Y/n couldn’t think of a more dreamy word. Just the thought of it made y/n’s head swim with ideas of travelling to far away lands and long, leisurely coffee walks.
It made her immediately begin to think of times like this.
Joe laid on his stomach, his shirtless back slowly rising and falling with each slow, sleepy breath. His arm reached out, curling around y/n’s waist. She laid next to him, resting on her side, her front pressed snugly against Joe’s side. Their legs were tangled underneath the lightweight (probably expensive) sheets Joe had purchased for the summer. The ceiling fan spun rapidly above them, circulating cool air that made y/n’s bare body tingle with early morning goosebumps.
To be fair, it had been a lot warmer last night when the two of them climbed into bed sans clothes… no other reason…
Y/n took in a long breath, stretching her arms out with a groan. She wriggled around before draping herself atop Joe’s back, allowing him to act as her own personal heater as she wrapped her arms around Joe’s shoulders. She laid there for only a moment before she felt him begin to stir. His arm that had previously been wrapped around her waist curled first, reaching for a presence that no longer was where it had been only a moment ago.
“Good morning.” Joe grumbled, lifting his head from the pillow and peering over his shoulder. His hair was a mess— a sure sign of a good night's sleep— as he squinted against the morning light to look at y/n. She moved up a bit, hooking her chin on his shoulder so their noses brushed slightly, causing Joe to let out a deep chuckle.
“What are you doing?” Joe said, his voice gravelly as he carefully shifted under y/n onto his back. She continued to hold onto him with the firm grip of a koala as he settled back into the pillows, his arms wrapping around her and hugging her impossibly closer. With their new position, y/n rested her chin on his broad chest and looked up at him.
“I was cold.” Y/n said lowly, biting back a smile.
“Cold?” Joe teased. “If I remember correctly, you were very, very hot last night.”
Y/n rolled her eyes dramatically as a smirk spread across Joe’s face. His hands smoothed down her sides before falling at her hips. He pinched a bit of the fat on her ass, causing y/n to let out a surprised giggle.
“Hey! You watch it, mister.” Y/n scoffed as she slapped Joe's shoulder playfully.
“What?” Joe laughed, holding his hands up innocently. “You were the one who asked for a massage—”
“That was last night and that quickly devolved once someone started getting too handsy.” Y/n scoffed, holding a stern finger up.
“Ok but… can you blame me?” Joe said, smoothing his hands along y/n’s body with a quirk of his brow. Y/n fake gagged before flopping back down on Joe’s chest. Joe laughed, cupping the back of y/n’s head before pressing a kiss to the top of her hair.
The two of them fell into a natural, comfortable silence, the only sounds y/n could hear in the room coming from the ceiling fan and Joe’s heartbeat, which thrummed steadily in her ear as it pressed against Joe’s chest. Joe gently traced his fingertips up and down y/n’s spine, feeling every ridge, bump, and curve he had just about memorized.
“D’you want to go on a walk and get some coffee?” Joe asked as y/n peered up at him. His gaze was entirely relaxed and gentle as his lips curled up into a smile.
“Yep.” Y/n smiled, pressing a peck to Joe’s smiling lips.
“Who would’ve guessed?” He teased. Y/n groaned before burying her face in Joe’s neck.
“I literally can’t say no to a coffee walk.” Y/n said into the crick of Joe’s neck, the words causing tingly vibrations to buzz across Joe’s skin. “You know that’s my weakness.”
“I thought I was your weakness?” Joe asked, causing y/n to lift her head up. She wriggled around slightly, getting nose-to-nose with Joe. Joe’s grip on her hips tightened slightly, but his gaze remained relaxed.
“You’re my ultimate weakness, Burrow.” Y/n murmured lowly. “Coffee walks are a close second.”
“Aww, you like me.” Joe smiled widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling. A deep giggle bubbled up in y/n’s stomach as she draped her arms around Joe’s neck.
“I mean…” Y/n said, directing her eyes down to look at their bare bodies tangled up in the bed. “Was that not clear enough?”
“Good point.” Joe chuckled. “You must really like me then.”
“Oh yeah, I really—” Y/n pressed a kiss to Joe’s jaw— “really like you.”
Joe let out a low sigh, his hands gently combing through y/n’s hair as the two of them savored each other's touch and presence. Their lips moved back and forth, a dance between two people who had plenty of practice. Y/n pressed one last, long kiss to his lips before she lifted her head to stare down at him. She bit her lip, hiding a mischievous smile at Joe as her head tilted to the side to look at his flushed expression. Joe’s hand cupped y/n’s neck, attempting to pull her in a bit closer as he leaned up to clear the gap between their lips.
“Let’s go on that coffee walk.” Y/n whispered, pulling just out of his reach. He let out an incredulous scoff.
“What?” Joe chuckled, reaching for another kiss which y/n dodged.
“The walk.” Y/n repeated. “Let’s go—”
She started to get off the bed, one leg going so far as to sling off the side. Joe immediately let out a low groan as y/n wriggled atop him, sliding further off the side of the bed. Before she could continue to slide out of the bed, Joe’s arms quickly encircled her in a tight bearhug, forcing her back atop him with a yelp.
“No, it can wait.” Joe groaned, trapping y/n against himself.
“But you said—” Y/n pled.
“I know what I said.” Joe whined, his eyes as wide as a puppy dog’s, “but that was ten minutes ago when you hadn’t kissed me yet and getting out of bed still sounded like a good idea.”
Y/n sighed, giving Joe a dramatic pout.
“Hey, hey, don’t give me that.” Joe said, moving to hold y/n’s face in his hands. He traced his thumb gently along y/n’s lips, his featherlight touch immediately tickling y/n’s pout into a smile. Joe smiled back at her, pressing a kiss to her lips.
“Y’know what?” Joe murmured as he pressed a kiss to y/n’s jaw.
“I have a way—” Joe continued with a kiss to the column of y/n’s throat— “way—” he pressed a kiss to her sternum— “better idea.”
“Can I ask what it entails?” Y/n stifled the little giggle that threatened to bubble up.
“Oh, I’ll show you.” Joe said as he wrapped an arm around y/n’s lower back before flipping the two of them over, y/n’s back hitting the mattress as she let out a squeal.
this is kinda rom com vibes <3 tldr: rafe lost a bet, yn’s overjoyed
Rafe sat on the stool y/n had brought into the Tanneyhill bathroom with a pout on his face, his shoulders hunched as y/n draped an old towel around him. In the doorway, Topper and Kelce tried to crane their necks in to look at Rafe as y/n held a bleach covered brush in her hand. His hair was combed out, their natural, golden brown colored waves laying perfectly against his head.
Y/n almost felt bad about doing this… almost.
“Say, ‘I lost fantasy football!’” Kelce sang, holding up his camera to take a picture of Rafe’s grumpy face. Y/n turned to the camera, flashing it a thumbs up and a wide smile. Rafe simply glared.
“Get the fuck out of here, assholes.” Rafe snapped, flipping his two friends off before crossing his arms across his chest.
“Ouch… fine.” Topper said, holding his hands up in faux innocence. Kelce did the same, causing y/n to have to stifle her own laughter at their antics and Rafe’s dramatics as the boys finally left them.
“Ok, are you ready?” Y/n asked, picking up a bit of the bleach mixture from her bowl. She’d never done this before— save the one time her and Sarah did tacky, neon highlights in middle school, which probably didn’t count— but there was no way in hell Rafe was going to let Topper or Kelce near his hair.
“As I’ll be, I guess.” Rafe pouted. The corner of y/n’s mouth quirked up into a smile, a laugh threatening to bubble up because of Rafe’s pouty behavior.
“Alrighty…” y/n raised the brush up to his hair, “here we go.”
She dabbled a small dot of bleach onto his hair before looking up to meet Rafe’s eyes in the mirror. He looked entirely unamused, but fortunately not panicked, so she continued, focused intently on coating each strand of hair with the mixture. She spared a glance up at Rafe every couple of minutes as she continued to carefully cover his entire head.
“Ok, done.” Y/n said as she brushed the last bit of bleach onto his head. Rafe let out a long sigh before standing up from the chair, allowing the towel wrapped around him to fall to the floor and reveal his shirtless torso. He leaned into the mirror, looking at his bleach covered hair with a grimace.
“Oh wait!” Y/n said, quickly placing the little bowl she’d been using to mix the bleach back onto the counter. She grabbed a nearby plastic bag, opening it up before gesturing for Rafe to lean down.
“What?” Rafe asked, looking at her with a confused expression.
“I’ve gotta like—” y/n gestured with the plastic bag— “wrap it so it… soaks in.”
“Soaks in?” Rafe asked. “Like to my skull? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never done this before!” Y/n threw her hands up dramatically. “I just know the Tik Tok I watched said you were supposed to wrap it with a plastic bag.”
“The Tik Tok you watched?” Rafe’s eyes widened. “You’re handling my hair based on a Tik Tok?!”
Y/n scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest as she glared up at him.
“Would you rather I call Topper and Kelce back in here to help? Because I could go and—” Y/n began.
“No, no, no.” Rafe sighed before leaning down reluctantly. “Just… do whatever.”
“That’s what I thought.” Y/n said under her breath as she began to wrap the plastic around Rafe’s head. He glared at her, not that she’d see.
“Ok, now we wait for…” Y/n checked her phone, “half an hour.”
Rafe grumbled as he straightened up again before turning to look at himself in the mirror. He looked like an idiot with a plastic bag on his head… so obviously y/n took a picture.
“Delete that.” Rafe said quickly, whipping back around to face y/n as she darted out of the bathroom and into Rafe’s bedroom with a giggle.
“Never!” Y/n shouted as she rounded his bed, Rafe close behind her. She had almost made it out when he grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her torso and lifting her off the ground.
“Give me your phone!” Rafe laughed, delivering a playful jab to y/n’s ribs which caused her to let out a squeal as she attempted to wriggle out of his grasp.
“No!” Y/n giggled. Rafe let out a playful growl, tossing y/n onto his bed. She bounced against the mattress before settling, clutching at her stomach as she laughed. Rafe stood at the foot of the bed, his hands on his hips as he shook his head, a small smile on his face.
“You’re the worst.” Rafe said before climbing to sit on the bed next to y/n with a dramatic huff. Y/n simply smiled at him, straightening up to sit next to Rafe at the headboard.
“You love me.” Y/n blinked up at Rafe playfully, which only caused him to roll his eyes.
“Ok, ok, fine.” Rafe sighed before stretching his arm out to wrap around y/n’s shoulders. He jostled her shoulders as she let out a dramatic coo. Y/n looked up at Rafe— or Rafe’s head— closely, examining her handiwork.
“I don’t think I did too bad.” Y/n murmured, poking at Rafe’s scalp. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes suspiciously.
“Hmm, I guess we’ll see.” Rafe grumbled lowly, causing y/n to let out a scoff.
Then, the timer y/n had set went off.
“Yeah, I guess we’ll see.” Y/n said sassily, quirking her eyebrows up before climbing off the bed. Rafe sighed before following her back into the bathroom. She patted the stool, to which Rafe obediently sat down atop.
“Ok, let’s see!” Y/n said, letting out a long exhale before she began to peel back the plastic to reveal Rafe’s bleach covered hair. She examined it closely, picking up a few pieces of hair.
“I was expecting the reveal to be a bit more… different.” Rafe said with a small chuckle. “I don’t think it worked.”
“It worked, just—” y/n sighed. “I think it just needs to be rinsed out.”
“Ok, Miss Hair Stylist.” Rafe grumbled before standing up from the stool and making his way over towards the shower. He grabbed a nearby bath towel, draping it over the glass shower door before turning to y/n.
“Are you just gonna stand here and watch me take a shower?” Rafe asked. Y/n’s face immediately twisted up into a look of… disgust? Well, not exactly… it’s not like it wasn’t anything she’d seen before— by accident, of course— but it wasn’t like she minded. Rafe was a good looking guy and definitely had the whole package to match—
“What? No!” Y/n scoffed. “I have to like… rinse it out under the tap.”
“Is that really necessary?” Rafe sighed with the attitude of a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Yes, it’s necessary if you want it to look good and not like… burn your scalp.” Y/n gestured dramatically to his still bleach covered hair.
“Burn my scalp?!” Rafe said, his eyes flying wide open. “What did you put in my hair?!”
“Oh my god, stop with the dramatics and sit in the shower.” Y/n rolled her eyes before pulling the shower door open and stepping in.
“But you said—” Rafe began as he followed her in.
“Sit down.” Y/n said sternly. He turned around, his broad chest practically pushing against her face in the crowded shower.
“Ok fine, girl.” Rafe grumbled before slowly crouching down to sit on the tile floor of the shower. He let out a low groan as he shifted to pull his legs up to his chest, sitting like a small child. Even sitting down, Rafe was still quite tall, his head coming up to well past her waist.
“Alrighty, let's do this.” Y/n said, grabbing the shower head from the wall and turning it on. Immediately, Rafe was shot with a jet of freezing cold water.
“What the f—” Rafe began, his hands instinctually coming up to bat the cold water away, instead forcing the water to shoot directly at y/n and soak her pants with icy water.
“Oh my god!” Y/n screeched, stumbling back against the shower wall and allowing the shower head to drop from her hands and hit against the wall with a solid thud.
“Why did you spray me in the face?!” Rafe scoffed, wiping the water from his face.
“Why did you spray me in the pants?!” Y/n snapped back, looking down at her uncomfortably wet and cold pants.
“You sprayed me first!” Rafe said. Y/n glanced between Rafe’s still unwashed hair and her now soaked pants.
“You— ugh.” Y/n sighed before pointing into the back corner of the shower. “Look away.”
“What? Why?” Rafe scoffed.
“I’m taking my pants off because you drenched them in water.” Y/n snapped. Rafe’s eyes widened before he quickly looked away. She began to pull them down, slipping slightly, her hand shooting out to clamp down on Rafe’s shoulder. His arm reached up, quickly grabbing firmly onto y/n’s wrist without even turning his head. Finally, she tugged the last of her pants off before flinging them out onto the bathroom floor.
Now she stood in her underwear and t-shirt, the water still running in the shower as Rafe turned completely away. She gnawed at her lip slightly. Rafe had seen her countless times in a bathing suit, and this was basically the same thing. No big deal… right?
“Ok, you can… look back now.” Y/n grumbled, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to appear confident. Rafe slowly turned back, his eyes unfortunately immediately coming into contact with y/n’s Star Wars themed underwear, given his position on the shower floor. He instantly forced himself to look down, his cheeks flushing bright red.
“Nice underwear.” He said under his breath.
“Shut up.” Y/n snapped before snatching the shower head back up. After running for a while, the water had warmed up to a more manageable temperature.
“Ok, lean your head back.” Y/n gestured, Rafe following and craning his head back slightly. Y/n lifted the shower head to allow the water to fall on his hairline, her other hand coming up to shield the water from streaming into his eyes as they fluttered closed.
The water flowed through his hair, rinsing away the bleach to reveal his bright, yellow-tinged locks. Y/n smirked to herself as she combed her fingers through Rafe’s hair. As she continued, Rafe found himself relaxing and let out a low sigh of relief. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, Rafe bathing in the comfort of y/n lightly scratching his scalp and y/n focusing intently on her “work”.
“It definitely worked.” Y/n said lowly, smiling widely as she held up a longer piece of Rafe’s hair to examine it closely in the light. Rafe’s eyes fluttered open, and he was met with an almost angelic sight.
Y/n was leaned over him, pieces of her hair that had been tied back falling around her face. The light above shone down around her almost like a halo, her smile beautiful enough to make Rafe feel as if he were dreaming.
As a matter of fact, he’d probably dreamt of this scenario— being with y/n in a beautiful and simply intimate way— a hundred times. But still, the real thing— even if it wasn’t quite how he would’ve liked— felt so, so much better.
So much better, apparently, that Rafe had begun to relax a little too much. His head tilted back too far, his shoulders falling too much, causing y/n’s careful balance over him to slip. Y/n yet out a yelp as she tumbled forward, her knee immediately colliding with Rafe’s groin as the two of them fell onto the shower floor. He let out a groan, his head only narrowly avoiding the faucet as he hit the tile. In the fall, the shower head was somehow lost and was now spraying about the shower and onto the bathroom tile.
Y/n and Rafe lay sprawled out on the shower floor, twisting around in pain and half-naked confusion as water continued to spray at them haphazardly. Rafe groaned, curling in on himself as his freshly bleached, yellowed hair stuck to his forehead
“What the hell happened here?!” Topper said. Y/n and Rafe turned to see Topper and Kelce in the doorway, their mouths agape in shock, confusion, and terror at the sight in front of them. Y/n lifted a hand, dramatically waving the two boys off as she wiped water out of her eyes. Rafe continued to groan in pain, finally reaching up to turn off the water with a huff.
“We are not toning your hair, boy.” Y/n let out a gasp.
“Tone? What the hell does that mean?” Rafe scoffed.
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.
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!
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this was a combination of a bunch of requests, so enjoy! remember this is fiction and consume appropriately warning for pregnancy, discussions of having kids, nausea/vomiting, probably inaccurate mentions of childbirth lol
when they first noticed her bump
Within the first trimester, y/n went through the typical gambit of all of the “not fun” aspects of pregnancy: nausea, fatigue, vomiting, mood swings, constantly needing to go pee. It was taxing, physically and mentally, but manageable with Drew’s support. They’d quickly found a system— a routine— that worked for them, managing each week as it came and went. From going to appointments, taking walks at least three times a week, and prenatal vitamins, they handled it all in stride and with the excitement of two soon to be parents.
They had everything planned out, when they were going to tell their friends and families, when they would take pictures, when they’d go public, when they’d finish up the nursery. Everything was well thought out for the safety and peace of mind for y/n, Drew, and the baby— and even Charleston, who was already adjusting to an excessively worried Drew and an always tired y/n.
What their plan didn’t account for was y/n’s bump practically blowing up like a balloon literally over night.
She’d fallen asleep like any other night, Drew murmuring a gentle “good night” to both her and the baby, before they curled up in bed. Once the morning had come, y/n was greeted by sunlight leaking into the window and the smell of breakfast cooking. Y/n took in a long breath, stretching her arms above her head with a groan before her hands naturally fell to rest on her stomach.
She immediately let out a squeak, her eyes darting down to fall upon the very prominent and “especially rounded” curve of her stomach that definitely hadn’t been there when she’d fallen asleep.
“DREW!” Y/n shouted, quickly straightening up as she gazed down at her stomach in complete awe. She heard a crash before Drew sprinted into the room, his face filled with panic.
“What’s wrong?” Drew said quickly, climbing up onto the bed next to y/n. He looked over her closely, a hand shooting out to grasp y/n’s shoulder. Y/n continued to look down at her stomach, speechless and totally entranced by the finally visible bump.
“Is everything ok? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Drew asked, snatching up the pair of keys sitting on the side table. “Do you need medicine o– or do you need—”
“No, no, I’m fine!” Y/n quickly shook her head, her hands hesitantly being placed on her stomach. Drew’s tensed shoulders quickly deflated, his face changing from a look of panic to one of confusion.
“Then what is it?” Drew asked just as he followed y/n’s glance to look at her stomach.
“My bump!” Y/n said with a laugh, smoothing a hand over the curve of her stomach before looking up at Drew. With a long sigh, he sat down on the bed next to y/n. Slowly he brushed a hand over y/n’s prominent bump, finding any remaining stress that had been plaguing him quickly evaporating.
Drew let out a low chuckle before his hand moved from y/n’s bump to her jaw. He turned it, guiding her to look at him before he pressed a long kiss to her nose.
“Love you, baby, but you scared the shit out of me.” Drew grinned.
when they told their families
Keeping their pregnancy a secret for the first few months had been so, so difficult. There had been multiple times where one of them had almost slipped up and mentioned an appointment or shown an ultrasound and ruined their whole secret.
But fortunately, they’d made it to today.
They’d flown both of their families out to their house in Charleston under the guise of “meeting up one last time before the two actors would be busy for award season”. Sure, it was a bit convoluted and their family members all had a barrage of questions, but luckily they had managed to get everybody here.
The dinner had gone relatively smoothly, Drew’s parents chatting, all of their siblings telling embarrassing stories about their respective halves of the couple whose house they were in. Charleston was in his element, floating around from person to person and taking as many pets under the table as he could.
“Y/n, wine?” Drew’s sister, Brooke, asked as she turned towards y/n with the bottle of wine they’d been passing around the table. Drew’s eyes widened slightly, but not enough to catch anyone else' s eyes but y/n’s.
“No, no, I’m good.” Y/n grinned, eating a forkful of vegetables.
“Are you sure?” Y/n’s mom asked. “It’s great! I know you like that one wine— what’s it called? La– Laurel? — and it’s just like that one, but maybe a bit more—”
“Mom, I’m fine.” Y/n said, her voice firm and unwavering. Drew glanced between the two women, gnawing at his lower lip.
“Uh, anyway…” Drew’s other sister, Mack, cleared her throat before continuing whatever conversation had been interrupted. Y/n let out a long sigh of relief before smoothing her hands down the front of her flowy dress. The fabric was loose enough to allow her to breathe and cover her stomach that had already begun to show signs of pregnancy.
A few hours later, the families had moved from the dining room to the living room. Post-dinner drinks had been distributed, with Drew and y/n lingering in the kitchen to “clean up”.
“Ok, are you ready?” Drew asked, cupping y/n’s elbow gently as he stood in front of her. She grinned up at him, a hand naturally falling upon the curve of her stomach.
“Yes.” Y/n smiled, perching up onto her tip toes to press a kiss to Drew’s lips. She could feel him smile against her lips as she rested back on her feet. He gave her arm a light squeeze before they both turned towards the refrigerator. Drew reached in, cautiously balancing the cake they’d had specially made for today and hidden in the back of the fridge.
“I love you.” Y/n whispered, smiling up at Drew as she pressed a last kiss to his cheek before grabbing one of the ultrasounds they’d taken off the fridge and hidden in a nearby drawer. She tucked it behind her back as she had Drew made their way towards the living room.
“Alright, it’s time for dessert!” Y/n sang as they walked into the room. Their families let out excited murmurs as they watched Drew carefully place the cake down on the coffee table, a small smirk on his face. Once he sat it down, he slowly straightened before moving to stand next to y/n. He curled his arm around her waist, his hand resting gently on her stomach as she rested her head on his shoulder.
The two of them watched as each of their parents and siblings leaned forward to read what was written in swirled, yellow frosting:
baby starkey coming soon
“OH MY GOD!” Drew’s mom screamed, his dad looking simultaneously shocked and confused. Drew’s siblings let out loud gasps as they began to playfully hit at each other with excited squeals.
“Are you serious?” Y/n’s brother asked, his eyes wide. Y/n could already see her moms eyes beginning to well up with tears as she clamped a hand over her mouth.
A smile quickly spread across y/n’s face as she nodded, pulling the hidden ultrasound pictures out from behind her back. Drew laughed as he pressed a kiss to her head.
“We’re having a baby!” Drew said proudly, smiling as their families collapsed into happy tears and giggles before enveloping the couple in hugs.
when they assembled the nursery
Y/n let out a sigh, propping her hands on her hips as she looked at the countless paint samples taped on the wall. She wore a pair of overalls that allowed enough space to accommodate her ready-to-pop pregnancy bump and a grimace on her face, pressure radiating down her back all the way down to her swollen feet. Her belly had been a mess all day, feeling almost as if the baby was jumping up and down on her uterus. Sure, cramps and kicks weren’t entirely uncommon, but Baby Starkey was certainly going all out today.
Against the wall, the baby’s crib was already assembled— something Drew took great pride in— with a small mobile gently rotating above it. An old dresser they’d got from Drew’s mom sat next to a plush rocking chair, a lamp illuminating the still bare walls.
“This is impossible.” Y/n sighed again, wiping a bit of sweat from her forehead.
“You’re gonna hate to hear this,” Drew began as he looked up from the drawer of diapers he was currently stocking, “but she’s not gonna care what color her walls are.”
“Drewseph.” Y/n crossed her arms across her chest with a huff. “We don’t know what we’re having—”
“It’s gonna be a girl.” Drew hummed, standing up and crossing the room to stop in front of his obviously frustrated but also entirely hot wife.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed when—” y/n continued.
“It’s gonna be a girl.” Drew said again, a sly smirk spreading across her lips. Y/n rolled her eyes dramatically, the teasing striking just the perfect nerve. She bit at her lip as the pent up stress of preparing to welcome a life into the world was threatening to bubble over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Drew said gently, lowering himself to look at meet y/n eye-to-eye, “I’m sorry, I- I was just messing around.”
“It’s fine, I’m just—” y/n sniffled, wiping a few tears that had slipped out. “I don’t know. Stress, cramps, hormones… I don’t know.”
“It’s alright.” Drew murmured gently, straightening before allowing y/n to step into his embrace. “You’re alright, we’re alright, everything’s alright.”
She took out a long exhale, allowing herself to relax against Drew’s chest. As she did, however, she suddenly felt a rush cascade down her body, almost as if she’d been doused in cold water… and apparently she had.
“Oh… oh my god.” Y/n looked down at the flood of water that had dropped down her lower body, soaking her and Drew’s legs and indicating the impending arrival of Baby Starkey. She looked up at Drew, whose face was covered in a similar look of surprise.
“I guess we’re gonna find out if I was right.” Drew said with a slight, nervous chuckle.
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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