someone explain."

"No," I said shortly, not looking away from Noah.

"Zoey."

"No."

"Who is this?"

I glanced at Noah and he glanced at me. Neither of us seemed overly eager to answer, which only made Margot more suspicious. Margot let out a sound that was half scream, half laugh. Her eyes widened slowly. Then she pointed between us.

"Oh my God."

No.

"No."

"Oh my God."

"Margot."

"No."

"What?"

"Absolutely not."

"What are you talking about?" I asked panicked.

Noah looked startled and then something softened in his expression, replaced with something warm that made my pulse jump. Unfortunately Margot noticed that too.

She pointed at Noah.

"You're him."

Noah looked helplessly amused and tilted his head.

"I think so, yes." Noah let out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

Margot looked delighted.

“You’re the guy who’s been showing up here for like, two weeks, waiting for some girl.”

I looked between Margot and Noah, confused. I watched Noah’s cheeks heat, and he suddenly looked embarrassed while I was trying to piece it together. Margot looked at me.

“He’s been coming here, spending hours here, waiting for some girl. It’s been this vague story, but everyone has been talking about it, because he keeps coming back but he won’t tell anyone why this is the only way he has to contact this girl.” Margot looked at me for a second. “She’s been weird for weeks…” Margot looked between Noah and I before settling on me. “You've been weird for six weeks."

I paled and swallowed a lump that had formed. “What? No.”

“No, no. You have. Since the concert. I just thought you were being weird because we made you go…but the next day you were…different.” She turned to Noah. "You’re the reason she's been acting insane."

"Margot."

"The reason she keeps staring into space."

"MARGOT."

The café was absolutely listening now, there was no question. Margot dropped back into her chair looking delighted. I, however was horrified. Thrilled. Confused. Everything all at once. Noah being here, hearing his voice again was worse than seeing him. It was the same voice I'd spent weeks trying not to remember. The same voice that still showed up in my dreams.

Across the table, Margot's eyes widened.

"Oh my God."

No. No no no. Not this. Not here. Not with her.

She pointed at Noah, then at me. Then back at Noah.

"The messages."

I closed my eyes, squeezing them tightly.

"The messages were you."

Several nearby customers immediately became very interested in their coffees.

"Noah," Margot whispered.

Then louder-

"NOAH."

"Margot."

"The weird account."

"Margot."

"The account that kept messaging me."

"Margot."

"THAT WAS ACTUALLY YOU."

Noah looked deeply uncomfortable. Good. I was too.

"I can explain," he said.

"Can you?"

"Margot."

She ignored me completely, looking between us while she was putting the pieces together, watching the entire puzzle click into place. Then her jaw dropped.

"Oh my God."

I already knew what she was about to say.

"Zoey."

"Don't."

"You know him."

"Margot."

"You actually know him."

"Please."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

Then she looked at me and it was like she suddenly understood something by the look on my face because her expression softened, just slightly. She seemed to understand far more than I wanted her to and the teasing vanished, concern replacing it.

"Oh."

I knew that look, knew exactly what she'd figured out. That this wasn't some funny story, I actually cared, which was infinitely more embarrassing.

I immediately stood.

“I’m leaving,” I muttered as I grabbed my coffee.

"You.” I pointed at Margot. "I'll explain later."

"Zoey-"

"Later," I said shortly.

"You're seriously leaving me like this?" she screeched.

"Yes."

"This is torture."

"I know."

She groaned dramatically and then pointed at Noah.

"You."

He looked resigned already and I watched his shoulders drop.

"Yes?"

"If you hurt her, I will make it everyone's problem."

I closed my eyes.

Noah laughed and the sound was warm and surprised, which somehow that made everything worse. Because after six weeks of trying to forget him…One laugh was enough to remind me exactly why I never managed it.

[Noah’s POV]

"Come with me,” Zoey demanded and I blinked.

"What?"

I didn’t have a chance to fully ask before Zoey zipped out of the café forcing me to follow her.  The second the café door closed behind us, Zoey was vibrating with anger, I could feel it.

I shoved my hands in my pockets as I leaned against the brick wall in the alleyway, watching Zoey pace. This was suddenly awkward and I was second guessing myself, which was almost funny considering how we'd met.

"I think your friend wants me dead."

She let out a short laugh before she could stop herself and I brightened instantly. I’d been hoping to hear that sound, which was a dangerous realization.

Zoey rounded on me with no hesitation, clearly not wanting small talk or a polite reunion. She was full of fury.

"Are you out of your mind?"

I tried to open my mouth to speak, but closed it. Then I opened it again.

Honestly, she'd caught me off guard. Not because she was angry with me, I deserved that. It was that after weeks, she was right here in front of me. More real than I remembered.

After weeks of empty afternoons and unanswered messages and wondering whether I'd imagined the whole thing, she was here. Somehow that made it difficult to remember basic language.

"Zoey-"

"No."

She held up a hand.

"No. You don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

Her eyes widened at me in disbelief. Her expression told me she was considering homicide.

"Seriously?"

"That wasn't sarcasm,” I defended.

"It should have been."

I nodded. "Fair."

She made an exasperated sound, the kind people made when they regretted ever meeting someone. That was not encouraging.

People passed by us on the sidewalk and cars rolled by. I barely noticed any of it, my entire attention was fixed on her. I couldn’t help but be enamored by the angry flush in her cheeks, how her arms were crossed. The fact that she looked exactly like I'd remembered from that night.

No, actually, she looked better, which seemed deeply unfair.

"You don't get to disappear for six weeks and then show up looking like that." She waved around us.

The words hit me square in the chest, not because of the insult but because of the implication.

Looking like what? Like she'd remembered me too?

That was a very dangerous thought so I pushed it away.

"What does that even mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," she huffed.

"I genuinely don't."

"That's because you're a man."

I blinked. "That feels unrelated."

"It isn't."

She poked me in the chest, like I had personally offended her by existing.

"You vanished."

"I know," I said softly.

"No explanation."

"I know."

"No text."

"I know."

"No call."

"I know."

"No note."

"I KNOW," the words escaped me louder than I intended.

We froze and  couple walking by glanced over.

I lowered my voice, "I know."

The anger didn't leave her expression, but something shifted slightly, enough to see the hurt underneath.

That was worse, because I could handle anger. Anger made sense. The hurt she felt was entirely my fault.

"You left," the words came quieter from Zoey now.

They had less bite but were more honest.

I swallowed thickly. "Yeah."

"Why?"

There it was, the question. The one I'd been dreading. One I had spent weeks answering differently depending on the day because every explanation sounded stupid once spoken aloud.

Tour schedules.

Fear.

Bad timing.

Complications.

None of them sounded good enough, mostly because they weren't.

Zoey laughed once humorlessly.

"See?"

"What?"

"You don't even have an answer."

"I do," I defended

"Then say it."

Noah looked away toward the street, to anything except her eyes because her eyes were dangerous. They always had been.

"I got scared."

The confession slipped out before I could stop it and I avoided her gaze. Silence. When I looked back at her, she was staring. Not angry now, just confused.

"What?"

"I got scared."

"Of what?"

I laughed softly at myself, at how ridiculous it sounded.

"That's the problem."

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to organize thoughts I’d avoided for weeks.

"I don't usually..." I stopped. "I've done the one night stand thing before."

Immediately her expression hardened.

"Wow."

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Great start."

"Zoey."

She folded her arms tighter, waiting for me to continue. I exhaled.

"You weren't supposed to matter." The second the words left my mouth, I knew they sounded terrible. Zoey’s face confirmed it.

"Oh, excellent."

"Not what I meant either."

I went to step toward her but paused.

"You're really crushing this conversation."

I laughed despite everything.

"Yeah. I know."

For a second neither of us spoke and the tension remained, but something else had crept in too. Familiarity. The same strange rhythm we'd fallen into the night we met. Even while arguing. Especially while arguing.

I looked at her and realized that I would rather have this than nothing.

Even if she was furious, if she never forgave me, at least she was here talking to me.

"I left because staying felt dangerous,” my words came quietly.

No jokes or charm. No performance. Just the solid truth.

Zoey's expression flickered.

"Dangerous," she whispered.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I held her gaze because if I looked away now, I'd lose all my nerve.

"Because I woke up and wanted breakfast."

She blinked slowly. "What?"

"I wanted breakfast," I repeated.

"You left because you wanted breakfast?"

"No." A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth and I stepped toward her. "You don't understand."

"Clearly."

"I wanted breakfast with you." I pushed on before I could lose momentum. "I wanted coffee." Another step. "I wanted to spend the day with you." Another. "I wanted to know what your favorite movie was." Zoey stared at me and I laughed softly, mostly at myself. "Which sounds insane because I'd known you for like ten hours."

"A little," Zoey mumbled.

"A lot."

She nodded.

"A lot."

"Exactly." I shoved my hands into my pockets suddenly feeling exposed in a way sold out arenas never managed. "So I left."

Zoey looked at me for a long moment, like she was trying to decide if I was serious or if I was an idiot. Possibly both.

Finally she shook her head.

"That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah."

"You realize that doesn't make it better."

"I know."

"You don't get points for honesty."

"I know."

"So why are you here?"

The question landed differently.

Not, why did you leave.

Why are you here.

Now.

Today.

After all of it.

I didn't need time for that answer, because I'd spent weeks living it.

The ignored message.

The dead ends.

The afternoons in the café.

The waiting, hoping.

The embarrassment.

The certainty that I'd look stupid.

The certainty that I'd regret leaving if I never tried.

I settled my eyes on hers and stood strong.

"Because I want a chance."

Zoey's expression softened despite herself, just for a second. It was enough to have hope flaring.

"A chance for what?"

I gave a small, nervous smile. "Honestly?"

"No."

The answer came immediately, automatically.

It made me laugh and a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth too.

"There she is," I said quietly.

"Don't."

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"It was an involuntary muscle spasm."

"Sure."

Zoey rolled her eyes and smiled at me. It felt like sunlight shining on me because I'd spent six weeks remembering that expression. Somehow the real thing was better.

Then she pointed at me, like she was trying very hard to regain control of the conversation.

"You are not off the hook."

"I know."

"I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know." I paused. Then I smiled again. "Still sounds like I got a chance." I gave her a shrug.

And judging by the look she gave me…I wasn't wrong.

[Zoey’s POV]

Seven days later, Noah was still showing up to the café.

The bell over the café door chimed and I didn’t look up right away on principle now. Principle and caffeine. And the quiet satisfaction of ignoring a man who had been haunting her afternoons for two straight weeks like he paid rent.

“Green tea,” Jenna called automatically from the register.

“No honey or lemon,” Margot added from somewhere behind her.

I glanced up because that was the problem. Even when I refused to look for him, everyone else had started looking for him. Noah stood near the entrance in the same hoodie, with his same careful posture. With that same annoying face. He looked like he’d rehearsed existing in public and still wasn’t fully convinced he was doing it right.

I met his eyes briefly before immediately looking at my laptop.

“Wow,” Margot murmured with a slow clap. “That was Olympic level avoidance.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re watching a blank screen.”

“It’s thinking.”

“It’s not.”

From the corner of my eye, I watched Noah move towards me. Of course. I didn’t flinch and I refused to acknowledge the fact that my heart had suddenly developed opinions.

His shadow fell across the table.

“Hi,” he said.

I didn’t look up.

“Hi is for people I like,” I said shortly.

“…That’s fair.”

Margot made a choking sound somewhere behind us. Noah cleared his throat.

“I was wondering-”

“No,” I said immediately.

“I haven’t even said what it is yet.”

“It’s you. It’s always you.”

“That’s actually-”

I slowly looked up then. “Noah.”

He stopped talking. Good.

“That seat over there?” I gestured vaguely toward the window. “That one you’ve been sitting in like it’s your emotional support chair?”

“…Yes?”

“It’s taken.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Taken?”

“Emotionally,” I said.

Behind Noah, Margot whispered to Jenna, “Oh my God.”

Noah nodded slowly. “I can pick another seat.”

“Bold of you to assume there are other seats in this establishment.”

“It’s a café.”

“It’s my café,” I said, without thinking. Margot made a sound like she was dying. Noah, somehow, smiled a little. Not cocky. Just… relieved.

“Okay,” he said. “Noted.”

“Good.”

A beat passed. Then he added, “Can I still get a drink?”

I stared at him before I muttered, “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll pay.”

“I would hope so.”

“I can leave if it helps.”

“That would actually be ideal.”

Noah nodded. Then didn’t leave because of course he didn’t. He just stood there like someone waiting for permission to exist.

I sighed. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The sad puppy thing.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing.”

“You’re standing aggressively.”

Behind him, Margot was openly watching now, grinning like this was her new favorite show.

I pointed at Noah’s chest.

“Look at me.”

He did, unfortunately.

“That’s your problem,” I said.

“My problem?”

“You look like you’ve been personally victimized by your own decisions.”

“I mean—”

“Don’t.”

He shut his mouth. Smart.

I leaned back in my chair. “So,” I said. “What is this? You running a bit? Café residency? ‘Man who appears and stares’ performance art?”

Noah blinked. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were aggressively observing.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what? A parade?”

“For you,” he said simply.

That landed differently. Annoyingly differently. My expression didn’t change.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You found me. I’m here. I’m caffeinated. I’m still not impressed by you.”

A pause, then Noah nodded.

“Fair.”

Margot whispered, “He’s weirdly calm about being verbally dismantled.”

“He’s practicing,” I muttered.

“I am not,” Noah said.

“You are,” I said again.

He hesitated.  Then, softer, he said, “I didn’t know how else to do this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I can help.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late,” I said. “Step one: don’t stalk someone’s café like a moody background character in a romance novel.”

“I wasn’t stalking.”

“You were loitering emotionally.”

Behind them, Margot gasped. “That’s going in my vocabulary.”

Noah exhaled a laugh. 

“Okay,” he said. “Noted. I’ll stop loitering emotionally.”

“Good.”

A beat passed and then he added, “But I’m still going to ask you something.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I can guess. And I’m saying no preemptively.”

Noah nodded slowly. “Can I give you my number?”

Silence. Even Margot went quiet. I stared at him, then glanced down at my coffee. Then back up. “You’ve been coming here for three weeks to ask me that?”

“I was building up to it.”

“That’s not romantic, that’s inefficient.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Shocking.”

Another beat passed and Noah’s expression softened.

“Zoey.”

“Don’t ‘Zoey’ me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something emotionally irresponsible.”

“I’m just asking you to text me.”

I tilted my head.

“You want me to voluntarily enter communication with the man who ghosted me like a professional disappearing act?”

Noah winced.

“…When you put it like that...”

“I always put it like that.”

He reached into his pocket and placed his phone on the table.

Not pushy. Just… there. Waiting.

“I’m not going to disappear again,” he said.

I snorted.

“That’s exactly what people say right before they disappear again.”

“I know.”

Noah didn’t backtrack or joke. He just steadily held my gaze.

“I can’t fix the first time,” he said quietly. “But I can stop pretending I don’t want a second chance.”

Silence settled around us again, longer this time.

Margot, very softly behind us said:

“Oh my God, I hate when he gets sincere.”

I let out a breath, then reached for his phone.

Noah straightened slightly as I typed. I set it down with the screen facing him. Noah looked at it. Then back at me.

“…You just put in ‘Don’t be weird.’”

“Yes.”

“That’s your condition?”

“That’s step one.” I shrugged.

He nodded immediately.

“Okay.”

“And step two,” I added, “you don’t show up here tomorrow acting like a man who’s been personally adopted by the furniture.”

Noah smiled, properly this time.

“Deal.”

From behind the counter, Margot whispered, “I give it three days before he ruins this agreement.”

I didn’t look away from Noah. “Three days is generous.”

Noah, still smiling, said, “I’ll try for four.”

And for the first time since he’d walked into the café like a problem I didn’t order, I almost smiled back.

[coasttocold]

what if…Elle and Joe make a comeback this week????

[feral0mens]

good morning guys 🖤

[mrs-delaney]

Things He Said He'd Never Do | Simple Math Vignettes

pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🐕 wc: almost 4k an: okay i had way too much fun with these and i want to make it a whole thing — send me your ideas!! the only rule is keep it in character. i'm not writing joe burrow doing a tiktok dance. i won't do it. don't ask. anyway 🫶 based on this request: "younger!reader who walks joe like a dog, getting him to do all sorts of things he thought he'd never do/said he's sworn off"

masterlist

I. Concert

You bring it up over breakfast.

"Sabrina's at Paycor in two weeks."

He looks up from his phone. "Yeah?"

"Tickets are insane. Like — insane. I was gonna see if anyone wanted to split nosebleeds, but they're still like three hundred bucks each."

He watches you for a second. You can tell he's working something out. You go back to your coffee because if you wait too long, he won't say it.

"Y/N."

"Hm."

"You know I have a box there, right?"

You look up. "What?"

"A suite. At Paycor. It's mine. You're always welcome to use it." He says it like he's telling you what time it is. "Any show. You don't have to ask. Just tell me what date."

You don't say anything.

"Y/N."

"I'm processing."

"What's there to process?"

"That for two weeks I've been doing math in my head about nosebleeds, and you have a box."

He laughs. Small. "I thought you knew that."

"How would I know that?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd mentioned it."

"Joe."

"What?"

"You have not mentioned that."

He sets his phone down. Picks his coffee up. Takes a sip. "Well. Now you know. Bring whoever. I'll have the chef send food."

You stare at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Y/N."

"Nothing. I love you. Eat your eggs."

———

You bring three friends.

Mads, Anika, and Cat. You cleared it with him first — is three too many, is it weird if it's all girls, are you gonna come — and he answered them in order like you'd asked them in a meeting. no. no. yeah, I'll come if you want me there. you wanted him there.

He's the only guy in the suite. He doesn't seem to register it. He's at the bar making Mads a drink because she asked him what he was making for himself, and he said whatever you want, what do you want? Cat is taking pictures of the stage from the window. Anika is sitting on the couch, already on her second glass of wine, telling you about her sister's wedding.

You watch Joe across the room. He's listening to Mads explain her stance on tequila. Nodding. Asking her a follow-up. She's gesturing with both hands. He's smiling at her with his whole face.

"Y/N."

"Hm."

"He's so nice."

"I know."

"Like genuinely. He asked me about my job."

"He does that."

Anika watches you watch him. "You're so gone."

"Shut up."

"You're so gone, Y/N."

"Shut up."

———

Sabrina opens with Taste, and the four of you scream.

Joe doesn't scream. But he's on his feet at the window with his drink in his hand, watching the stage, and when you look at him, he's smiling — that small one, the one that means he's having a better time than he expected. He glances at you. Catches you watching.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Y/N."

"You're having fun."

"I'm at a concert with you."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer." He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm having fun."

You go back to the window. Anika is taking a video over your shoulder. Cat is screaming the words. Mads is dancing in a way that suggests she's three drinks in and entering her Sabrina era. Joe stays at the window. You can feel him at your back.

———

By please please please, you've pulled him into it.

You turn around mid-chorus and sing it at him — I beg you don't embarrass me, motherfucker — and his head tips back, and he laughs. Open. Surprised. The laugh you don't get to see at press conferences.

He leans down to your ear.

"I won't embarrass you, motherfucker."

"Joe."

"What?"

"You can't say that."

"You just said it."

"I was singing."

"I was participating."

You elbow him. He doesn't move. Anika is filming again. You don't tell her to stop.

———

The show ends. Your voice is gone. Mads is crying about because I liked a boy. Cat is rebooking her flight because she missed her Uber and now wants to stay another day. Anika is already in the car downstairs.

Joe holds your coat for you. Helps Mads with hers. Carries Cat's tote because she's holding her phone in one hand and a tequila soda in the other. You watch him do it.

In the car, he puts his hand on your knee. You put your feet up on the dash because your shoes are killing you, and he doesn't tell you to take them down. Your friends are in the SUV behind. The driver is taking the long way because Joe asked him to — take the river road, the highway's gonna be a mess.

"So."

"So."

"How was your first Sabrina Carpenter concert?"

"I had a really good time."

You look at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. I thought I was gonna have to drag it out of you."

"Why?"

"Because that's usually how this goes. I ask if you had fun, and you say it was fine, and I have to interpret it."

He glances at you. The streetlight catches him. "I had fun. She's good. You were having fun. Mads is funny. Anika keeps asking me questions like she's interviewing me, which I kind of like. Cat tried to give me half her drink. That's a good night."

"Joe."

"What?"

"That was a whole answer."

"Yeah."

"Like a real one."

"I know."

He puts his hand back on your knee. His thumb moves once. Slow.

"You're gonna make me go to more of these."

"Yeah."

"Figured."

II. Halloween

You bring it up over the weekend.

"The Bengals Halloween party is in three weeks."

He doesn't look up. "Mhm."

"Are you gonna go?"

"No."

"Joe."

"Y/N. I don't go. You know I don't go."

"I know."

"So."

"So I was just asking."

He looks up at you then. You go back to your phone. You don't say anything else.

———

You bring it up again the next morning. Casually. Like you forgot you'd already mentioned it.

"So the Halloween party —"

"Y/N."

"I'm not pushing. I'm just saying. Alex's been texting me about costumes for two weeks, and Jay asked me yesterday if we were coming, and I didn't know what to tell her."

"You tell them I don't go."

"I told them I'd ask."

"Y/N."

"I'm just telling you what's happening, Joe. They want me there. I want to go. But if you don't want to, that's fine."

"You'd go without me."

"I'd go with Alex."

He watches you for a second. Then he goes back to his coffee. You don't bring it up again that day.

———

Three days later, he comes out of the bedroom with his phone in his hand.

"I'll go."

"To what?"

"The Halloween party."

You put your laptop down. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Joe."

"Don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing."

"Y/N."

"I'm just — yeah. Okay. Yes! Let's go!"

He looks at you. He's trying not to smile. "You're making it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing."

———

He says yes on Monday. You start texting Alex about it on Monday. By Tuesday morning, you've narrowed it down to three couples' concepts, and you bring them to him over breakfast.

"I'll handle costumes —"

"I probably have something in the closet that works."

You look at him.

"What?"

"I probably have something in the closet that works," he says again. "Depending on what we're doing. And I can call Kyle for whatever else we need. He's good at this stuff. He did the Met thing."

"Joe."

"What?"

"You're going to call your stylist to put together a couple's Halloween costume."

"Yeah."

"With me."

"Yes, Y/N."

You stare at him.

"I can also just buy something off Amazon."

"No, I want Kyle to do it. He's good. Let me do this part."

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He picks up his phone.

———

Kyle pulls a white suit with thin purple pinstripes from Joe's closet that Joe forgot he owned. LSU-era. " That'll work,Kyle says on the phone, looking at the picture Joe sent. Send me your measurements again, Y/N I'll get the Harley pieces sent up by Friday.

Friday morning, a garment bag arrives at the door. Red and black. The pigtails were clipped to the hanger. A bat with a bad girl's sticker peeling on the side. You stand in the front hallway holding it, and you can't stop laughing.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"What's so funny?"

"Your stylist bought me a bat."

"He commits."

"I love him."

"You've never met him."

"I love him anyway."

———

The night of the party, you do his face in his bathroom.

He sits on the counter in the suit pants and a white undershirt because the vest goes on last. You stand between his knees with a sponge in one hand and a tube of white face paint in the other. He's watching you in the mirror over your shoulder.

"Hold still."

"I'm holding still."

"You keep talking."

"That's not the same as moving."

"It moves your face, Joe."

He goes quiet. You work the white into his hairline. His eyes track you in the mirror. It's a little unnerving — his face is the thing you know best in the world, and you're covering it up.

"Y/N."

"Don't talk, your mouth's next."

"Can I say one thing?"

"One thing."

"I can't believe I let you do this."

"That's not one thing; that was a sentence."

"Y/N."

"Hold still."

You move to the green around his eyes. He closes them for you. You have one hand on his jaw to hold him still and the other working the eyeshadow in, and you can feel him breathing slow under your fingers, and you can feel exactly how much he trusts you for this — letting you put your hands on his face for an hour while you cover it up.

When you're done with the eyes, you step back to look at him. He opens them.

"Verdict."

"You look insane."

"Y/N."

"In a good way. In a really good way."

"I feel insane."

"That's the costume."

He laughs. Small. You do the red around his mouth last. You go slow. You don't want to mess it up. When you're done, he stays still for a second, watching you in the mirror, and then he says come here and you step in between his knees, and he holds you by the hips with his still-gloved hands, and he kisses you on the forehead because you told him not to mess up his mouth.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"This is the most insane thing you've ever asked me to do."

"I know."

"I'm doing it because I love you."

"I know that too."

———

He looks devastating.

In a good way. You're already in your costume — red and black, the pigtails, the bat in your hand — and you stand in the bathroom door and look at him, and you have to take a second.

"Joe."

"Don't."

"You look really good."

"Y/N. I look like a clown."

"Yeah."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It was from me."

He comes over to you. He hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts and pulls you a step closer. You let him.

"You're going to be insufferable about this tonight, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Figured."

———

Ja'Marr clocks him before you get inside.

You're walking up to the rented-out space from the car — Joe in the full Joker, you in the full Harley, his hand on the small of your back — and Ja'Marr is on the sidewalk in a cookie costume, and he sees Joe, and he stops walking, and he says, very loud, oh my GOD.

"Don't."

"BRO."

"Ja'Marr."

"BRO."

"Don't."

Ja'Marr is doubled over. Tee is coming up behind him in a full Batman costume, and he sees Joe, and he says holy shit, and then he says hi, Y/N, and then he goes back to holy shit. Alex is two steps behind Tee in a Poison Ivy costume that you helped her pick out, and she sees you, and she screams.

"Y/N."

"Hi."

"Y/N, OH MY GOD."

"Hi, Alex."

Jay is somewhere behind Alex in what looks like a milk carton costume, already laughing. She gives you a thumbs up over Alex's head.

"Y/N."

"Yeah, Joe."

"This is your fault."

"I'm aware."

———

Inside, Alex pulls you away from him for an hour.

She has photos to take. She has people to introduce you to. She has gossip about which of the rookies showed up in costumes their wives hate. You let her drag you around. You keep glancing back to find Joe in the crowd — he's never far. He's holding a beer. He's letting Tee's mom take a picture with him. He's nodding at someone in a Chiefs costume that he is, charitably, pretending to find funny.

Jay finds you by the bar around eleven.

"You got him here."

"I know."

"Y/N. You got him here."

"I know."

"In costume."

"I know, Jay."

"And you're Harley."

"Yes."

"I'm gonna cry."

"Don't cry."

"I'm a little drunk."

"I can tell."

She hugs you. You hug her back. Across the room, Joe is watching you and trying not to smile.

———

At midnight, you find him on a couch in the back room with three of his teammates around him.

He's holding a bottle of something. His face paint is smudged at the corner of his mouth. The vest is unbuttoned. He's laughing at something Tee just said, and he hasn't seen you yet.

You stand in the doorway and watch him for a second.

He sees you. His face does something — the small smile, the one you get to see, the one that means you're there. He pats the couch next to him. Tee scoots over.

You sit down. Joe puts his arm around your shoulders. You can feel the white face paint coming off on your Harley costume. You don't care.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Thanks for making me come to this."

"Yeah, Joe."

"I mean it."

"I know."

He kisses the top of your head. His face paint comes off on your hair. You don't tell him.

III. Sheet Mask

He comes home from a workout on a Sunday afternoon.

You're already in yours. You're sitting on the couch with a sheet mask on, watching something stupid on Bravo, and he walks in the door, stops in the entryway, and looks at you.

"Y/N."

"Hi."

"What is on your face?"

"A sheet mask."

"A what?"

"A sheet mask."

He comes closer. He leans over the back of the couch and looks down at you. His face is pink from the gym. His hair is damp at the temples.

"That's a piece of wet fabric."

"It's a sheet mask, Joe."

"Is it doing anything?"

"It's hydrating."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's putting moisture in my skin."

"With a piece of wet fabric."

"Yes."

He stares at you. You stare back. You can feel the mask sliding slightly on your cheek.

"Come here," you say.

"No."

"Joe."

"Y/N."

"Come here."

———

He comes.

He doesn't sit on the couch. He stands in front of you with his arms crossed and looks at you. You can tell he's already losing because he hasn't gone upstairs to shower. That's his tell. If he were really saying no, he'd be in the shower already.

"Sit down."

"Y/N —"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. On the floor. Between your knees. With his back against the couch and his head tipped back to look up at you.

"I'm not putting that on my face."

"You don't have to."

"Oh."

"I'm putting it on your face."

"Y/N."

"You said you weren't going to. I'm respecting that. I'm doing it for you."

"That's the same thing."

"It's not the same thing, Joe."

"It's the same thing."

You reach into the basket by the couch and pull out a fresh packet. You tear it open. The mask is folded in half inside, dripping. You peel it apart with your fingers and hold it up. He looks at it. Then he looks at you. Then he closes his eyes.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine, Y/N."

"Thank you."

"I hate you."

"I know."

———

You do his face slowly.

You smooth the mask onto his forehead first, then work it down over his cheekbones, his nose, and his chin. He keeps his eyes closed. You can feel him breathing slowly under your hands. The mask is cold from the fridge — you keep them in the fridge, which is a thing he's mocked you for — and you feel him flinch the first time it touches his skin.

"Cold."

"I know."

"Why is it cold?"

"Because I keep them in the fridge."

"Why?"

"Because it's better for your skin."

"Y/N."

"Don't talk, you're going to crease it."

He stops talking. You work the mask into the corners of his jaw. You smooth the eye flaps down. You press the edges against his temples. When you're done, you sit back on the couch and look at him.

He looks ridiculous.

A grown man with a sheet mask on his face, sitting on the floor of his living room, in joggers and a t-shirt that says Bengals strength & conditioning, with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the couch cushion.

You take a picture.

You don't ask. You just take it.

He opens one eye. "Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Did you just take a picture of me?"

"Yes."

"Y/N."

"Let me see it."

You hand him the phone. He looks at it for a long time. You can't tell what his face is doing because the mask is covering most of it. You watch him scroll. Zoom. Scroll back.

"It's bad."

"It's amazing."

"Y/N."

"Joe."

"Can I post it?"

"No."

"Joe."

"Y/N."

"Close friends only."

He looks at you. The mask is still on his face. You can't read him.

"Close friends."

"Yeah. Not my story. Just the eighty people who already know us."

"Eighty!?!?"

"It's a small eighty, Joe."

He goes quiet for a second. You watch him decide. The mask makes it harder than usual.

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Close friends. And if it ends up anywhere else, I'm divorcing you."

"We're not married."

"I'll find a way."

———

You post it to close friends.

You set the phone face down on the coffee table, and you go back to Bravo. Joe closes his eyes again. The mask is starting to dry at the edges.

Ninety seconds later, your phone buzzes.

Then it buzzes again.

Then it doesn't stop buzzing.

Joe opens his eyes. "What's happening?"

"I don't know."

"Y/N."

"I — it's close friends, Joe, it's only —"

"Check it."

You pick up your phone. You have fourteen replies already. Half of them are crying-laughing emojis from your friends. One is from Mads — Y/N I AM HOWLING. One is from your sister — send me the link to the mask. One is from Anika — Y/N!

Then Joe's phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He doesn't open his eyes. "Tell me."

You pick up his phone. You read the screen.

"It's Tee."

Joe's eyes open.

"What does it say?"

"He sent the lipstick-face emoji."

"Y/N. How does Tee know?"

"I —"

"Y/N."

"Alex is on my close friends list."

He stares at you. The mask creases at his forehead.

"Y/N."

"What?"

"You posted me in makeup to a list that includes my receiver's girlfriend."

"In my defense, you said close friends."

"Alex isn't your close friend, she's his close friend, and now she has screenshot capability —"

"Joe."

"— and the Bengals wags group chat is its own ecosystem, Y/N, you don't understand —"

"Joe."

"What?"

"You're talking really fast."

He closes his eyes again. Breathes in through his nose.

"This is going to be in the team group chat in twenty minutes."

"I know."

"Ja'Marr is going to lose it."

"I know."

He doesn't say anything for a second. Then he laughs. Small. Real.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

———

His phone buzzes again.

You look at it. It's his mom.

You hand him the phone without saying anything. He opens his eyes. Reads the screen. You watch his face. The mask is hiding most of it, but you can see the corner of his mouth lift.

"What does it say?"

He hands you the phone.

tell her I said hi. You look ridiculous. I love it. xx

You read it twice.

"Joe."

"Yeah."

"Your mom is funny."

"I know."

He's looking at you now. The mask is starting to slip at his hairline.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Why is my mom on your close friends list?"

You don't answer right away.

"Y/N."

"She's nice."

"Y/N."

"What?"

"You haven't met her."

"We've DMed."

"You've DMed."

"A couple times."

"Y/N. You've been DMing my mom."

"She started it."

"She — Y/N."

"She commented on something I posted in like September. And then she DMed me. We've gone back and forth a couple of times. That's it."

He's staring at you. His mouth is open a little. The mask is doing nothing for him right now.

"Joe."

"Yeah."

"Don't be weird about it."

"I'm not being weird about it."

"You look weird about it."

"Y/N. My mother is on your close friends list. And we haven't done a real meeting. And you've been DMing her since September."

"Yes."

He closes his eyes. He doesn't say anything for a second. You watch him work through it.

"Joe."

"Yeah."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"Joe."

"I'm not mad. I'm — processing."

"What's there to process?"

"That my girlfriend and my mother have a DM relationship I didn't know about."

"Joe."

"I'm not mad, Y/N."

He opens his eyes. Looks at you. The mask is sliding now, definitely past its lifespan. He looks ridiculous. You love him.

"Text her back for me."

"What should I say?"

"Tell her hi back. Tell her I'm being walked like a dog."

"I'm not telling your mom that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's true and I don't want her to know."

He laughs. His shoulders shake against your knee. You type hi Robin! He says hi. xx and send it. She sends back a heart. You put the phone down.

Joe stays on the floor with the mask on for another twenty minutes. You don't tell him when it's done. Neither does he. Eventually, he opens his eyes and peels it off himself and looks at you.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"My skin feels weird."

"That's because it's hydrated."

"I don't like it."

"You'll get used to it."

[coasttocold]

Tell her hi back. Tell her I'm being walked like a dog."

"I'm not telling your mom that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's true and I don't want her to know."

I am laying in bed giggling so hard. This is going to live rent free in my mind 🤣

[coasttocold]

Gone at Sunrise

Noah Sebastian x OC Word Count:7.7k Warnings: swearing, smut, use of "slut" unprotected sex. Summary: Zoey is convinced to go to a concert, where she randomly meets Noah and goes back to his hotel room

I didn’t look up from my laptop when the front door slammed against the wall. The noise didn’t even make me flinch. Without even looking up from my laptop I knew who it was, and she always meant trouble.

“Absolutely not,” I said dryly.

Just a few seconds later, Margot appeared around the corner with her phone held high like she was in Willy Wonka when Charlie won the Golden Ticket.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

I could hear the pout in her voice and rolled my eyes.

“You come in like that when you’re about to ruin my evening.”

Hayley scoffed as she made her way into the living room with a bowl of popcorn in her hands.

“Your evenings always consist of tea, sweatpants, and murder documentaries. What’s there to ruin?”

“Those documentaries informative, thank you very much.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “They’re depressing is what they are.”

“They’re fascinating,” I argued!

“Zoey, they make you text us things like, ‘Don’t ever let me be called someone who lights up a room, that’s always the first sign someone is going to get murdered,’” Hayley said exasperatedly.

I finally looked up, unimpressed. “That’s just common sense.”

Margot shoved her phone in my face where an Instagram page was pulled up. It was a black and white photo that was making every attempt to come off as an aesthetic look with bright lights and a stage. Some band was displayed front and center, and it all looked sort of familiar but I couldn’t quite place.

“Concert. Friday. Bad Omens is in town. We already bought tickets.”

I blinked slowly and met their gazes.

“You bought tickets to something on a Friday before asking me?”

“We had faith we could convince you,” Hayley said.

I rolled my eyes and shut my laptop. “You thought you could manipulate me.”

“Correct,” Margot replied in a chipper tone. “Now we’ve reached the persuasion stage.”

I pushed her phone out of my face. “No.”

They both gasped dramatically.

“No?” Hayley repeated like the word itself offended her. “I…people our age are supposed to seek out excitement.”

“I like excitement! Just quietly and when it comes with my couch.”

Margot dropped onto the couch opposite me.

“You work all week and stay home all weekend, Zoey. The most exciting thing to happen to you recently was trying a new sourdough recipe.”

I gasped. “It was a s’mores loaf,” I defended.

Hayley wagged her finger at me.

“This.” She waved wildly. “This is exactly why we’re worried.”

“You guys are so dramatic.”

“You’re twenty-four acting like a retired grandma named Eunice. You’re one step away from knitting a scarf and adopting 15 cats.”

I narrowed my eyes at them.

“I don’t know, Eunice sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“Eunice falls asleep before 8 every night after playing canasta.”

“Living the dream.”

Margot groaned loudly and flopped dramatically to her back on the couch. “You never do anything spontaneous anymore.”

“I went to brunch with you last Sunday.”

“That was scheduled three weeks in advance.”

“And you brought a book,” Hayley added.

“In case conversation died.”

“Okay, Rory Gilmore,” Margot said with a snort.

I grabbed the cushion behind me and hurled it at her. Margot caught it against her chest with a laugh.

“Come on,” Margot changed her tactics to plead her case sincerely. “It’ll be fun. One night. You don’t even have to stay out late after.”

“That’s a lie,” I said immediately.

“Okay, maybe a small lie.” Margot pinched her fingers closely together to show how small her lie was.

I snorted despite myself, and the girls sat up excitedly.

“Oh my god, she’s cracking,” Hayley whispered.

“I’m not cracking.”

“You smiled.”

I really did smile.

“That means nothing.”

“It means everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t even know enough of their songs to enjoy myself.”

“Yes, you do,” Margot argued. “You know all the popular ones.”

“Against my will.”

“And concerts are different,” Hayley said leaning in. “Even if you only know, like, two songs, the energy is insane. Everyone’s screaming and dancing and you’re basically having a spiritual experience with strangers.”

I looked at them in terror.

“That sounds horrifying.”

“It’s healing,” Margot corrected.

I laughed quietly.

Margot pointed at me excitedly.

“There. Right there. That’s the face of a girl who wants to say yes.”

“It’s the face of a girl being bullied in her own home.”

“Pleaaaaaaaaase,” Hayley said, clasping her hands dramatically. “Do it for friendship.”

“No.”

“For memories.”

“No.”

“For hot mysterious men who might be backstage.”

I paused and my interest piqued.

Margot lunged forward instantly. “Ah-Ha!”

“That pause was loud as hell,” Hayley agreed.

“There was no pause.”

“There was absolutely a pause,” Margot said. “You’re intrigued.”

I rolled my eyes again. “I am not intrigued by imaginary backstage men.”

“Not imaginary,” Hayley corrected. “Statistically there will be at least one emotionally unavailable guy with tattoos and excellent bone structure.”

“Which is exactly your type,” Margot added.

“I don’t have a type,” I muttered.

“You absolutely do. You like men who look like they’d ruin your life but might apologize politely afterward.”

I stared at them in horror for a second. “You two need hobbies.”

“You’re our hobby,” Hayley said happily.

“That explains a lot.”

Margot softened, nudging me with her elbow. “Come with us. Please? We miss fun Zoey.”

“I’m fun!”

Hayley muttered, “Debatable.”

Margot sat up quickly. “That’s it. You’re coming.”

“I didn’t say yes,” I protested.

“You didn’t say no this time either,” Hayley pointed out smugly.

I sighed, already regretting this. I pointed at them.

“If I go, we are not staying out until two in the morning.”

The silence that followed was loud.

“Margot…”

“We’ll see how the night goes.”

“No.”

“You’re so rigid for someone on the brink of major personal growth.”

I leaned forward. “I hate both of you.”

Margot screamed. “THAT’S A YES.”

“It is not-”

Hayley was already grabbing her phone and Margot was crowding her as they scrolled. “I call dibs on picking your outfit.”

I leaned back against the cushions and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I can dress myself.”

Margot giggled, briefly glancing at me.

“Respectfully,” she said not looking up from where she was huddled with Hayley. “History seems to suggests otherwise.”

I groaned as both of them fell into each other and laughed at my expense. I sighed as a small smile lit up my face, a tiny part of me was actually looking forward to this.

By the third song, I realized I had been so extremely wrong about how the night would go.

The bass pounded through the stadium, shaking the ground beneath me. It was heavy enough to rearrange my heartbeat. An insane light show was flashing across the room over thousands of screaming faces while Margot gripped my cheeks and shouted lyrics into my ear, like the band wasn’t performing right in front of us and doing it ten times better than her.

“ARE YOU HAVING FUN YET?”

I was laughing too hard to answer, which was answer enough.

By the fifth song, I started singing along to every chorus even though I barely knew the words. By the seventh, I stopped caring about what I looked like and started jumping around with the crowd while Hayley recorded blurry videos between us and the band, videos that I knew were destined to never be watched again, but that was okay.

Everything in the room felt loud and electric and had a strangely freeing vibe to it.

I didn’t have to worry about emails or deadlines. No looming projects or company politics to navigate. As soon as the music started thumping…it all melted away to music that vibrated through my bones. It provided me with the dizzy rush of being surrounded by people who all loved the same thing at the same time.

At one point Hayley grabbed my shoulders dramatically. “I need you to know this is the most personality you’ve shown in six months.”

“Oh my god,” I yelled back over the music, breathless. “Shut up.”

“No seriously, you look alive.”

I rolled my eyes but I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.

I couldn’t deny it though, I did finally feel alive for the first time in…who knows. At the end of the concert, my throat hurt from singing and my feet ached in the best way. The arena lights brightened slowly as the final song ended. I watched as thousands of people immediately rushed toward the exits in chaotic wave, but I just stood there watching them go, as my body kept buzzing.

“That was insane,” Hayley said, still shouting even though the music had stopped.

“I told you!” Margot looped an arm through hers. “I knew it would be a spiritual experience.”

I laughed. “Okay, fine. It was fun.” I shrugged.

They froze dramatically and their mouths dropped open.

“Wait,” Hayley said. She cupped her hand around her ear. “Can everyone hear that? I swear my ears might be broken.”

Margot pressed a hand to her chest. “Was that Zoey admitting we were right?”

I bumped her with my shoulder playfully.

“Don’t ruin it.”

The rush of people from the crowd carried us at a snails pace out of the stadium and slowly toward the street outside. The cold air hit my flushed skin causing my bare arms to shiver.

Cars were everywhere outside the venue, backed up for miles and not moving an inch. Loud music spilled from their open windows. I watched as groups of people crowded around us on the sidewalks, yelling over the noise as they tried to figure out where to go next or what direction to go.

Margot stopped suddenly and her eyes lit up before she clapped once. “Okay. Drinks.”

I blinked slowly. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

“There’s this bar like ten minutes away,” Hayley added. “Apparently, like, half the afterparty crowd goes there.”

I immediately shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Margot groaned. “The night’s still young.”

“The night is over,” I corrected. “My social battery has flatlined. I want my sweatpants and my bed immediately.”

Hayley groaned. “You’re truly an eighty year old, Zo.”

“And proud.”

Hayley pulled her phone from her pocket. “Wait times are crazy right now anyway. It’ll probably take forever to get a ride home.”

“Exactly,” I said. “All the more reason for me to call one now.”

Margot narrowed her eyes at me. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

I thought longingly of the idea of my apartment. My skincare routine. Silence. Peace.

“Positive.”

Hayley sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“I was fun for more than three consecutive hours. That’s enough growth for one evening.”

Margot laughed. “Okay, grandma. We’ll go without you.”

I saluted weakly. “Have fun making bad decisions.”

“That’s the plan.”

The girls gave me a quick hug and I watched them disappear back into the moving crowd, already debating shots and playlists and whether they could somehow get into an afterparty they absolutely weren’t invited to. Then I was alone and the immediate absence of them felt weirdly abrupt. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and went to the rideshare app.

Nearby drivers: unavailable. Estimated wait time: 58 minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I went to another.

Fifty-one minutes.

I watched as hundreds of people crowded the pickup zones while they were searching for their rides in the mayhem. Someone jostled me as they walked by. A group of guys nearby screamed the chorus of one last song like they had been on stage and a car horn broke through the noise with a piercing sound.

I let out a long breath. Nope. Absolutely not. I could not do this. I figured there had to be a better pickup spot somewhere away from the chaos. I pushed my shoulders back and pulled my jacket tighter around me before I stepped away from the venue and started walking.

My body relaxed as the noise faded behind me gradually with each block. When I got a few blocks away, the crowds thinned and I could breathe a little easier as it opened up. My body still pulsed from the arena, but here I started to feel removed from the night, like it was another world entirely.

As I stopped outside a brightly lit 7 Eleven, I checked the app again.

Wait time: 18 minutes.

“Oh thank god,” I muttered before stuffing my phone in my back pocket again. “Much better.”

I leaned against the brick wall and waited, wiggling my toes in my boots. The adrenaline from the concert was finally beginning to wear off, leaving behind warm exhaustion that was settling into my bones.

Worth it, though. Annoyingly worth it.

I wouldn’t tell the girls though.

I smiled a little to myself as I settled in and pulled my phone out again, scrolling to my photos app and pulling up blurry photos and videos from the night.

“You look way too happy to be standing alone in the middle of the city after midnight,” a male voice nearby said casually.

I startled and nearly dropped my phone. I looked around wildly before I spotted man standing a few feet away beneath the glow of a storefront. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a dark hoodie and his hoodie was pulled up tightly around his face. It could’ve been normal enough. Except it was easy to recognize him from the neck tattoos that were peeking out. My brain short circuited as I processed who was standing there.

It was Noah Sebastian. The lead singer oh the headlining band and owner of the voice that had spent the last three hours vibrating through my bones, with a voice that just lit my body on fire. He looked behind himself first, like he was checking whether anyone had followed him, before looking back at me and then he sighed.

“Ah,” he said flatly. “There it is.”

I blinked. “There what is?”

“The recognition.” He pointed vaguely at my face. “You’ve got the exact same expression as everyone else.”

I tried to school my face and shrugged. “I think my expression is pretty reasonable considering you were just onstage in front of twenty thousand people.”

“Technically twenty three.”

I let out a small laugh. “That’s somehow worse.”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“So…” he started. “You know who I am.” I rolled my eyes. “But who are you?”

I tilted my head and stared at him, before I said, “Zoey.”

“Zoey,” he repeated, my name rolling off his tongue smoothly.

Up close, he was even more unfairly attractive than he had been under the stage lights. He was much taller than I expected too. I could see the exhaustion weighing him down, though. He had shadows beneath his eyes and his damp hair peeked from the hood of his sweatshirt.

“You’re really bad at sneaking around,” I informed him.

“I know,” he muttered. “I underestimated how many people linger outside after shows.”

“So what are you doing over here?”

“Hiding from fans.”

I looked around the nearly empty street.

“Well.” I shrugged. “You did a great job of hiding.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes flickered down toward the phone I held tightly. “You waiting for someone?”

“An Uber.”

“At midnight?”

I laughed. “…That’s usually how Ubers work.”

He ignored me. “Where are your friends?”

“Who said I came with friends?” He just looked at me and I shrugged. “They abandoned me for alcohol and poor decisions.”

“Nice.”

“They seemed excited about it.”

Noah frowned slightly when I glanced back at my phone for an update on my ride.

“How long?”

“Twelve minutes.”

“Twelve?” His eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to be standing out here alone for twelve minutes?”

“Yes?” I asked slowly.

“No.”

I blinked twice. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “That’s dangerous.”

I actually laughed.

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re literally a stranger.”

“Exactly,” he said immediately as he gestured around us, like that proved his point.

I just stared at him.

“You do hear how insane you sound, right?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he shrugged, his hands moving to his hoodie pockets. “Probably.”

“You’re warning me about strange men while being a strange man...”

“Difference is I’m a familiar strange man. Arguably even a famous strange man.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“It should be.”

I shook my head and fought back a smile.

“You know statistically speaking,” I said, “you’re significantly more dangerous than the average person.”

“Ouch.” His hands went to his chest mockingly.

“You could absolutely murder me.”

“I could,” he admitted softly. “But I won’t.”

“Very comforting.”

He leaned casually against the wall, close enough now that I caught traces of soap and sweat and an expensive cologne that blended into the crisp, chilly night air.

“Well,” he said, “Good news for you. I’m staying here until your ride gets here.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I already decided I am.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Usually only when pretty women are standing alone in sketchy side streets after midnight.”

I ignored the compliment. “This isn’t sketchy.”

A second passed. Somewhere in the distance glass shattered followed by someone yelling incoherently. Noah looked pointedly at me.

“…Okay,” I admitted. “Slightly sketchy.”

“Thank you.”

I should’ve been uncomfortable. There was a stranger lingering with me at night and after all the murder documentaries I watched, it should’ve set off alarm bells. Instead, weirdly, I felt calmer. Maybe it was because he looked more tired than threatening or because he wasn’t performing anymore. There was no stage persona, no confidence enhanced by the spotlight. Here in the dead of night, he was just a guy in a hoodie leaning against a brick wall while trying not to get recognized.

Or maybe I was calm because every time someone walked too close, he subtly shifted closer to me like it was instinct to reach for me.

“Do you always rescue random women outside your concerts?” I asked.

“No. Usually my security handles it.”

“Oh, so this is beneath you?”

“Deeply.”

I threw my head back and let out a loud laugh before I could stop myself. Noah glanced at me sideways and smiled like he was happy with the feat.

“You had fun tonight,” he said. He didn’t say it like it was a question.

I looked down at my phone shyly. “I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Mhmmmm.”

“My friends forced me to come.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you knew every chorus.”

“I knew some choruses.”

“You were singing pretty confidently for ‘some.’”

I felt my cheeks heat and my body tense.

“Oh my god,” I muttered in horror. “You could see people from up there?”

“Not really.” His grin widened. “But now I’m deciding you were aggressively singing all of my songs.”

I groaned “This is humiliating.”

“I think it’s cute.”

The word landed heavier in the air around us than it should have. I looked away first. This was dangerous but not in a physical way. It was dangerous in the way it made me feel.  My phone buzzed suddenly with the alert that the driver was arriving in two minutes.

I straightened slightly. “Well, it looks like your shift as neighborhood watch is over.”

“How tragic.” Noah grinned.

Moments later, headlights rounded the corner and the rideshare sticker glowed faintly in the windshield. I stepped forward automatically as the relief hit me at the thought of my warm bed and sweatpants. A nice hot shower followed by silence. It was going to be perfect.

The car pulled to the curb, and I reached for the door handle and opened it. I stopped when Noah cleared his throat.

“Or…”

I turned.

He was watching me with entirely too much confidence for a man standing in a dark hoodie on a random sidewalk outside of a convenience store.

“Or?” I repeated carefully.

He lifted his shoulder.

“You could come back to my hotel instead.”

He was being so straightforward, it was coming across as cocky. Like he already knew the answer. Maybe like he did this all the time.

I stared at him.

“You cannot actually say things like that to women.”

Noah shrugged. “It seems like I just did.”

I scoffed. “That’s insane behavior.”

“You’re thinking about it.” He quirked a brow at me.

I groaned because unfortunately, he was right. He stepped closer to me, not enough to crowd me or cause panic to rise, but just enough that I could feel the heat of him against the cold night air.

“No expectations,” he said, voice lower now. “You can say no. Get in the car, go home and never see me again.”

The driver glanced impatiently at us

I should leave. Objectively, absolutely, unquestionably leave. This is a stupid idea to entertain.

Instead, I surprised myself and asked, “Do you always invite strangers back to your hotel?”

Noah’s mouth deviously curled.

“Only the ones who almost didn’t come to the concert.”

God. That stupidly charming answer made me weak. I laughed under my breath at myself. Then with a sudden burst of confidence, before I could think too hard about it, I pushed the car door shut.

The driver rolled down his window immediately and grunted. “You getting in or what?”

Every murder documentary I’d ever watched was practically screaming at me right now for my actions. This was textbook getting murdered decision making. It was the kind of choice that got your driver’s license photo flashing across a Netflix screen while a detective said, “She trusted the wrong person.”

But honestly? Margot and Hayley already thought I was one blanket away from becoming a full time retirement home resident. And Noah was standing there in front of me, looking so unfairly hot. I looked at it like I had the chance to do something wildly out of character for once in my painfully organized life.

“Nope,” I said breathlessly as I watched Noah lick his lips.

I turned back toward Noah instead.

The elevator doors closed with a quiet ding and Noah leaned his back against the wall of the car. I stood across from him with my arms crossed at my hips, trying my damnedest to pretend I wasn’t staring at his mouth every chance I got.

“Do you always invite strangers back to your hotel,” I finally asked, “or should I feel special?”

Noah’s mouth lifted at the corners, and he seemed to relax further into the wall. “This you fishing for validation?”

I rolled my eyes, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fishing for honesty.”

He pushed off the wall, casually stepping closer to me, just far enough away to not touch me, but enough to capture my attention. With Noah so close, it made the elevator somehow seem smaller now and I felt the temperature increase. Whatever cologne he was wearing was sharp and added to the warmth surrounding us and I was amazed that I could still smell it under the fading smoke and sweat from the venue. It was bold and added to the energy in the elevator, the spicy notes of it made my stomach tighten.

Noah inched closer to me and his eyes darted to my lips before going back to my eyes. His hand softly brushed against mine, just barely that I thought I imagined it and the contact made me blush.

“Honestly, Zoey? You looked completely unimpressed when I saw you tonight.”

I tried to stay calm, even though with him so close my pulse jumped. I tried to go for casual with my next words.

“You know, for someone who was worshipped by twenty something thousand people tonight, you’re not nearly as charming offstage as you think you are.”

Noah let out a loud laugh and took a step back, but not before his eyes scanned me from head to toe, stopping briefly at my chest that had started to move faster with my pulse.

“And yet, you still came back to my hotel with me,” he pointed out softly.

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re surprisingly annoying in person,” I muttered.

“You’re the one trying really hard not to look at me like you want me,” Noah said casually, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs at his ankle.

My breath caught briefly and Noah definitely noticed. He gave me a quiet grin that was missing the cockiness from early, but the danger behind it was thick.

I cocked my head and stepped closer to him. “You’re flirting with me like someone who’s never been told ‘no’.”

His eyes darkened and his attention became sharp as he leaned forward to grasp my hips strongly. The heat of his hands was electric. “Maybe I just haven’t heard you say it yet.”

The silence was thick enough to choke on, but I couldn’t look away from him. When the elevator stuttered gently as it slowed to his floor, my hands gripped his biceps at the movement. The air was thick and heady around us, the kind that made every look linger a little too long and every joke started to sound like foreplay. Noah’s thumbs found their way under my shirt, and he ran the calloused pads of them against my skin slowly and deliberately, causing me to shiver and the air thickened. I felt like at any second, I was one breath away from losing every ounce of my control.

We didn’t say anything, we just stood there staring at each other as our breaths washed over us, just close enough that I felt like if I moved one inch forward, I would ruin the little bit of fragile restraint I still had left.

We barely made it out of the elevator without an indecent exposure charge. In the hallway, our lips met in a rush of lips and heat and Noah pushed me roughly against the wall next to his door, the bite of his hips pressing into mine making me moan softly. Noah softly laughed.

Noah struggled with the key for the door as I pushed myself closer to him, rubbing my lower half  against his pelvis and he groaned before finally pushing it open. He pushed the door open and pulled me inside behind him, before letting it slam behind us. Noah was ripping my clothes from my body quickly, his lips exploring every inch of my skin with every piece that disappeared. I fought with his belt as I tried to remove his pants, his mouth distracting me before I finally got them off. Instead of carefully unbuttoning his shirt, Noah just slid it over his shoulders and tossed it aside.

I sunk to my knees and looked up at Noah from under my eyelashes, and the heat there spurred me on. I slipped his boxers off his hips and he kicked them away. I darted my tongue out to lick the seam of his tip and Noah, not expecting it, nearly fell forward before using my hair to hold himself up. He tugged tightly, causing me to moan as I wrapped my lips around his tip and hollowed out my cheeks.

Noah groaned before he bucked his hips forward, hitting the back of my throat and causing me to gag in shock. I looked up from the ground and saw him smirking at me. It was hot, but I was stubborn. I wrapped my hand around his base and started stroking him in time with my mouth. I cupped my breast and tweaked my nipple, causing me to gasp and Noah to sink further into my throat, before trailing my fingers down to my clit where I circled it carefully several times. My fingers played with the mess I was making. Noah bucked into me rougher and I fought a smirk around his girth.

With my slick on my finger, I moved to cup his balls with the hand that wasn’t pumping him. I used the finger that held my desire to graze his perineum and the sound Noah made was obscene.

Tears were streaming down my face as Noah fucked my throat and I took it, groaning around his cock as he hit the back of my throat. I swallowed, taking him further down my throat which caused Noah to gasp and nearly fall over me. He tightened his grip on my hair, pulling my mouth from his cock. He looked down at me dazedly, his thumbs swiping away the tears that had spilled.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly. “That felt so fucking good.” He pushed some fallen hair behind my ear and I looked away, embarrassed by his praise. “Don’t hide from me, not when your mouth feels that fucking good.”

I blushed but reached up to bring his mouth to mine and he kissed me back with fervor, ignoring the fact that I had just had him in my mouth, though he hadn’t finished.

Noah pulled away from me on a groan.

“I can’t wait to taste every inch of your body until I know your body better than you do,” Noah groaned as I cupped his balls and gave a gentle squeeze, causing his eyes to roll to the back of his head.

The pad of his fingers trailed down my neck and over my collarbone. I gasped and Noah smirked at the goosebumps that bloomed across my skin. Noah’s hand trailed back up and he gripped my neck, causing me to gasp and my breath to catch painfully in the back of my throat. He smirked at how breathless I was.

“Oh, I see. You like how my hand feels around your neck, hmmm? Such a predictable slut,” Noah groaned as his tongue darted out and swiped the seam of my lips as he squeezed a little rougher.

Normally I’d rage the moment a man said those words to me, but when Noah did…I felt like I was floating. He started experimenting with pressure, switching the way he held my neck in his hands just to see which movement would make me arch into his touch more.

Noah used his tongue to trace down my throat while his free hand slid between my legs. I felt my core flutter against his palm.

“What d’ya need, baby? My fingers? How about my tongue?” Noah lightly ran the back of his palm up my thighs, the rough feel of his knuckles electrifying my skin, and he brushed them right over my panty covered core. “Been wanting this, you, all night.” He groaned. “Bet you can’t stop thinking about how my mouth would feel right here?” His finger brushed the damp spot on my underwear. “C’mon, beg for it.” Noah groaned as I sought out friction from his body, whimpering at not finding relief.

His fingers dip beneath the fabric, finally sinking his fingers inside of me and I arched into his touch. I gasped as he settled his fingers inside my heated core.

“You’re so tight and responsive.” He groaned. “You’re stretching so pretty for me. This what you wanted, this how you like it?” His thumb found my clit and began to rub slow circles as I started to near my breaking point. But Noah didn’t let me chase it, instead he abruptly stopped and pulled his fingers from me, causing me to whine in protest.

Noah smirked as he carefully placed his hands on my hips and guided me backward to the bed, my knees hitting the edge and he carefully laid me down before he crawled over me, his hips pinning mine to the bed. I could feel his hardened cock graze my clit, causing me to whimper.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re feeling too much, aren’t you?” He mocked me. I whined and tried to arch my hips into him, needing some sort of friction to find relief.

I cried out as Noah sunk into me, my legs falling open as the pain from him stretching me settled in and had me aching desperately. I tossed my head back, my eyes closed, as sounds I had never made before escaped me as the sounds of our pleasure filled the room.

“I bet you didn’t know you could make that sound.” I could hear the cockiness in his tone as his hips snapped against mine, pushing me further and further into the hotel sheets.

My eyes fluttered shut and my breathing grew ragged. My core tightened around Noah’s length and I held him there, my legs trembling as my core clenched with every stroke.

Noah gazed down at me and groaned, “God, you’re loving this, aren’t you?”

I didn’t say anything, knowing he didn’t actually expect a response.

“You’re desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

I cried out as his tip slipped over the bundle of nerves on my inner walls, squeezing him tightly as my legs wrapped around his hips tighter and I pulled him closer, our sweat causing us to stick but neither of us cared.

Desperate sounds escaped me as Noah continued to fuck into me, the pain of each stroke morphing into pleasure that had the edges of my vision blurring. I was frantic, desperate for relief and somehow, I knew it could only come from Noah.

Noah knew exactly what he was doing, how to wring every ounce of pleasure from me, as his strokes continued evenly, sometimes slowing down enough to tease me but never enough to lose momentum. My pleasure was soaking the sheets below, and I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Please,” I cried out. “Please Noah.” I was desperate, chasing relief from Noah. I reached for him, trying to find purchase on his shoulders.

He groaned. “Please what?” Noah used one hand to remove my hands and pinned them above me, stretching my body further. He leaned on the forearm of his other, holding himself off me just enough.

“I need to cum,” I cried out.

Noah said nothing, just rutted into me deeper and harder. The pain adding to the pleasure each time. He reached down between us after releasing my hands and laid his palm flat against my stomach before using the pad of his thumb to circle my clit at the same time he applied pressure, causing his tip to painfully brush against my walls. It felt so good, my cries grew louder and it just encouraged him further before we both exploded, stars dancing behind my eyes.

Noah collapsed on top of me, burying his nose in my neck as he caught his breath. When he pulled away, he looked down at me carefully before reaching out to swipe some fallen tears from my cheeks.

“Don’t hide,” he muttered when I tried to turn away. He gripped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my attention on him. Noah just stared and it was unnerving, before he leaned down and softly kissed my nose as he carefully pulled out.

I whimpered at the loss of him, which caused another smirk to dance across his face. I rolled my eyes and threw the pillow from behind me at him.

Noah stood at the end of the bed, staring at me in quiet observation. I tilted my head, ready to ask him what had his attention, before he spoke up.

“So…room service?”

I giggled and nodded my head.

The first thing I noticed when waking up was the silence. The second thing I noticed was that Noah’s side of the bed was empty.

Not recently empty either.

The sheets were cold and the pillow was missing an impression of his body having been there. There was no mysterious man lingering dramatically by the window like there would have been in the movies. He was just…gone and I was alone, the sheet pulled up to my chin. I squinted against the sunlight spearing through the ridiculously expensive curtains and groaned into the pillow.

“Oh, cool,” I muttered to myself as I started cataloging where all my clothes had ended up. “Love that.”

For one deeply humiliating second, I actually looked around the suite like he might magically appear, maybe carrying coffee or something. There was Nothing. No note. No text. No number. Not even a stupid scribbled had fun last night :) on hotel stationery.

I scoffed and I sat up slowly and clutched the sheet tighter to me as memories from last night came back in sharp, dangerous flashes.

The brush of his lips as he laughed against my neck. Most importantly, the absolutely criminal things he’d whispered in my ear in the middle of the night as he took me for the second and third times.

And then apparently… Poof. He was gone. I stared around the empty room in disbelief.

“Wow,” I said aloud. “Men really do think they’re Godly after one mildly good hookup.”

At least he didn’t murder me. I guess he got points for that, technically. My phone sat charging on the nightstand and I rushed for it. No messages. Not from Noah anyway.

Margot: ARE YOU ALIVE???

Hayley: Did grandma make it home safe???

Margot: We met a man named Bullet. Still unsure if that was his real name.

I snorted despite myself before tossing the phone back down.

Okay.

Fine.

Whatever.

It wasn’t like I had expected some grand romance, I wasn’t insane or delusional. Last night had been impulsive and hot and…absolutely nowhere near my normal behavior.

But leaving without a word?

That was irritating on principle.

Like, congratulations on being hot and mysterious, Noah. Revolutionary concept. Very original of you.

I climbed out of bed, immediately regretting every life choice as soreness hit muscles I had never known existed.

“Oh my god,” I hissed.

Worth it. I groaned. Annoyingly worth it.

I spotted my jeans draped across the floor near the couch and marched over to grab it with as much dignity as someone wearing yesterday’s makeup and no bra could muster. I scanned the room for my underwear and found them under the bed. Next, I found my top near the bathroom.

I shook my head.

The hotel suite itself was obnoxiously beautiful too, which somehow made everything worse.

I narrowed my eyes at the skyline outside the floor to ceiling windows.

“Hope your tour bus explodes,” I muttered and then paused.

Not literally.

Just, like…maybe a flat tire.

I slowly put my clothes on, and something caught my eye near the table by the door.

I paused. It was a room service receipt. After a beat, I immediately lunged for it with entirely too much hope.

It was blank. Just a simple signature. No number. No message. No “call me.”

Not even a smiley face.

I started at it before I laughed once in disbelief.

“Actually incredible,” I said. “What a level of male audacity that future generations will study academically.”

By the time I left the hotel room twenty minutes later, the irritation was simmering nicely beneath my bone deep exhaustion. I had fully decided Noah Sebastian was deeply annoying.

Hot? Unfortunately.

Talented? Against my will.

Good in bed? Extremely.

But now I found him annoying enough that I would absolutely pretend not to care if I ever saw him again.

Which she probably wouldn’t. And honestly? Good. Fantastic, even. I definitely did not need to spend another second thinking about the cocky lead singer who picked me up on a sidewalk and disappeared before sunrise like he was legally obligated to avoid emotional attachment.

By noon, I was still irritated. Not a normal irritated either, but a very specific type of irritated. The kind that sat sharp and twitchy under my skin while I cleaned the kitchen for absolutely no reason other than to get rid of this restless feeling. Noah had left sometime before sunrise without a single word, and somehow that fact kept replaying in my head like it was a personal attack.

Not because I cared. Obviously.

It was the principle.

If you were going to fuck someone’s back out of alignment and then disappear into the night, the least you could do was leave a note. There were standards in society, after all. Noah leaving without so much as a goodbye was irritating me in a way that felt deeply wrong when I technically only knew him for a few hours, which was it’s own kind of annoying.

It wasn’t like I had wanted emotional attachment, but an ounce of basic human decency would have been nice. Something other than disappearing into the early hours of the morning while I was zonked out in his bed.

I was angrily reorganizing my coffee pods for the second time when a pounding on my door interrupted.

“Oh my god,” Margot yelled from outside. “Open up.”

I sighed. I was too tired for this.

I yanked the door open.

Hayley took one look at me and burst out laughing.

“WOW,” she was doubled over in laughter, her hands on her knees.

I rolled my eyes. I was wearing leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and sunglasses despite being indoors.

Margot gasped dramatically. “She looks exactly how I imagine Victorian women looked before dying of tuberculosis.”

“I’m alive,” I muttered, already walking away and back toward the kitchen.

“Barely,” Hayley snorted before shutting the door.

“Good morning to you, too.” I rolled my eyes.

The two of them had the chaotic energy of people who had barely slept the night before but accessorized with iced coffees in hand. Margot handed me one.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

Hayley collapsed onto the couch face first. “I’m never drinking again.”

Margot followed immediately after, flopping onto her back dramatically. “Liar.”

“Correct.”

I leaned against the counter suspiciously. “Why are you both here?”

“To debrief you.”

“To discuss the tragedy of you abandoning us,” Margot added.

I took a slow sip of coffee. “I seem to remember being abandoned first.”

“You wanted to go home.”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Like a responsible adult.”

“Boooo,” Hayley groaned into the cushion.

Margot barely sat up and pointed accusingly at me. “You missed so much.”

I rolled my eyes. “I doubt that.”

“We ended up at this rooftop bar with, like, thirty people from the concert.”

I hummed disinterested.

“And apparently,” Hayley continued dramatically, sitting up now, “the band sometimes goes there afterward.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Margot narrowed her eyes instantly. “Why did you react like that?”

I coughed once. “Wrong pipe.”

“Mhmmmm.”

Hayley started spiraling before she even launched into her story. “We were there for HOURS, ZOEY. HOURS. And nothing.”

“Devastating.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I said sweetly, “still the only one here without a hangover.”

“Worth it,” Hayley muttered.

“We stayed there forever hoping we’d run into somebody.”. Especially Noah,” Margot sighed. “God, that man is so criminally  attractive.”

I took another careful sip of coffee and stared at the wall.

“He really is,” Hayley agreed solemnly. “Like weirdly attractive. It makes me so angry.”

You have no idea, I thought bitterly. I couldn’t look at them in fear of caving.

Margot groaned dramatically. “Can you imagine hooking up with someone like that?”

Now the coffee almost went up my nose.

Hayley squinted at me. “Why do you keep malfunctioning?”

“Because you guys are weird.”

Margot smirked suddenly. “Oh my god. Wait.”

I froze.

“You met someone last night,” she accused.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That was too fast,” Hayley said immediately.

“Suspiciously fast,” Margot agreed as they looked at each other.

I rolled my eyes. “You two think every man who says hello to me is my soulmate.”

“Not a soulmate,” Hayley corrected. “Just a temporary bad decision.”

I snorted despite myself and turned toward the kitchen before either of them could study my face too long.

Because unfortunately…Thinking about Noah still came with flashes of his hands and our mouths meeting with low and lazy grins that were deeply unhelpful against my current rage.

I could still feel his hands gripping my waist, the bruises still there as a reminder. When it was quiet just long enough, I could still hear his stupid cocky voice whispering obscenities in my ear. But most of all…I could still remember waking up alone in a hotel bed.

The irritation flared up inside my chest fresh and hot.

Men truly had the communications skills of houseplants.

I refused to give him even one ounce of emotional satisfaction. Absolutely not. That man did not deserve my acknowledgment.

“Seriously though,” Margot continued, oblivious, “We were convinced we’d run into at least one of the bands.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I almost laughed.

“Oh?” I asked carefully.

“Yes,” Hayley groaned. “But no. Apparently all famous people vanish into the underground after concerts.”

I stared into the coffee cup, thinking that if I told them the truth right now they might actually explode. Margot would scream for sure and Hayley would probably pass out. Neither of them would ever let me live it down.

Or worse…they’d romanticize it. There was nothing romantic about waking up alone in a hotel suite after a man vanished like he was emotionally constipated.

So instead, I shrugged casually and said, “Maybe they just didn’t want to hang out with drunk strangers.”

“That’s rude,” Margot replied immediately.

“Accurate,” I countered.

Hayley pointed at me suddenly. “See, this is why nothing exciting ever happens to you. Your energy is too practical.”

I nearly smiled into my coffee. There was something deeply satisfying about sitting with them and letting them think I’d spent the night at home, alone, in fuzzy socks watching crime documentaries, all while secretly knowing I’d actually spent it tangled up in expensive hotel sheets with the one musician they’d spent hours hoping to meet the night before.

Too bad he was annoying enough to ruin the victory a little. It was also embarrassing to admit that I had been a little hurt by him sneaking out like a ghost in the night.

My body hurt in places that I refused to think about, and the irritation rand incredibly hot over a man I never intended to see again.

Margot sighed dramatically. “One day we’re going to drag you out and something exciting will finally happen to you.”

I smiled slowly before biting the inside of my cheek to hide it.

“If only you knew,” I muttered, but they didn’t hear me.

* tags: @platespaghetti

[coasttocold]

Okay so do we want a part 2? I have an idea for it, but idk if it’s truly something wanted here or if I should just leave it at a one night experience

[mrslumi]

[coasttocold]

Gone at Sunrise

Noah Sebastian x OC Word Count:7.7k Warnings: swearing, smut, use of "slut" unprotected sex. Summary: Zoey is convinced to go to a concert, where she randomly meets Noah and goes back to his hotel room

I didn’t look up from my laptop when the front door slammed against the wall. The noise didn’t even make me flinch. Without even looking up from my laptop I knew who it was, and she always meant trouble.

“Absolutely not,” I said dryly.

Just a few seconds later, Margot appeared around the corner with her phone held high like she was in Willy Wonka when Charlie won the Golden Ticket.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

I could hear the pout in her voice and rolled my eyes.

“You come in like that when you’re about to ruin my evening.”

Hayley scoffed as she made her way into the living room with a bowl of popcorn in her hands.

“Your evenings always consist of tea, sweatpants, and murder documentaries. What’s there to ruin?”

“Those documentaries informative, thank you very much.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “They’re depressing is what they are.”

“They’re fascinating,” I argued!

“Zoey, they make you text us things like, ‘Don’t ever let me be called someone who lights up a room, that’s always the first sign someone is going to get murdered,’” Hayley said exasperatedly.

I finally looked up, unimpressed. “That’s just common sense.”

Margot shoved her phone in my face where an Instagram page was pulled up. It was a black and white photo that was making every attempt to come off as an aesthetic look with bright lights and a stage. Some band was displayed front and center, and it all looked sort of familiar but I couldn’t quite place.

“Concert. Friday. Bad Omens is in town. We already bought tickets.”

I blinked slowly and met their gazes.

“You bought tickets to something on a Friday before asking me?”

“We had faith we could convince you,” Hayley said.

I rolled my eyes and shut my laptop. “You thought you could manipulate me.”

“Correct,” Margot replied in a chipper tone. “Now we’ve reached the persuasion stage.”

I pushed her phone out of my face. “No.”

They both gasped dramatically.

“No?” Hayley repeated like the word itself offended her. “I…people our age are supposed to seek out excitement.”

“I like excitement! Just quietly and when it comes with my couch.”

Margot dropped onto the couch opposite me.

“You work all week and stay home all weekend, Zoey. The most exciting thing to happen to you recently was trying a new sourdough recipe.”

I gasped. “It was a s’mores loaf,” I defended.

Hayley wagged her finger at me.

“This.” She waved wildly. “This is exactly why we’re worried.”

“You guys are so dramatic.”

“You’re twenty-four acting like a retired grandma named Eunice. You’re one step away from knitting a scarf and adopting 15 cats.”

I narrowed my eyes at them.

“I don’t know, Eunice sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“Eunice falls asleep before 8 every night after playing canasta.”

“Living the dream.”

Margot groaned loudly and flopped dramatically to her back on the couch. “You never do anything spontaneous anymore.”

“I went to brunch with you last Sunday.”

“That was scheduled three weeks in advance.”

“And you brought a book,” Hayley added.

“In case conversation died.”

“Okay, Rory Gilmore,” Margot said with a snort.

I grabbed the cushion behind me and hurled it at her. Margot caught it against her chest with a laugh.

“Come on,” Margot changed her tactics to plead her case sincerely. “It’ll be fun. One night. You don’t even have to stay out late after.”

“That’s a lie,” I said immediately.

“Okay, maybe a small lie.” Margot pinched her fingers closely together to show how small her lie was.

I snorted despite myself, and the girls sat up excitedly.

“Oh my god, she’s cracking,” Hayley whispered.

“I’m not cracking.”

“You smiled.”

I really did smile.

“That means nothing.”

“It means everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t even know enough of their songs to enjoy myself.”

“Yes, you do,” Margot argued. “You know all the popular ones.”

“Against my will.”

“And concerts are different,” Hayley said leaning in. “Even if you only know, like, two songs, the energy is insane. Everyone’s screaming and dancing and you’re basically having a spiritual experience with strangers.”

I looked at them in terror.

“That sounds horrifying.”

“It’s healing,” Margot corrected.

I laughed quietly.

Margot pointed at me excitedly.

“There. Right there. That’s the face of a girl who wants to say yes.”

“It’s the face of a girl being bullied in her own home.”

“Pleaaaaaaaaase,” Hayley said, clasping her hands dramatically. “Do it for friendship.”

“No.”

“For memories.”

“No.”

“For hot mysterious men who might be backstage.”

I paused and my interest piqued.

Margot lunged forward instantly. “Ah-Ha!”

“That pause was loud as hell,” Hayley agreed.

“There was no pause.”

“There was absolutely a pause,” Margot said. “You’re intrigued.”

I rolled my eyes again. “I am not intrigued by imaginary backstage men.”

“Not imaginary,” Hayley corrected. “Statistically there will be at least one emotionally unavailable guy with tattoos and excellent bone structure.”

“Which is exactly your type,” Margot added.

“I don’t have a type,” I muttered.

“You absolutely do. You like men who look like they’d ruin your life but might apologize politely afterward.”

I stared at them in horror for a second. “You two need hobbies.”

“You’re our hobby,” Hayley said happily.

“That explains a lot.”

Margot softened, nudging me with her elbow. “Come with us. Please? We miss fun Zoey.”

“I’m fun!”

Hayley muttered, “Debatable.”

Margot sat up quickly. “That’s it. You’re coming.”

“I didn’t say yes,” I protested.

“You didn’t say no this time either,” Hayley pointed out smugly.

I sighed, already regretting this. I pointed at them.

“If I go, we are not staying out until two in the morning.”

The silence that followed was loud.

“Margot…”

“We’ll see how the night goes.”

“No.”

“You’re so rigid for someone on the brink of major personal growth.”

I leaned forward. “I hate both of you.”

Margot screamed. “THAT’S A YES.”

“It is not-”

Hayley was already grabbing her phone and Margot was crowding her as they scrolled. “I call dibs on picking your outfit.”

I leaned back against the cushions and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I can dress myself.”

Margot giggled, briefly glancing at me.

“Respectfully,” she said not looking up from where she was huddled with Hayley. “History seems to suggests otherwise.”

I groaned as both of them fell into each other and laughed at my expense. I sighed as a small smile lit up my face, a tiny part of me was actually looking forward to this.

By the third song, I realized I had been so extremely wrong about how the night would go.

The bass pounded through the stadium, shaking the ground beneath me. It was heavy enough to rearrange my heartbeat. An insane light show was flashing across the room over thousands of screaming faces while Margot gripped my cheeks and shouted lyrics into my ear, like the band wasn’t performing right in front of us and doing it ten times better than her.

“ARE YOU HAVING FUN YET?”

I was laughing too hard to answer, which was answer enough.

By the fifth song, I started singing along to every chorus even though I barely knew the words. By the seventh, I stopped caring about what I looked like and started jumping around with the crowd while Hayley recorded blurry videos between us and the band, videos that I knew were destined to never be watched again, but that was okay.

Everything in the room felt loud and electric and had a strangely freeing vibe to it.

I didn’t have to worry about emails or deadlines. No looming projects or company politics to navigate. As soon as the music started thumping…it all melted away to music that vibrated through my bones. It provided me with the dizzy rush of being surrounded by people who all loved the same thing at the same time.

At one point Hayley grabbed my shoulders dramatically. “I need you to know this is the most personality you’ve shown in six months.”

“Oh my god,” I yelled back over the music, breathless. “Shut up.”

“No seriously, you look alive.”

I rolled my eyes but I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.

I couldn’t deny it though, I did finally feel alive for the first time in…who knows. At the end of the concert, my throat hurt from singing and my feet ached in the best way. The arena lights brightened slowly as the final song ended. I watched as thousands of people immediately rushed toward the exits in chaotic wave, but I just stood there watching them go, as my body kept buzzing.

“That was insane,” Hayley said, still shouting even though the music had stopped.

“I told you!” Margot looped an arm through hers. “I knew it would be a spiritual experience.”

I laughed. “Okay, fine. It was fun.” I shrugged.

They froze dramatically and their mouths dropped open.

“Wait,” Hayley said. She cupped her hand around her ear. “Can everyone hear that? I swear my ears might be broken.”

Margot pressed a hand to her chest. “Was that Zoey admitting we were right?”

I bumped her with my shoulder playfully.

“Don’t ruin it.”

The rush of people from the crowd carried us at a snails pace out of the stadium and slowly toward the street outside. The cold air hit my flushed skin causing my bare arms to shiver.

Cars were everywhere outside the venue, backed up for miles and not moving an inch. Loud music spilled from their open windows. I watched as groups of people crowded around us on the sidewalks, yelling over the noise as they tried to figure out where to go next or what direction to go.

Margot stopped suddenly and her eyes lit up before she clapped once. “Okay. Drinks.”

I blinked slowly. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

“There’s this bar like ten minutes away,” Hayley added. “Apparently, like, half the afterparty crowd goes there.”

I immediately shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Margot groaned. “The night’s still young.”

“The night is over,” I corrected. “My social battery has flatlined. I want my sweatpants and my bed immediately.”

Hayley groaned. “You’re truly an eighty year old, Zo.”

“And proud.”

Hayley pulled her phone from her pocket. “Wait times are crazy right now anyway. It’ll probably take forever to get a ride home.”

“Exactly,” I said. “All the more reason for me to call one now.”

Margot narrowed her eyes at me. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

I thought longingly of the idea of my apartment. My skincare routine. Silence. Peace.

“Positive.”

Hayley sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“I was fun for more than three consecutive hours. That’s enough growth for one evening.”

Margot laughed. “Okay, grandma. We’ll go without you.”

I saluted weakly. “Have fun making bad decisions.”

“That’s the plan.”

The girls gave me a quick hug and I watched them disappear back into the moving crowd, already debating shots and playlists and whether they could somehow get into an afterparty they absolutely weren’t invited to. Then I was alone and the immediate absence of them felt weirdly abrupt. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and went to the rideshare app.

Nearby drivers: unavailable. Estimated wait time: 58 minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I went to another.

Fifty-one minutes.

I watched as hundreds of people crowded the pickup zones while they were searching for their rides in the mayhem. Someone jostled me as they walked by. A group of guys nearby screamed the chorus of one last song like they had been on stage and a car horn broke through the noise with a piercing sound.

I let out a long breath. Nope. Absolutely not. I could not do this. I figured there had to be a better pickup spot somewhere away from the chaos. I pushed my shoulders back and pulled my jacket tighter around me before I stepped away from the venue and started walking.

My body relaxed as the noise faded behind me gradually with each block. When I got a few blocks away, the crowds thinned and I could breathe a little easier as it opened up. My body still pulsed from the arena, but here I started to feel removed from the night, like it was another world entirely.

As I stopped outside a brightly lit 7 Eleven, I checked the app again.

Wait time: 18 minutes.

“Oh thank god,” I muttered before stuffing my phone in my back pocket again. “Much better.”

I leaned against the brick wall and waited, wiggling my toes in my boots. The adrenaline from the concert was finally beginning to wear off, leaving behind warm exhaustion that was settling into my bones.

Worth it, though. Annoyingly worth it.

I wouldn’t tell the girls though.

I smiled a little to myself as I settled in and pulled my phone out again, scrolling to my photos app and pulling up blurry photos and videos from the night.

“You look way too happy to be standing alone in the middle of the city after midnight,” a male voice nearby said casually.

I startled and nearly dropped my phone. I looked around wildly before I spotted man standing a few feet away beneath the glow of a storefront. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a dark hoodie and his hoodie was pulled up tightly around his face. It could’ve been normal enough. Except it was easy to recognize him from the neck tattoos that were peeking out. My brain short circuited as I processed who was standing there.

It was Noah Sebastian. The lead singer oh the headlining band and owner of the voice that had spent the last three hours vibrating through my bones, with a voice that just lit my body on fire. He looked behind himself first, like he was checking whether anyone had followed him, before looking back at me and then he sighed.

“Ah,” he said flatly. “There it is.”

I blinked. “There what is?”

“The recognition.” He pointed vaguely at my face. “You’ve got the exact same expression as everyone else.”

I tried to school my face and shrugged. “I think my expression is pretty reasonable considering you were just onstage in front of twenty thousand people.”

“Technically twenty three.”

I let out a small laugh. “That’s somehow worse.”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“So…” he started. “You know who I am.” I rolled my eyes. “But who are you?”

I tilted my head and stared at him, before I said, “Zoey.”

“Zoey,” he repeated, my name rolling off his tongue smoothly.

Up close, he was even more unfairly attractive than he had been under the stage lights. He was much taller than I expected too. I could see the exhaustion weighing him down, though. He had shadows beneath his eyes and his damp hair peeked from the hood of his sweatshirt.

“You’re really bad at sneaking around,” I informed him.

“I know,” he muttered. “I underestimated how many people linger outside after shows.”

“So what are you doing over here?”

“Hiding from fans.”

I looked around the nearly empty street.

“Well.” I shrugged. “You did a great job of hiding.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes flickered down toward the phone I held tightly. “You waiting for someone?”

“An Uber.”

“At midnight?”

I laughed. “…That’s usually how Ubers work.”

He ignored me. “Where are your friends?”

“Who said I came with friends?” He just looked at me and I shrugged. “They abandoned me for alcohol and poor decisions.”

“Nice.”

“They seemed excited about it.”

Noah frowned slightly when I glanced back at my phone for an update on my ride.

“How long?”

“Twelve minutes.”

“Twelve?” His eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to be standing out here alone for twelve minutes?”

“Yes?” I asked slowly.

“No.”

I blinked twice. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “That’s dangerous.”

I actually laughed.

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re literally a stranger.”

“Exactly,” he said immediately as he gestured around us, like that proved his point.

I just stared at him.

“You do hear how insane you sound, right?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he shrugged, his hands moving to his hoodie pockets. “Probably.”

“You’re warning me about strange men while being a strange man...”

“Difference is I’m a familiar strange man. Arguably even a famous strange man.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“It should be.”

I shook my head and fought back a smile.

“You know statistically speaking,” I said, “you’re significantly more dangerous than the average person.”

“Ouch.” His hands went to his chest mockingly.

“You could absolutely murder me.”

“I could,” he admitted softly. “But I won’t.”

“Very comforting.”

He leaned casually against the wall, close enough now that I caught traces of soap and sweat and an expensive cologne that blended into the crisp, chilly night air.

“Well,” he said, “Good news for you. I’m staying here until your ride gets here.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I already decided I am.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Usually only when pretty women are standing alone in sketchy side streets after midnight.”

I ignored the compliment. “This isn’t sketchy.”

A second passed. Somewhere in the distance glass shattered followed by someone yelling incoherently. Noah looked pointedly at me.

“…Okay,” I admitted. “Slightly sketchy.”

“Thank you.”

I should’ve been uncomfortable. There was a stranger lingering with me at night and after all the murder documentaries I watched, it should’ve set off alarm bells. Instead, weirdly, I felt calmer. Maybe it was because he looked more tired than threatening or because he wasn’t performing anymore. There was no stage persona, no confidence enhanced by the spotlight. Here in the dead of night, he was just a guy in a hoodie leaning against a brick wall while trying not to get recognized.

Or maybe I was calm because every time someone walked too close, he subtly shifted closer to me like it was instinct to reach for me.

“Do you always rescue random women outside your concerts?” I asked.

“No. Usually my security handles it.”

“Oh, so this is beneath you?”

“Deeply.”

I threw my head back and let out a loud laugh before I could stop myself. Noah glanced at me sideways and smiled like he was happy with the feat.

“You had fun tonight,” he said. He didn’t say it like it was a question.

I looked down at my phone shyly. “I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Mhmmmm.”

“My friends forced me to come.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you knew every chorus.”

“I knew some choruses.”

“You were singing pretty confidently for ‘some.’”

I felt my cheeks heat and my body tense.

“Oh my god,” I muttered in horror. “You could see people from up there?”

“Not really.” His grin widened. “But now I’m deciding you were aggressively singing all of my songs.”

I groaned “This is humiliating.”

“I think it’s cute.”

The word landed heavier in the air around us than it should have. I looked away first. This was dangerous but not in a physical way. It was dangerous in the way it made me feel.  My phone buzzed suddenly with the alert that the driver was arriving in two minutes.

I straightened slightly. “Well, it looks like your shift as neighborhood watch is over.”

“How tragic.” Noah grinned.

Moments later, headlights rounded the corner and the rideshare sticker glowed faintly in the windshield. I stepped forward automatically as the relief hit me at the thought of my warm bed and sweatpants. A nice hot shower followed by silence. It was going to be perfect.

The car pulled to the curb, and I reached for the door handle and opened it. I stopped when Noah cleared his throat.

“Or…”

I turned.

He was watching me with entirely too much confidence for a man standing in a dark hoodie on a random sidewalk outside of a convenience store.

“Or?” I repeated carefully.

He lifted his shoulder.

“You could come back to my hotel instead.”

He was being so straightforward, it was coming across as cocky. Like he already knew the answer. Maybe like he did this all the time.

I stared at him.

“You cannot actually say things like that to women.”

Noah shrugged. “It seems like I just did.”

I scoffed. “That’s insane behavior.”

“You’re thinking about it.” He quirked a brow at me.

I groaned because unfortunately, he was right. He stepped closer to me, not enough to crowd me or cause panic to rise, but just enough that I could feel the heat of him against the cold night air.

“No expectations,” he said, voice lower now. “You can say no. Get in the car, go home and never see me again.”

The driver glanced impatiently at us

I should leave. Objectively, absolutely, unquestionably leave. This is a stupid idea to entertain.

Instead, I surprised myself and asked, “Do you always invite strangers back to your hotel?”

Noah’s mouth deviously curled.

“Only the ones who almost didn’t come to the concert.”

God. That stupidly charming answer made me weak. I laughed under my breath at myself. Then with a sudden burst of confidence, before I could think too hard about it, I pushed the car door shut.

The driver rolled down his window immediately and grunted. “You getting in or what?”

Every murder documentary I’d ever watched was practically screaming at me right now for my actions. This was textbook getting murdered decision making. It was the kind of choice that got your driver’s license photo flashing across a Netflix screen while a detective said, “She trusted the wrong person.”

But honestly? Margot and Hayley already thought I was one blanket away from becoming a full time retirement home resident. And Noah was standing there in front of me, looking so unfairly hot. I looked at it like I had the chance to do something wildly out of character for once in my painfully organized life.

“Nope,” I said breathlessly as I watched Noah lick his lips.

I turned back toward Noah instead.

The elevator doors closed with a quiet ding and Noah leaned his back against the wall of the car. I stood across from him with my arms crossed at my hips, trying my damnedest to pretend I wasn’t staring at his mouth every chance I got.

“Do you always invite strangers back to your hotel,” I finally asked, “or should I feel special?”

Noah’s mouth lifted at the corners, and he seemed to relax further into the wall. “This you fishing for validation?”

I rolled my eyes, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fishing for honesty.”

He pushed off the wall, casually stepping closer to me, just far enough away to not touch me, but enough to capture my attention. With Noah so close, it made the elevator somehow seem smaller now and I felt the temperature increase. Whatever cologne he was wearing was sharp and added to the warmth surrounding us and I was amazed that I could still smell it under the fading smoke and sweat from the venue. It was bold and added to the energy in the elevator, the spicy notes of it made my stomach tighten.

Noah inched closer to me and his eyes darted to my lips before going back to my eyes. His hand softly brushed against mine, just barely that I thought I imagined it and the contact made me blush.

“Honestly, Zoey? You looked completely unimpressed when I saw you tonight.”

I tried to stay calm, even though with him so close my pulse jumped. I tried to go for casual with my next words.

“You know, for someone who was worshipped by twenty something thousand people tonight, you’re not nearly as charming offstage as you think you are.”

Noah let out a loud laugh and took a step back, but not before his eyes scanned me from head to toe, stopping briefly at my chest that had started to move faster with my pulse.

“And yet, you still came back to my hotel with me,” he pointed out softly.

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re surprisingly annoying in person,” I muttered.

“You’re the one trying really hard not to look at me like you want me,” Noah said casually, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs at his ankle.

My breath caught briefly and Noah definitely noticed. He gave me a quiet grin that was missing the cockiness from early, but the danger behind it was thick.

I cocked my head and stepped closer to him. “You’re flirting with me like someone who’s never been told ‘no’.”

His eyes darkened and his attention became sharp as he leaned forward to grasp my hips strongly. The heat of his hands was electric. “Maybe I just haven’t heard you say it yet.”

The silence was thick enough to choke on, but I couldn’t look away from him. When the elevator stuttered gently as it slowed to his floor, my hands gripped his biceps at the movement. The air was thick and heady around us, the kind that made every look linger a little too long and every joke started to sound like foreplay. Noah’s thumbs found their way under my shirt, and he ran the calloused pads of them against my skin slowly and deliberately, causing me to shiver and the air thickened. I felt like at any second, I was one breath away from losing every ounce of my control.

We didn’t say anything, we just stood there staring at each other as our breaths washed over us, just close enough that I felt like if I moved one inch forward, I would ruin the little bit of fragile restraint I still had left.

We barely made it out of the elevator without an indecent exposure charge. In the hallway, our lips met in a rush of lips and heat and Noah pushed me roughly against the wall next to his door, the bite of his hips pressing into mine making me moan softly. Noah softly laughed.

Noah struggled with the key for the door as I pushed myself closer to him, rubbing my lower half  against his pelvis and he groaned before finally pushing it open. He pushed the door open and pulled me inside behind him, before letting it slam behind us. Noah was ripping my clothes from my body quickly, his lips exploring every inch of my skin with every piece that disappeared. I fought with his belt as I tried to remove his pants, his mouth distracting me before I finally got them off. Instead of carefully unbuttoning his shirt, Noah just slid it over his shoulders and tossed it aside.

I sunk to my knees and looked up at Noah from under my eyelashes, and the heat there spurred me on. I slipped his boxers off his hips and he kicked them away. I darted my tongue out to lick the seam of his tip and Noah, not expecting it, nearly fell forward before using my hair to hold himself up. He tugged tightly, causing me to moan as I wrapped my lips around his tip and hollowed out my cheeks.

Noah groaned before he bucked his hips forward, hitting the back of my throat and causing me to gag in shock. I looked up from the ground and saw him smirking at me. It was hot, but I was stubborn. I wrapped my hand around his base and started stroking him in time with my mouth. I cupped my breast and tweaked my nipple, causing me to gasp and Noah to sink further into my throat, before trailing my fingers down to my clit where I circled it carefully several times. My fingers played with the mess I was making. Noah bucked into me rougher and I fought a smirk around his girth.

With my slick on my finger, I moved to cup his balls with the hand that wasn’t pumping him. I used the finger that held my desire to graze his perineum and the sound Noah made was obscene.

Tears were streaming down my face as Noah fucked my throat and I took it, groaning around his cock as he hit the back of my throat. I swallowed, taking him further down my throat which caused Noah to gasp and nearly fall over me. He tightened his grip on my hair, pulling my mouth from his cock. He looked down at me dazedly, his thumbs swiping away the tears that had spilled.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly. “That felt so fucking good.” He pushed some fallen hair behind my ear and I looked away, embarrassed by his praise. “Don’t hide from me, not when your mouth feels that fucking good.”

I blushed but reached up to bring his mouth to mine and he kissed me back with fervor, ignoring the fact that I had just had him in my mouth, though he hadn’t finished.

Noah pulled away from me on a groan.

“I can’t wait to taste every inch of your body until I know your body better than you do,” Noah groaned as I cupped his balls and gave a gentle squeeze, causing his eyes to roll to the back of his head.

The pad of his fingers trailed down my neck and over my collarbone. I gasped and Noah smirked at the goosebumps that bloomed across my skin. Noah’s hand trailed back up and he gripped my neck, causing me to gasp and my breath to catch painfully in the back of my throat. He smirked at how breathless I was.

“Oh, I see. You like how my hand feels around your neck, hmmm? Such a predictable slut,” Noah groaned as his tongue darted out and swiped the seam of my lips as he squeezed a little rougher.

Normally I’d rage the moment a man said those words to me, but when Noah did…I felt like I was floating. He started experimenting with pressure, switching the way he held my neck in his hands just to see which movement would make me arch into his touch more.

Noah used his tongue to trace down my throat while his free hand slid between my legs. I felt my core flutter against his palm.

“What d’ya need, baby? My fingers? How about my tongue?” Noah lightly ran the back of his palm up my thighs, the rough feel of his knuckles electrifying my skin, and he brushed them right over my panty covered core. “Been wanting this, you, all night.” He groaned. “Bet you can’t stop thinking about how my mouth would feel right here?” His finger brushed the damp spot on my underwear. “C’mon, beg for it.” Noah groaned as I sought out friction from his body, whimpering at not finding relief.

His fingers dip beneath the fabric, finally sinking his fingers inside of me and I arched into his touch. I gasped as he settled his fingers inside my heated core.

“You’re so tight and responsive.” He groaned. “You’re stretching so pretty for me. This what you wanted, this how you like it?” His thumb found my clit and began to rub slow circles as I started to near my breaking point. But Noah didn’t let me chase it, instead he abruptly stopped and pulled his fingers from me, causing me to whine in protest.

Noah smirked as he carefully placed his hands on my hips and guided me backward to the bed, my knees hitting the edge and he carefully laid me down before he crawled over me, his hips pinning mine to the bed. I could feel his hardened cock graze my clit, causing me to whimper.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re feeling too much, aren’t you?” He mocked me. I whined and tried to arch my hips into him, needing some sort of friction to find relief.

I cried out as Noah sunk into me, my legs falling open as the pain from him stretching me settled in and had me aching desperately. I tossed my head back, my eyes closed, as sounds I had never made before escaped me as the sounds of our pleasure filled the room.

“I bet you didn’t know you could make that sound.” I could hear the cockiness in his tone as his hips snapped against mine, pushing me further and further into the hotel sheets.

My eyes fluttered shut and my breathing grew ragged. My core tightened around Noah’s length and I held him there, my legs trembling as my core clenched with every stroke.

Noah gazed down at me and groaned, “God, you’re loving this, aren’t you?”

I didn’t say anything, knowing he didn’t actually expect a response.

“You’re desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

I cried out as his tip slipped over the bundle of nerves on my inner walls, squeezing him tightly as my legs wrapped around his hips tighter and I pulled him closer, our sweat causing us to stick but neither of us cared.

Desperate sounds escaped me as Noah continued to fuck into me, the pain of each stroke morphing into pleasure that had the edges of my vision blurring. I was frantic, desperate for relief and somehow, I knew it could only come from Noah.

Noah knew exactly what he was doing, how to wring every ounce of pleasure from me, as his strokes continued evenly, sometimes slowing down enough to tease me but never enough to lose momentum. My pleasure was soaking the sheets below, and I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Please,” I cried out. “Please Noah.” I was desperate, chasing relief from Noah. I reached for him, trying to find purchase on his shoulders.

He groaned. “Please what?” Noah used one hand to remove my hands and pinned them above me, stretching my body further. He leaned on the forearm of his other, holding himself off me just enough.

“I need to cum,” I cried out.

Noah said nothing, just rutted into me deeper and harder. The pain adding to the pleasure each time. He reached down between us after releasing my hands and laid his palm flat against my stomach before using the pad of his thumb to circle my clit at the same time he applied pressure, causing his tip to painfully brush against my walls. It felt so good, my cries grew louder and it just encouraged him further before we both exploded, stars dancing behind my eyes.

Noah collapsed on top of me, burying his nose in my neck as he caught his breath. When he pulled away, he looked down at me carefully before reaching out to swipe some fallen tears from my cheeks.

“Don’t hide,” he muttered when I tried to turn away. He gripped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my attention on him. Noah just stared and it was unnerving, before he leaned down and softly kissed my nose as he carefully pulled out.

I whimpered at the loss of him, which caused another smirk to dance across his face. I rolled my eyes and threw the pillow from behind me at him.

Noah stood at the end of the bed, staring at me in quiet observation. I tilted my head, ready to ask him what had his attention, before he spoke up.

“So…room service?”

I giggled and nodded my head.

The first thing I noticed when waking up was the silence. The second thing I noticed was that Noah’s side of the bed was empty.

Not recently empty either.

The sheets were cold and the pillow was missing an impression of his body having been there. There was no mysterious man lingering dramatically by the window like there would have been in the movies. He was just…gone and I was alone, the sheet pulled up to my chin. I squinted against the sunlight spearing through the ridiculously expensive curtains and groaned into the pillow.

“Oh, cool,” I muttered to myself as I started cataloging where all my clothes had ended up. “Love that.”

For one deeply humiliating second, I actually looked around the suite like he might magically appear, maybe carrying coffee or something. There was Nothing. No note. No text. No number. Not even a stupid scribbled had fun last night :) on hotel stationery.

I scoffed and I sat up slowly and clutched the sheet tighter to me as memories from last night came back in sharp, dangerous flashes.

The brush of his lips as he laughed against my neck. Most importantly, the absolutely criminal things he’d whispered in my ear in the middle of the night as he took me for the second and third times.

And then apparently… Poof. He was gone. I stared around the empty room in disbelief.

“Wow,” I said aloud. “Men really do think they’re Godly after one mildly good hookup.”

At least he didn’t murder me. I guess he got points for that, technically. My phone sat charging on the nightstand and I rushed for it. No messages. Not from Noah anyway.

Margot: ARE YOU ALIVE???

Hayley: Did grandma make it home safe???

Margot: We met a man named Bullet. Still unsure if that was his real name.

I snorted despite myself before tossing the phone back down.

Okay.

Fine.

Whatever.

It wasn’t like I had expected some grand romance, I wasn’t insane or delusional. Last night had been impulsive and hot and…absolutely nowhere near my normal behavior.

But leaving without a word?

That was irritating on principle.

Like, congratulations on being hot and mysterious, Noah. Revolutionary concept. Very original of you.

I climbed out of bed, immediately regretting every life choice as soreness hit muscles I had never known existed.

“Oh my god,” I hissed.

Worth it. I groaned. Annoyingly worth it.

I spotted my jeans draped across the floor near the couch and marched over to grab it with as much dignity as someone wearing yesterday’s makeup and no bra could muster. I scanned the room for my underwear and found them under the bed. Next, I found my top near the bathroom.

I shook my head.

The hotel suite itself was obnoxiously beautiful too, which somehow made everything worse.

I narrowed my eyes at the skyline outside the floor to ceiling windows.

“Hope your tour bus explodes,” I muttered and then paused.

Not literally.

Just, like…maybe a flat tire.

I slowly put my clothes on, and something caught my eye near the table by the door.

I paused. It was a room service receipt. After a beat, I immediately lunged for it with entirely too much hope.

It was blank. Just a simple signature. No number. No message. No “call me.”

Not even a smiley face.

I started at it before I laughed once in disbelief.

“Actually incredible,” I said. “What a level of male audacity that future generations will study academically.”

By the time I left the hotel room twenty minutes later, the irritation was simmering nicely beneath my bone deep exhaustion. I had fully decided Noah Sebastian was deeply annoying.

Hot? Unfortunately.

Talented? Against my will.

Good in bed? Extremely.

But now I found him annoying enough that I would absolutely pretend not to care if I ever saw him again.

Which she probably wouldn’t. And honestly? Good. Fantastic, even. I definitely did not need to spend another second thinking about the cocky lead singer who picked me up on a sidewalk and disappeared before sunrise like he was legally obligated to avoid emotional attachment.

By noon, I was still irritated. Not a normal irritated either, but a very specific type of irritated. The kind that sat sharp and twitchy under my skin while I cleaned the kitchen for absolutely no reason other than to get rid of this restless feeling. Noah had left sometime before sunrise without a single word, and somehow that fact kept replaying in my head like it was a personal attack.

Not because I cared. Obviously.

It was the principle.

If you were going to fuck someone’s back out of alignment and then disappear into the night, the least you could do was leave a note. There were standards in society, after all. Noah leaving without so much as a goodbye was irritating me in a way that felt deeply wrong when I technically only knew him for a few hours, which was it’s own kind of annoying.

It wasn’t like I had wanted emotional attachment, but an ounce of basic human decency would have been nice. Something other than disappearing into the early hours of the morning while I was zonked out in his bed.

I was angrily reorganizing my coffee pods for the second time when a pounding on my door interrupted.

“Oh my god,” Margot yelled from outside. “Open up.”

I sighed. I was too tired for this.

I yanked the door open.

Hayley took one look at me and burst out laughing.

“WOW,” she was doubled over in laughter, her hands on her knees.

I rolled my eyes. I was wearing leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and sunglasses despite being indoors.

Margot gasped dramatically. “She looks exactly how I imagine Victorian women looked before dying of tuberculosis.”

“I’m alive,” I muttered, already walking away and back toward the kitchen.

“Barely,” Hayley snorted before shutting the door.

“Good morning to you, too.” I rolled my eyes.

The two of them had the chaotic energy of people who had barely slept the night before but accessorized with iced coffees in hand. Margot handed me one.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

Hayley collapsed onto the couch face first. “I’m never drinking again.”

Margot followed immediately after, flopping onto her back dramatically. “Liar.”

“Correct.”

I leaned against the counter suspiciously. “Why are you both here?”

“To debrief you.”

“To discuss the tragedy of you abandoning us,” Margot added.

I took a slow sip of coffee. “I seem to remember being abandoned first.”

“You wanted to go home.”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Like a responsible adult.”

“Boooo,” Hayley groaned into the cushion.

Margot barely sat up and pointed accusingly at me. “You missed so much.”

I rolled my eyes. “I doubt that.”

“We ended up at this rooftop bar with, like, thirty people from the concert.”

I hummed disinterested.

“And apparently,” Hayley continued dramatically, sitting up now, “the band sometimes goes there afterward.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Margot narrowed her eyes instantly. “Why did you react like that?”

I coughed once. “Wrong pipe.”

“Mhmmmm.”

Hayley started spiraling before she even launched into her story. “We were there for HOURS, ZOEY. HOURS. And nothing.”

“Devastating.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I said sweetly, “still the only one here without a hangover.”

“Worth it,” Hayley muttered.

“We stayed there forever hoping we’d run into somebody.”. Especially Noah,” Margot sighed. “God, that man is so criminally  attractive.”

I took another careful sip of coffee and stared at the wall.

“He really is,” Hayley agreed solemnly. “Like weirdly attractive. It makes me so angry.”

You have no idea, I thought bitterly. I couldn’t look at them in fear of caving.

Margot groaned dramatically. “Can you imagine hooking up with someone like that?”

Now the coffee almost went up my nose.

Hayley squinted at me. “Why do you keep malfunctioning?”

“Because you guys are weird.”

Margot smirked suddenly. “Oh my god. Wait.”

I froze.

“You met someone last night,” she accused.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That was too fast,” Hayley said immediately.

“Suspiciously fast,” Margot agreed as they looked at each other.

I rolled my eyes. “You two think every man who says hello to me is my soulmate.”

“Not a soulmate,” Hayley corrected. “Just a temporary bad decision.”

I snorted despite myself and turned toward the kitchen before either of them could study my face too long.

Because unfortunately…Thinking about Noah still came with flashes of his hands and our mouths meeting with low and lazy grins that were deeply unhelpful against my current rage.

I could still feel his hands gripping my waist, the bruises still there as a reminder. When it was quiet just long enough, I could still hear his stupid cocky voice whispering obscenities in my ear. But most of all…I could still remember waking up alone in a hotel bed.

The irritation flared up inside my chest fresh and hot.

Men truly had the communications skills of houseplants.

I refused to give him even one ounce of emotional satisfaction. Absolutely not. That man did not deserve my acknowledgment.

“Seriously though,” Margot continued, oblivious, “We were convinced we’d run into at least one of the bands.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I almost laughed.

“Oh?” I asked carefully.

“Yes,” Hayley groaned. “But no. Apparently all famous people vanish into the underground after concerts.”

I stared into the coffee cup, thinking that if I told them the truth right now they might actually explode. Margot would scream for sure and Hayley would probably pass out. Neither of them would ever let me live it down.

Or worse…they’d romanticize it. There was nothing romantic about waking up alone in a hotel suite after a man vanished like he was emotionally constipated.

So instead, I shrugged casually and said, “Maybe they just didn’t want to hang out with drunk strangers.”

“That’s rude,” Margot replied immediately.

“Accurate,” I countered.

Hayley pointed at me suddenly. “See, this is why nothing exciting ever happens to you. Your energy is too practical.”

I nearly smiled into my coffee. There was something deeply satisfying about sitting with them and letting them think I’d spent the night at home, alone, in fuzzy socks watching crime documentaries, all while secretly knowing I’d actually spent it tangled up in expensive hotel sheets with the one musician they’d spent hours hoping to meet the night before.

Too bad he was annoying enough to ruin the victory a little. It was also embarrassing to admit that I had been a little hurt by him sneaking out like a ghost in the night.

My body hurt in places that I refused to think about, and the irritation rand incredibly hot over a man I never intended to see again.

Margot sighed dramatically. “One day we’re going to drag you out and something exciting will finally happen to you.”

I smiled slowly before biting the inside of my cheek to hide it.

“If only you knew,” I muttered, but they didn’t hear me.

* tags: @platespaghetti

[writingdose]

writers, you can and should be proud of your fic even if you personally are not satisfied with it. because even if you think it's "not good", you can be proud of the fact that you wrote it and it's something you created. you can be proud of the fact it's not ai.

repeat after me, it's something you put your soul and dedication in — and that's something ai could never achieve.

[basicash]

BABY, I’M DRUNK

Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of marijuana use, Joe is a part of the sassy man apocalypse, fluff, angst (unserious), mention of sex (no smut)

a/n: This one has been in the works for a while but we all know the vibes have been atrocious. BUT, I’m on this site to have fun and this was so fun to write! I hope you have fun reading it! Let me know what you think <3

Thank you @coasttocold for this idea & for hyping me up as always. I hope I did it justice! (and sorry for the wait hehe)

Joe’s default on a night out with you is to be the responsible one, to let you have a good time, to get you home unscathed. Sometimes he’ll nurse a single drink for the entire night, other times he’ll have one or two before he switches to Sprite. Either way, he’s in charge of the logistics. He’s driving, or calling a ride if necessary, he’s making sure you drink some water, have a snack, take a couple of Advil, and wash your face before you crash for the night.

All that to say, when you told Joe to let loose tonight, you’d meant it. He works hard, takes himself and his career seriously. He deserves to have some fun when, and if, his schedule allows. You’d expected him to have a few tequila sodas, maybe break out the edibles or smoke a cigar if he felt the urge, and kick back with his friends for a few hours. Lowkey. Chill. His idea of a good time.

Tonight, however, he decided to have a different kind of good time. You noticed the shift between drink three and four. His posture changed from relaxed to engaged, elbows braced against his knees as he leaned into the crowd, and he started chiming into the conversations around him instead of just listening.

Good, you thought. He’s smiling and laughing, free and loose in a way that you only get to see a few times a year, if you’re lucky.

That’s when the shots came out. One of the guys had ordered a round, and the waiter emerged with a tray full of tequila in tiny glasses with salted rims and a bowl full of perfectly sliced limes a few minutes later. He floated through your group with ease, hands reaching to grab a glass and a wedge as they passed. When the tray reached Joe, you expected him to decline with a shake of his head, a pursing of his lips, a quiet ‘no thanks’. Instead, you watched as he accepted the offering, throwing the shot back and sucking the lime like he’d done it a thousand times before. In reality, you think, this may be the first time you’ve ever seen him take one.

He must have felt you looking, his eyes flashed to yours, obviously noting your surprise. His head tilted slightly to one side, shoulders coming up in an almost imperceptible shrug. You just shot him a smile, mirroring his shrug before turning your attention back to the conversation around you.

But, the problem with shots is that once they start flowing, they can be hard to stop. Two more trays full made their rounds over the next couple of hours and, much to your surprise, Joe didn’t let those pass him up either. In fact, you watched as he called the waiter over, hand thrown casually in the air, and requested another round on him. By the time midnight rolled around, you were sure that he’d drank more tonight than he had in the entirety of your relationship. He was still smiling, still laughing, but his eyes were beginning to glaze over, voice slurring as it traveled across the bar. He was loud, animated, attracting attention that would make his sober self cringe.

So, you decided to do what he usually does when the night gets away from you. You flashed the car keys at him across room, nodding toward the door when his eyes met your own.

That’s how you ended up here, walking down the sidewalk with a very pouty Joe a few feet ahead of you.

“Joey, you’re being dramatic.”

“No ‘m not. You’re bein’ mean.”

“Mean? I’m being mean? What, are you five?”

“See!” he shoots back, head whipping around to glare at you. “Mean.”

“Alright, alright. How am I being mean?”

“You told me to have fun tonight and now you’re makin’ me leave,” he whines. As if he hadn’t told everyone goodbye and left the bar of his own volition.

“Okay, Joe. One, I’m not making you do anything. Nobody makes you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s impossible. And two, the guys were dangerously close to talking you into singing some Doja Cat song on karaoke. This is for your own good.”

You think you hear him grumble something along the lines of “whatever”, but between his clipped tone and still-present slurring, you can’t be sure.

The remainder of the walk to your car is mostly silent, apart from the clacking of your heels and scuffing of his shoes, that he’s not picking up quite enough with each step, against the pavement. You dig in your purse as you approach the shiny black sedan, fingers clutching the key fob as you reach the drivers side.

But, before your thumb can find the button to unlock it, Joe’s hand grabs the passenger door handle and yanks hard. When it doesn’t open, he lets out a deep sigh. You double tap the button, but he tries the handle again too soon, resulting in a high pitched beeping noise and the car remaining locked. The sigh is from your own mouth now.

Again, you press the button. He yanks the handle. Beeeeep! Button. Handle. Button. Handle. More beeping. More sighing.

“Joe! Can you just give me a second to unlock the car?”

He puts both of his hands up dramatically, stumbling slightly as he takes an exaggerated step back.

You breathe a sigh of relief when the next press of your thumb against the key fob has its indented result. You toss your purse behind the drivers seat before sitting and realizing you’ll need to make some adjustments. You’re sure the sight would be rather comical if the man next to you wasn’t doing everything in his power to test your patience. Your feet don’t even come close to reaching the pedals, and the steering wheel obstructs your view out of the windshield.

While you set to work messing with the levers on the side of the car seat, it becomes obvious that Joe has already made himself comfortable on the passenger side. He’s slouching, his signature manspread only limited by the confines of the vehicle you’re in. He has one elbow braced against the door, and the other taking up the whole center console. His focus is on his lap, where his phone screen illuminates his face. He scrolls through the nonsensical reels that make up his FYP, phone on full volume.

He’s broken out of his trance when you finally get your seat into position and throw the car in reverse. He locks his phone and tosses it into the cup holder before crossing his arms tight against his chest, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as he sinks further into the seat. It’s reminiscent of a sulking toddler who just remembered they’re supposed to be mad at you, but can’t quite recall what for.

You take the bait though, because of course you do.

“What, Joe? Don’t just sit there huffing and puffing. Spit it out.”

“Jus’ don’t understand why we’re rushin’ home all of a sudden.”

“If we don’t go home now, you’re going to regret it tomorrow. And I’ll have to spend the whole day listening to you whine about staying out past your self-imposed bedtime and how you’re never drinking again.”

He scoffs at that, but it comes out as more of a hiccup. “Ya’ wanna tell me why you think—”

“Know. I don’t think, I know.”

“Fine. How do you know that?” he questions, a mocking tone in his voice, hands gesturing haphazardly on either side of his head.

“Because I know you, Joe.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t know you? Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Robin.”

He’s scandalized at that, a flash of genuine horror on his face before he gains control of his expression. “My mom? I’m twenty-nine whole years old, y/n. What’s she gonna do?”

“She’s going to remind you how you should be talking to the woman you love, Joseph. You know Robin Burrow runs a tight ship.”

You see his lips part out of the corner of your eye, with what you’re sure is a smart ass remark on the tip of his tongue, but he must think better of it. His mouth shuts, arms tightening across his chest once more as he turns to gaze out the window.

Neither of you speak for the rest of the ride home. The loud hum of the air conditioner is punctuated only by the click of your turn signal and a bad case of the hiccups for Joe. His whole body jolts with them, a loud sound escaping each time despite his efforts to remain silent and brooding.

When you pull into the garage of your shared home, you don’t wait for Joe to go inside. He’s drunk, but not too drunk to make it out of the car on his own. And, even if he was, you wouldn’t be much help to him in the first place. One misstep, and you’d both be on the ground due to his sheer size.

You’re finishing up in the kitchen when you hear him come in, the clunky sound of his shoes being kicked off echos down the hallway. You’ve sat a few Advil out on the counter, along with a glass of water and a bottle of Body Armor. He takes your offerings willingly and, as he does, the scowl on his face softens ever so slightly.

A few minutes later, you’ve brushed your teeth and changed into an oversized tee. As you wash your face and apply some skincare, you hear Joe enter the bedroom, followed by the rustling of fabric. Him getting undressed for bed, you assume.

Your suspicions are confirmed a moment later when he joins you in the bathroom, clad in just his black boxer briefs.

His demeanor has changed noticeably, a lazy grin spreads across his face when his eyes meet yours in the mirror, and you can’t help but give him a small smile in return. Joe joins you at the double vanity, but he doesn’t reach for his toothbrush. Instead, he turns away from the mirror and takes a seat on the counter between the two sinks, pulling you to stand between his legs.

Nose to nose now, his scent washes over you. It’s a heady mix of cologne, sweat, a hint of smoke, and lots of tequila. Resting a hand on each side of his face, you place a quick, firm kiss to his lips.

“C’mon, Joey. Let’s go to bed,” you suggest, turning on your heels. But before you’re out of his reach, he pulls you back to face him. His strong, albeit uncoordinated, arms snake around your waist, hands falling firmly on your ass. Much too intoxicated to be subtle, he leans down and drags a sloppy line of kisses along your shoulder as his hands struggle to find their way under your shirt.

“Joe, I am not about to have sex with you.”

“Why?” He pulls back, looking utterly confused as to why you’d be turning him down at a time like this.

“Because you’re drunk.”

“What, you don’t think it’ll work?” he questions, brows raised suggestively as a cocky grin spreads across his face. “‘Cause I promise it’s workin’.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes as you roll your eyes and untangle yourself from his grasp. “Joe, hands off. Brush your teeth and get in bed before I banish you to the couch.”

“You wouldn’t.” He challenges as he urges himself upright, arms flopping dramatically at his sides.

“You wanna test that theory?”

“I guess not,” he groans, and a fresh pout adorns his lips as you exit the room.

The dip of the mattress alerts you to Joe’s presence. His body acts like a furnace under the covers, warming you even without direct contact.

Some time passes, maybe 5 minutes, maybe 20. You know he’s still awake by the sounds of his breathing, by the way he readjusts his pillow every so often, the way you swear you can actually hear his mind racing.

“Baby, I’m drunk.”

An airy giggle falls from your lips at that. “Yeah, you are.”

“Like, really drunk.”

“Shots will do that to ya’, Joey.”

“I’m gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Yeah, probably.”

He rolls to face you then, and you take the opportunity to pull him into you, prompting him to rest his head on your chest. As you rake your fingers through his hair, he lets out a quiet hum of contentment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his now minty breath fanning across your skin.

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Bein’ drunk. Bein’ annoying. ‘M supposed to be takin’ care of you. Not annoyin’ you.”

Another giggle. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Joey.”

“I know you are. Shouldn’t have to though,” he murmurs, hair tickling your chest as he shakes his head slightly. “Too pretty to be takin’ care of yourself.”

“Well, you’re pretty too. So I guess we’ll just have to take care of eachother.”

“I like that.”

“I like it too.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” you assure him, pressing your lips to his forehead in a soft kiss. “Now get some sleep, pretty boy.”

Find the master list of my other work HERE!

(Tag List: @coasttocold @megsinnerthoughts @nineverce @mrs-delaney @neyessibff @rossieburrow @jbnine99 @vallovesthedilfs @babygirlburrow @willowpains @wannacutmyhair @justtryingtosurvive02 @spooky-librarian-ghost @jspit9 @baekpop05 @wickedfun9) (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

[coasttocold]

Ash!!!!!! It's here! IT'S FINALLY HERE and it's so good?! Okay like i know you were worried but you had nothing to worry about?!

Lets start with the mouth on that boy.

He’s scandalized at that, a flash of genuine horror on his face before he gains control of his expression. “My mom? I’m twenty-nine whole years old, y/n. What’s she gonna do?”

“She’s going to remind you how you should be talking to the woman you love, Joseph. You know Robin Burrow runs a tight ship.”

Bringing up his mama and him zipping it that quick?! I am on the FLOOR

“What, you don’t think it’ll work?” he questions, brows raised suggestively as a cocky grin spreads across his face. “‘Cause I promise it’s workin’.”

JOSEPH LEE you better be careful talking that kinda talk when you can't back it up pfffft

Okay but that moment in bed? I can just picture the moment he starts to sober up and starts feeling so bad...poor Joey bear.

Ash....again it's amazing and I love how unserious you wrote him!

[coasttocold]

I was not lying when I said work/life was gonna get crazy

it’s crushing me

send help 😭

[ladylooch]

how about “fight” for the word game i’m feeling angsty

Oof. Okay, definitely diving into Joe and Maddie for this one....

🔪 Maddie collects her face in her hands again and breathes as deeply as she can to fight back her tears. Not here. Not now. Not when she is this fucking furious with him. Somehow, she has to pull herself together enough to go back to that table and finish dinner with these people. Because unlike him, she doesn’t get to walk out. She has to play her part as the supportive partner while he embarrasses her in front of his support staff. 🔪

[coasttocold]

I am being FED tonight but only by people who like to rip me apart piece by piece 😒

[mrs-delaney]

Simple Math

pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🤍 wc: 6.2k an: OKAY! 🤍 I'm so excited to bring you this troupe! A lot of you wanted this so I need you to blow this up please don't let it flop lol 😭 This is for those of you that have been requesting smut with some angst. It's got both, but with a happy ending 🫶

masterlist

You leave him in the kitchen.

You don't think anything of it. Dinner was good. The drive home was good. He had his hand on your thigh the whole way back, thumb moving in that slow, absent rhythm he does when he's content and not thinking about it. You walked in the front door and kicked your heels off, and he caught you around the waist on your way to the stairs, kissed the back of your neck, and told you he'd be up in a minute.

You're upstairs now. In his bathroom. Dress unzipped halfway down your back, makeup wipe in your hand. You can hear him moving around in the kitchen — the cabinet, the fridge, the soft click of a glass on the counter. Familiar sounds. The sounds of his house when you're in it.

You take your time. You like his bathroom. The mirror is bigger than yours. The lighting is better. You hum something under your breath, swipe at your eyeliner, peel your lashes off, and set them on the counter. You're not in a hurry. He's coming up. You'll get in bed. You'll wait for him.

Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet.

His phone is face down on the counter where he left it when you got home. He hasn't touched it since you sat down at the restaurant. That's not unusual. He doesn't half-live with you. When you're there, he doesn't check scores at the table, doesn't scroll between courses, doesn't pull it out in the car. You get all of him. You always do.

He picks it up now.

It lights up in his hand before his thumb hits the screen — notifications stacking on top of each other, a missed call, three texts in the same thread.

Sam: dude.

sam: [screenshot]

And underneath, in another thread:

Trey: LMAOOOO bro 😭 soft launching???

He opens Sam's first.

The screenshot fills the screen, and he stands in his kitchen, a water glass in his other hand, looking at it.

Your story. Still up. The pasta you ordered, the candle on the table, the wine glass half-empty. And in the corner of the frame — his hand. His wrist. The bracelets he's been wearing since forever.

He doesn't move.

He sets the water glass down. Opens the app. Scrolls to your account. It's still there. Twelve thousand views already. He scrolls down to the comments, and they're already there—is that Joe Burrow's hand? NO WAY, girl, post him fr. I know those fucking bracelets anywhere. Y/N spill.

He locks the phone.

He doesn't call up to you.

He just stands there in the kitchen, jaw tight, one hand flat on the counter, and waits.

—

You hear him on the stairs.

You're in bed already. His t-shirt. Hair up. Phone in your hand because you'd posted your dinner and the story is doing numbers — way more views than you usually get, comments lighting up your last post, your friends sending the fire emoji and asking where you ate. The other comments you've been ignoring. Wait, is that—.Y/N. No way. You saw them. You're not stupid. You scrolled past them on purpose. You're not going to make a thing of it. You're going to let it sit. Let people wonder. That's the move.

You'd been scrolling through it lazily, half-paying attention, half-listening for him.

His footsteps are slower than usual. You clock it, but you don't think about it. You assume he's tired. Dinner ran long. The wine.

He comes through the doorway and stops.

Doesn't get in. Doesn't kick his shoes off the way he does. Doesn't start unbuttoning his shirt on his way to the closet. He just stands there in the frame of the door with his phone in his hand and looks at you.

"Y/N."

Flat. Not the way he says it when he comes to bed. Not the way he said it in the car twenty minutes ago, hand on your thigh.

You look up.

He doesn't say anything else for a second. He crosses the room. Stops at the side of the bed. Holds his phone out.

"Take this down."

You blink at him.

"What?"

"The story," he says. "Take it down."

You sit up a little. The sheet pools at your waist. You take his phone from him, and you look at the screen.

It's your story. Screenshotted. Sent to him by Sam.

You see the pasta. The candle. The wine glass. You see his hand in the corner of the frame, the bracelets, the watch, and your stomach does something small and quick that you don't fully register yet because you're still catching up.

You look back up at him.

—

"Joe."

He doesn't say anything.

"I—" You look down at the phone again. At the screen. At your own story still glowing back at you. "I didn't think it was a big deal."

His jaw works.

"I post my dinner all the time," you say, and you hear it come out a little too fast, a little too defensive, and you don't stop. "Especially when it's good. That's like — that's just what I do, that's a normal thing I do, I wasn't trying to—"

"Y/N."

"—I wasn't posting you, I was posting the pasta, I didn't even—"

"Take it down."

You stop.

You look up at him. He hasn't moved. He's still standing next to the bed, looking down at you, and his face is doing the thing it does in press conferences when someone asks him a question he doesn't want to answer. Closed. Smooth. Nothing is leaking through.

You hand his phone back. Pick up your own. Open the app.

Your thumb hovers.

"Joe, it's literally just your hand."

"Take it down."

"You can't even see your face."

"Y/N."

"It's a hand."

He exhales through his nose. Sits down on the edge of the bed. Doesn't look at you.

"I can't just take it down."

He looks at you then.

"What?"

"I can't just take it down, Joe, that's so embarrassing, people already saw it, it's been up for a while now, if I delete it now everyone's gonna know I deleted it and that's a whole other thing, that's like — that confirms it more than just leaving it—"

"Y/N."

"—if I just leave it up it's a hand, it's nothing, but if I take it down now everyone's gonna be like oh she got told to take it down, and then it's a thing, and—"

"I don't care. Take it down."

—

You go quiet.

You're still holding your phone. Your thumb is still hovering. You haven't deleted anything.

"You don't have to talk to me like that."

He looks at the ceiling.

"Y/N."

"You don't. I'm not — I'm not a child, Joe, you can't just—"

"Then stop acting like one."

It comes out before he can stop it. You can see it on his face the second it lands — the flicker of don't, the half-second where he could've pulled it back and didn't. He doesn't take it back. He just holds your eye.

"Wow."

"Y/N—"

"No, that's — wow. That's what you think?"

"That's not—"

"That's what you think. That I'm — what, that I'm immature? That I'm a kid? You think I'm a kid, Joe?"

"I think you posted me on the internet, and now you're arguing with me about why you can't take the picture down because it would be embarrassing for you."

"It would be embarrassing—"

"You don't get it."

"I get it—"

"You don't."

You're sitting all the way up now. The sheet is twisted around your hips. Your phone is face down on the comforter. Your chest is doing something tight and quick that you're choosing not to name.

"So explain it to me."

He drags a hand over his jaw.

"Y/N."

"Explain it to me, then. If I don't get it. Tell me."

"You know what it is."

"No, I don't, Joe, because to me it's a hand, it's literally a hand, and you're acting like I — like I sold a story to TMZ, like I—"

"You didn't think."

"I did think—"

"You didn't. You sat there at dinner, took a picture, and didn't think about me being in the frame, because if you had, you would've cropped it. That's what I'm saying. You didn't think."

"I—"

"And now Sam knows. And Trey knows. And by tomorrow morning, everyone with a fan account knows where we were, what we were doing, that you were there, that I was there. And you want to leave it up because taking it down would be embarrassing."

You don't say anything.

He looks at you. Then he looks at the wall.

"That's what I mean," he says, quieter. "When I say you didn't think."

You stare at him.

"Why does it matter?"

"Y/N."

"No. Why does it matter, Joe? Like — what is the actual problem? For people know we had dinner? That people can see your hand? What is the — what are you actually mad about?"

"You know what I'm mad about."

"I don't. I really don't. Because if it's just that people saw us, then — I don't get it. We're allowed to have dinner. You're allowed to be seen with me. So what — what is it. Are you embarrassed?"

He looks at you.

"What?"

"Are you embarrassed. Of me. Is that what this is?"

"Y/N."

"Because that's what it sounds like. It sounds like — it sounds like you don't want anyone to know, and you're mad that I — that I gave them a hand, like — is that what this is? You don't want people to know it's me?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what it sounds like."

"That's not what I said, Y/N."

"Then what are you saying. Because I'm sitting here trying to figure out why a hand is a — is the end of the world, and the only thing I can come up with is that you don't want people knowing it was me on the other side of that table?"

He's looking at you. Quiet. Jaw working.

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair."

"You know that's not what it is."

"I don't, actually. I don't know that. Because you won't tell me what it is. You're just — you're standing here telling me I didn't think, and that I'm acting like a child, and I'm asking you a real question, Joe, and you're not answering it."

He doesn't say anything for a second.

He sits with it. You can see him sitting with it. The hand that was at his jaw drops to his thigh, fingers spread, and he looks at the floor between his feet.

"That's not what it is."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you."

"You haven't."

"Y/N."

"You haven't, Joe. You've told me I didn't think. You've told me I'm acting like a child. You haven't told me what it is."

"It's that you're twenty-two."

It comes out quieter than the rest. Not cold this time. Just true. He's looking at you.

You feel it land somewhere under your ribs.

"Cool."

"That's not—"

"No, that's cool. That's — okay. Got it."

"Y/N."

You're already pushing the sheet off. You're already swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The t-shirt rides up your thighs, and you don't do anything about it. You stand up. You don't look at him.

"Y/N. Stop."

"I'm not doing this."

"Where are you going?"

"Fuck if I know."

You walk past him. You don't slam the door because you're not — you're not going to be that. You're not going to give him the proof. You walk out of the bedroom and down the hall and into the guest room at the end of it, and you close that door quietly behind you.

—

He doesn't follow.

You grabbed your phone on the way out. You don't remember doing it. It was on the comforter, and your hand closed around it without your permission, and now you're sitting on the edge of the guest bed in the dark with it in your lap.

You don't turn the lamp on. The house is quiet around you. The bedroom door is closed at the other end of the hall, and you can't hear anything through it.

You don't cry. You're too mad to cry. You sit there with your hands flat on your thighs, and you breathe through your nose, and you wait for whatever is going to happen next.

Then you pick up the phone.

You unlock it. The screen is too bright. You squint against it and tap into the app, and there it is — your story. Twelve thousand views. Fifteen now. The pasta, the candle, and his hand in the corner.

You hold your thumb on it.

The little menu comes up. Delete story. You tap it.

Are you sure?

You're sure.

You tap it again. The screen does its little animation, the story disappearing, and then it's gone. Just your other posts. Your dinner from two nights ago. A picture of your friend's dog. A sunset.

You sit there in the dark holding the phone.

You didn't do it for him.

You did it because if he doesn't want to be seen with you, then fine. He won't be. You'll take care of that yourself. You'll be the one who decides who knows what. You'll be the one who erases it. Not him.

You put the phone face down on the bed next to you.

You wait.

You don't know how long. Two minutes. Five. Long enough that you start to wonder if he's going to leave you in here. If he's going to make you come back to him. You don't know which one would be worse.

Then you hear the bedroom door open down the hall.

Footsteps. Slow. The hardwood creaks the way it does in the spot outside the linen closet.

He stops outside the guest room door.

—

The door opens.

You don't look up.

You hear it more than see it — the soft click of the handle, the give of the hinge, the strip of hallway light widening across the floor of the guest room until it touches the bed frame. You sit very still on the edge of the mattress, and you keep your eyes on your hands in your lap.

He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't come in all the way. You can feel him standing in the doorway, weight in the frame. You can hear him breathing. Slow. Long. Like he's been holding it.

"Y/N."

You don't answer.

"Look at me."

You don't.

You hear him take a step into the room. Then another. The door eases closed behind him, and the strip of light goes with it, and you're in the half-dark again, just the spill from the hallway under the door and whatever's coming through the window from the streetlight outside.

He stops in front of you.

You can see his feet. Bare. He took his shoes off at some point. The hem of his pants. You don't look up.

"Y/N."

His voice is different. Lower. Not cold anymore. Not soft yet either. Just quiet. The way he talks to you when he's trying to be careful.

"What?"

"Look at me."

"I don't want to."

"I know."

You stare at his feet.

You can hear him breathing. You can feel the heat of him a foot away from your knees. You can feel the want to lean forward and put your face against his stomach, and the want to push him away with both hands, and you don't know which one is going to win.

"I shouldn't have said it like that."

You don't say anything.

"Y/N."

"You said what you meant."

"I said it cold. I shouldn't have said it cold."

"Same thing."

"It's not."

You finally look up.

He's looking down at you. His face is doing the thing it does when his guard isn't all the way up — that small softening around his mouth, the way his eyes are tired. He hasn't put a hand on you yet. He's keeping them at his side. You can tell that's a choice.

"It's not the same thing," he says again. "Saying it cold and meaning it. They're not the same."

"Then say it warm."

"Y/N."

"Say it warm, Joe. If they're different. Say it warm and let's see."

—

He doesn't say anything for a second.

You can see him looking for it. The way his jaw moves. The way his mouth opens and closes. He's never been good at finding the words when it counts. He's looking for them anyway.

You don't let him find them.

"I deleted it."

He stops looking. He looks at you.

"When."

"Before you came in."

His face does something small. You see it happen. The half-second where he thinks you did it for him. The half-second where his shoulders start to come down.

You don't let him have that either.

"I didn't do it for you."

He goes still.

"I did it because if you don't want to be seen with me, I'll be the one who decides."

He doesn't move.

You can see him taking it in. The way his eyes go a little flat. The way his hand at his side closes around nothing. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Long enough that you start to wonder if you've actually done it now. If this is the part where he leaves the room.

He doesn't leave the room.

He closes the space between you.

His hand comes up, and his palm is on your jaw, his thumb under your chin, and he tilts your face up so you have to look at him. His grip is firmer than it was going to be a minute ago. He's not asking.

You let him.

You haven't kissed him yet. He hasn't kissed you yet. He just stands there with his hand on your face and looks at you like he's trying to find the part of you that did it. The part that sat in here in the dark with your phone in your lap and pressed delete on him before he ever apologized. He's looking for her.

"Y/N."

"What?"

"Look at me."

You're already looking at him.

"Look at me."

You don't know what he means. You hold his eye anyway. His thumb drags along your jaw. Slow. Not soft. Just slow.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't erase me."

You don't answer.

He kisses you.

It's not soft. It's not asking. It's the kiss of someone who just got told something he can't take and is putting it somewhere in his body because he doesn't yet have the words for it. His mouth is hard against yours, and his hand is still on your jaw, and the other one comes up and grabs the back of your neck, and you don't kiss him back at first.

You make him work for it again.

He doesn't pull back this time. He just kisses you harder. Until your mouth opens under his. Until your hand comes up off the comforter and grabs the front of his shirt because you have to hold onto something. Until you kiss him back because the alternative — not kissing him back — has stopped being available.

He pulls you up off the edge of the bed by the back of your neck. You're standing. You're chest to chest. His other hand is on your hip, fingers spread, and he's pulling you in against him, and you can feel him through his pants, and you can feel his breath hot and fast against your mouth, and his control isn't where it was an hour ago. It's not anywhere. He's not pretending anymore.

"Joe."

"Don't talk."

"Joe—"

"Please, Y/N."

You don't.

He pushes you back. Your knees hit the mattress, and you sit. He stays standing. His hand goes from your neck to your hair, and he's holding it at the root, not tight, but enough that you have to keep looking up at him.

He looks down at you for a second.

Then he kneels.

—

He puts his hands on your knees. Pushes them apart. The t-shirt — his — rides up your thighs, and he doesn't help it. He looks at you sitting there in nothing but his shirt with your legs open in front of him, and his jaw works once.

"Joe."

"Shhhh."

He puts his mouth on the inside of your knee.

You don't make a sound. You're not going to give him sound yet. You're still mad. You hold onto the comforter on either side of you, and you watch him because watching is the only thing you have left, and you're not going to close your eyes for him.

He works up the inside of your thigh. Slow. He's not rushing. He kisses the soft skin above your knee and then higher and then higher, and when his mouth gets to the crease of your thigh, you can't help it — your hips shift. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.

He stops.

Looks up at you.

"You good?"

"I'm fine."

"Y/N."

"I'm fine, Joe."

He looks at you for another second. You don't soften. He goes back to your thigh, and this time he doesn't stop at the crease. He pushes your knees wider with both hands and pulls you forward by the hips until you're right at the edge of the mattress, and his mouth is on you.

You make a sound then. You can't help it. It's short and bitten off, and you hate that you made it.

He doesn't acknowledge it.

He doesn't tease. He doesn't draw it out. He goes at you like he's been thinking about it the entire fight, like the whole time he was standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight, he was also thinking about this. His tongue is hot, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough that you're going to have marks tomorrow, and you can hear yourself breathing now, fast, uneven, and you don't try to be quiet anymore.

Your hand comes up to his hair. You don't mean to. You grab it.

He groans against you, and you feel it in your whole body.

"Joe—"

He doesn't stop. He hooks one of your knees over his shoulder and pulls you closer, and his arm comes across your hips to hold you in place because you're not staying still anymore. You can't. Your back is starting to arch, and your head is going back, and your hand in his hair is gripping harder than you mean to be gripping, but he doesn't seem to mind; he's not slowing down, he's not letting up.

"Joe — Joe—"

"Mm."

"I'm—"

"Mm."

"Joe—"

He pulls back half an inch. Just enough to look up at you. His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark.

"Tell me you're mine."

You stare at him.

"What?"

"Tell me you're mine."

"Joe—"

"Say it, Y/N."

His arm tightens across your hips. His other hand is still gripping your thigh. He's looking up at you from between your legs, and his mouth is right there, and his breath is hot, and he's not going to give it back to you until you say it.

"I'm yours."

He waits.

"I'm yours, Joe."

He puts his mouth back on you.

—

He doesn't pace it now. He goes hard and steady, and his arm is still locked across your hips, and his hand is still gripping your thigh, and you're not breathing anymore, you're just making sounds, you're just holding onto his hair, and the comforter and your back is arching and your eyes are closing whether you want them to or not.

It happens fast.

You don't get a warning. One second you're chasing it, and the next it's already happening, the wave breaking, your whole body going tight under his mouth and his hands, and your knee tightening on his shoulder, and the sound that comes out of you isn't a word, isn't anything, it's just sound.

He doesn't stop until you stop.

He works you through it slowly. His grip on your thigh loosens. His arm at your hips eases. When you finally let go of his hair, he kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, and then again, and then he sits back on his heels and looks up at you.

You're trying to catch your breath.

He's watching you do it.

His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark. His t-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders from where he's been braced. He looks like a man who hasn't gotten what he came for yet.

He stands up.

You can hear him breathing, too, now. His hands go to his belt. He doesn't look away from you while he does it. He gets the belt loose, and the button and the zipper, and he pushes everything down at once and steps out of it, and his shirt comes off over his head in one motion, and then he's standing in front of you, and you're sitting in his t-shirt on the edge of the guest bed, and your legs are still open.

"Up."

You don't move.

"Y/N. Up."

You stand. Your legs are still shaking from coming. You wobble, and his hand is on your hip before you can fall, holding you. He reaches down, grabs the hem of his t-shirt, and lifts it. You raise your arms. He pulls it off over your head and drops it on the floor.

You're naked.

He looks at you.

For a second, he doesn't move. He just looks at you in the half-dark in the guest room, and his face is doing something you can't fully read. Not soft. Not cold. Just — looking. Like he's making sure.

Then his hand comes back to your jaw.

"Get on the bed."

You get into bed.

You back up onto it on your hands, and you go until your shoulders hit the headboard, and you sit there with your knees up and your eyes on him, and he's standing at the foot of the bed watching you do it. He puts one knee on the mattress. Then the other. He crawls up between your legs slowly, deliberately, his hands on either side of your hips, his eyes on yours the whole time.

He stops when his face is above yours.

He hasn't kissed you yet.

"You okay?"

You nod.

"Say it."

"I'm okay."

"Y/N."

"I'm okay, Joe."

He kisses you then. Hard. You can taste yourself on him, and you don't care. His hand slides down between you and lines up, and he's looking at you the whole time, his other forearm braced by your head, his face an inch from yours.

He pushes in.

—

You take him in one long exhale.

He goes slowly. Slower than you expect after everything. His forearm is still braced beside your head, and his other hand is on your hip, holding you steady, and he sinks in inch by inch and watches your face the whole time. Your eyes close. He says your name.

You open them.

"There you go."

He's all the way in. He doesn't move for a second. He just stays there with his forehead against yours and his breath coming hot and uneven and his hand on your hip flexing once, twice, like he's holding onto something he's afraid of losing.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. The kind of pace that's not about chasing anything — it's about reminding you. His hips pull back and push in, and your hands come up to his shoulders and his back and his hair, and you can't keep them in one place. He's heavy on top of you. He's warm. He smells like the cologne he wore to dinner, fainter now, and like him underneath it.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Look at me."

You're already looking at him. He knows that. He says it anyway. His face is close enough that you can see his lashes. The flecks in his eyes. The way his mouth is parted.

"You're twenty-two."

You don't say anything.

He doesn't break his rhythm. He's still moving in you slowly, and his eyes are still on yours, and he says it again, quieter.

"You're twenty-two."

"Joe—"

"I'm saying it differently."

You feel it land. You feel it in your chest before you feel it anywhere else. He's not weaponizing it now. He's looking at you and saying the same word he said in the bedroom, and meaning a different thing with it. You don't know what the different thing is yet. You don't have to know yet. He's not asking you to know yet.

He kisses you. Slow. Wet. His tongue in your mouth and his hand sliding up your side and his hips still working into you, and you feel the first crack of it then — the thing in your chest that's been held tight since the kitchen. The thing that made you delete the post. The thing that's been bracing for tonight for months.

You make a sound against his mouth that isn't pleasure.

He hears it.

He pulls back half an inch. Looks at you. You don't know what your face is doing. You can feel water on it. Not crying. Just water.

His hand comes up. His thumb brushes under your eye.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"Y/N."

"I'm fine."

"Look at me."

You look at him.

"I've got you."

That's what does it.

You don't sob. You're not going to sob. But something in you lets go — the held thing finally easing, your shoulders dropping into the mattress, your hand on the back of his neck pulling him down because you need him closer, you need him heavier, you need his weight on you because if he's on you, he can't leave the room.

He goes. He drops his weight onto you. His forehead is at your temple, and his arm comes under your shoulders, and he's holding you down against the bed and moving in you slower now, deeper, and you can feel the change in him too. He's not making a point anymore. He's not claiming you. He's just here.

"Joe—"

"I know."

"Joe—"

"I'm so sorry, baby."

He says it like that. Baby. Low. He says it when his control is gone, and his control is gone now. His hips are getting heavier. His breath is getting shorter. You can feel him losing it in slow pieces — the rhythm getting less clean, his hand at your hip gripping harder, the sound he makes against your neck low and ragged.

"Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Stay with me, Y/N."

"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."

You don't know if you say it three times or thirty.

He comes hard. His whole body locks up against yours. His face is in your neck, and his hand on your hip is bruising, and he's saying something you can't quite catch, something low, and his hips push into you one last time and stay there.

He doesn't move.

You don't either.

His weight is on you, and his breath is hot against your collarbone, and your hand is in his hair, and the room is dark, and the t-shirt of his is on the floor somewhere, and the comforter is half off the bed, and outside the window, a car goes by on the street, and neither of you moves.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

—

He's the one who moves first.

He doesn't go far. He shifts his weight off you, slow, careful, and rolls onto his side. His arm stays under your shoulders. He pulls you with him. You end up on his chest with your leg thrown over his and your hand flat against his sternum and his hand on the small of your back.

The room is so quiet.

You can hear him breathing. You can feel his heart under your palm. He's still catching his breath, and so are you, and neither of you has said anything yet.

You don't want to be the one who says it first.

You wait.

His hand moves up your back. Slow. Spread. He's not stroking it. He's just keeping it there, palm flat, like he wants to know you're solid.

"Y/N."

"Mm."

"That wasn't — " He stops. You feel his chest move. "What I said in the bedroom. That wasn't about you."

You don't move.

"Y/N."

"I'm listening."

He doesn't go again for a second. You can hear him thinking. You can feel his chest moving under your cheek, the way he's working something out, and you wait for it because you can tell he's not done.

"It's been in my head," he says. "Your age. It's been in my head the whole time we've been together, and I haven't told you that."

You don't say anything.

"Not because there's anything wrong with you. There's nothing wrong with you. You're not — you're not a kid. You're twenty-two, you're an adult, you know what you're doing. That's not — that's not what I'm saying."

He stops. His hand at your back has gone still.

"I'm saying it's in my head. It's mine. I'm twenty-nine, and you're twenty-two, and I keep doing the math in my head about it. Like I'm trying to find the thing that makes it okay. And tonight I — when Sam texted me, and I came up the stairs, I was already — I was already thinking about it. About the math. And then you said I can't just take it down, and it would be embarrassing, and I — I used it. At you. Because it was already in my head."

He stops again.

"I shouldn't have done that."

You don't say anything.

"It's not your thing to carry," he says. "It's mine. And I made you carry it tonight."

You're quiet.

His hand starts moving again. Slow. Spread. His thumb finds the dip at the base of your spine and stays there.

"I'm working on it."

"Okay."

"Y/N."

"Okay, Joe."

You don't say it warm. You can't yet. You give him the word and you mean it, and that's the most you can do right now. He takes it.

You lie there.

You don't know how long. His hand on your back. Your hand on his chest. The window across the room, the streetlight outside, the car that goes by every few minutes, the quiet of the house, and the quiet between you.

You're the one who says it.

"I knew you were going to look at me like that one day."

His hand stops.

"What?"

"Like — " You don't finish. You don't have to. He gets it. You can feel him get it. His hand starts moving again, slower than before. His other hand comes up, and his fingers find your hair.

"I'm sorry, baby."

You don't say anything.

"I don't look at you that way."

You let it sit.

You think for a second he's done. That he's not going to say anything else. You're okay with that. You've gotten more from him tonight than you usually get, and the silence is its own kind of answer.

Then he says it.

"You make the room bigger."

You don't move.

"Y/N."

"I heard you."

"Okay."

You're quiet.

You feel him breathing. You feel his hand on your back. You feel his fingers in your hair and his thumb against your scalp and his heart steady under your cheek, and you're trying to hold onto it because you know he's not going to say things like that twice.

Except he does.

His voice is so low you almost don't catch it.

"You make me feel alive."

You close your eyes.

You don't say anything back. You don't have words for what to say back. You press your face into his chest a little harder, and his arm tightens around you, and his hand stays in your hair, and that's the answer you have.

You don't know when you fall asleep.

It's not a decision. One second you're listening to him breathe, and the next your eyes are heavy, and the next you're somewhere underneath all of it, drifting, his hand on your hip now, his thumb moving slowly.

He's still awake.

You don't know that. You'll never know that. He'll lie there for another hour with his hand on your hip and his thumb moving slowly over the bone and his eyes on the dark ceiling, and he'll go back through every line of it — the kitchen, the take it down, the twenty-two, the way you sat on the edge of the guest bed and told him you'd erased him.

And then he'll start working it.

Coffee in the morning. You like the oat milk. He's out. He'll send for it before you wake up.

Your friend's birthday next month — you'd mentioned it on the drive home, the trip to Austin, you weren't sure you could swing because of money. He'll book the flight tomorrow. He won't make a thing of it. He'll just tell you the trip is handled.

The math. He has to do something about the math. He doesn't know what yet. He knows he can't keep doing it. He knows he has to figure out where it actually comes from before he can put it down. He'll think about that. He'll keep thinking about it.

He won't sleep.

His thumb keeps moving.

Outside, another car goes by.

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[coasttocold]

SICK I am sick and straight up never getting over this 😭 the emotions you just made me feel on a Tuesday night are MEAN

But like…do it again 🫣