summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +2.3k
a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!
For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.
The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex.
Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.
“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.
“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.
“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”
Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.
Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.
He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.
Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.
“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.
“Coming up to three years now.”
“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”
“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.
Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.”
When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.
Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.
“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.
“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.
“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.
Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation.
Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.
“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”
“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”
“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.
“She is.” Allie nodded.
“Agreed.” Dean added.
Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person.
“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.
“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you.
“That’s so cool. Where abouts?”
“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”
Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.
Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.
They smiled without looking at each other.
“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.
“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.
“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“When? Today?”
Allie checked her phone.
“Like, literally any minute.”
Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say ‘don’t say a word’.
Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived.
Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged.
She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside.
Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement.
“Where’s G?” Logan asked.
“He went inside before.” Dean said.
“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.
Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.
Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.
She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.
You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.
You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.
Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.
She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.
You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer.
You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.
At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided.
After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett.
If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?
Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely.
You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands.
You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.
Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.
His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor.
Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real.
You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.
“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears.
“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.
He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist.
Both of you sat there, lightly crying.
Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.
Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms.
“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.
You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.
“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.
“Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”
Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you.
Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.
Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.
“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.
“I missed you.”
Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.
You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now.
Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.
“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.
“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.
“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.”
Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss.
You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well.
“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.
“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”
Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”
“No?”
“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back.
“Baby, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”
“Not a good difference.” You argued.
“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”
You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year.
Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all.
“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.
“You’ve finished over there?”
“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”
“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”
“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”
☄︎ Warnings: Angst, love hurts
☄︎ Pairing: fem!Reader x John Logan, fem!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis (crumbs)
☄︎ Rating: PG13
☄︎ Words: 2880
☄︎ AN: I saw this and my mind immediately started racing. I've always wanted to try my hand at angst and this was such a perfect prompt.
Red flags didn’t exist for you when it came to John Logan.
Part of you knew that the Logan you’d believed your boyfriend to be and the Logan that your boyfriend actually was were different. You never argued. You never even had a disagreement. And that, you told yourself, was because the stars had aligned to bring you together. A perfect fit.
You, Hannah, and the other hockey girlfriends are waiting outside the locker room for the boys. Your hands were itching to get hold of Logan. You can hear the muffled voice of Garrett Graham, the team captain, giving a rousing speech to his team. Every so often, you hear the wild cheers inside.
The door swings open and Coach Jensen comes strolling out. “They’re all yours,” he tells you all.
You run in and crash right into Logan’s arms. “You were amazing out there,” you tell him, burying your face in his chest.
You hate coming into the locker room, it smells of stale sweat. You’re sure the room could be classified as a bio-hazard, the sweat that had seeped into the clothes a perfect breeding ground for fungus. You bury your face deeper into him, at least he’s showered and smells like fresh cotton.
He rests his chin on top of your head, looking over you. You pull back to look at him, and he’s still looking past you above your head.
You follow his line of sight to see he’s staring at Hannah and Garrett; the only other people left in the room. Your brows furrow and your chest tightens, but you push it down and paste a smile on your face. You start to smooth the creases on his shirt, “I heard them say the scouts are coming to your game on Friday, how are you feeling?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Your hand stills on his chest, “Logan? You haven’t looked at me since like this morning and you’re barely following along with this conversation.”
Logan blinks and looks down at you, a familiar soft smile replacing his concentrated expression. “Hey, yes. Sorry, my head’s still on the ice. Tough win. Come here.”
He pulls you in and places a quick kiss to your forehead.
“What do you want to eat?” you say into his chest, “I fancy some dumplings.”
“Hannah loves those.”
The response makes you jerk back out of his arms. “I’m sorry, what?”
You try to calm your heart, it was a harmless comment, you tell yourself, he’s just being thoughtful, he cares about his friends. It’s sweet.
“I just meant that maybe Hannah would want- Garrett and Hannah would want to join us.” His explanation does nothing to calm you, and the way he’s awkwardly shifting on his feet has your mind racing.
“Sure,” you say, lips pressed in a tight line.
Half an hour later, the four of you are sitting in the restaurant shovelling down dumplings. Logan can barely string together more than a couple of words at a time to say to you. It wasn’t always like this; he showered you with adoration and praise in the beginning. The air begins to feel sparse the more you think about how things have been lately.
You jump up, causing the table to shake and everyone to look at you. “I just need a minute,” you say.
Logan’s hot on your heels as you burst through the door and lean against the wall. The first gulp of fresh air hits you like a truck.
He doesn’t say anything as he watches you steady your breathing.
“Logan.” Your voice is barely a whisper but he still jumps. “Where’s your mind been lately?”
He looks away, suddenly finding the tree very interesting. “It’s here, with you.”
“No, it’s not.” Your voice rises. You don’t mean for the frustration to come out like this, especially not here, but you can’t take it anymore. “Your mind hasn’t been ‘with me’ for weeks now. Please, just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
You hate the desperation in your voice, but you don’t want to lose this. Don’t want to lose him. Relationships had their ups and downs, and the current state of yours was just one of the downs that you had to get through. He just had to talk to you.
Logan’s eyes snap to yours. They’re dark, swimming with a mixture of guilt and pure exhaustion.
“Sweetheart.” The nickname sounds cold on his lips. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
He takes a deep breath as he runs his hand through his hair. You reach out and take his hands into yours.
“Talk to me, Logan. Please,” you plead, your eyes searching his for any hints.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he repeats, “you’re perfect. You’ve been everything I could have asked for and more than I deserve. Can we just drop it?”
“What does that mean, Logan? What do you mean I’m more than you deserve.” Your chest tightens again, another wave of panic hitting your throat.
You watch as Logan takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching so tight you can see the muscle tick. He closes his eyes, taking another deep breath before looking at you. There are tears welling in his eyes. “I do… I do love you. It’s just… I’m not in love with you.”
“Oh,” you breathe a sigh of relief, it hurt but you could work through that. “Okay, well, we’ll get there eventually.”
“No, you’re not understanding.” It sounds like it pains him to utter these words. “Maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation here. Let me take you home and-”
“Logan,” you interrupt, irritation evident, “I’m really trying here but you’re not being straight with me. Whatever it is, just come out and say it.”
He pulls you away from the restaurant, around the corner and into a little alleyway.
“Don’t make me do this,” Logan pleads. A fire ignites in you, what are you making him do?
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I swear, you’ve been off ever since Garrett and Hannah got together, it’s almost like… Oh.” The puzzle pieces click together so fast it leaves you dizzy, the way he’d watch Hannah when she smiled or laughed, the longing in his eyes when she entered the room, the way his hand would hover over the screen when the group chat would talk about Hannah. It all made sense.
You think back to the night where you were all sitting around the dinner table, bellies full of Tucker’s cooking, Hannah had made a simple, offhanded, comment about how cereal was always better with warm milk. You watched as Logan’s eyes lit up, engaged in a spirited debate. You told yourself you were being silly, how wrong you were.
“Is this because of Hannah?” you whisper. Logan looks at you then, the pity in his eyes makes you want to throw up.
“Oh my god, how long?”
Logan lets out a broken, breathless sound, burying his face in his hands again. “I tried to get over it,” his words come out muffled. “I tried so hard, I swear to you. Garrett is my best friend. But I can’t move past her. Since they started dating, I couldn’t... We need to- I think we should break up.”
He has the audacity to look up at you in shock, as if he didn’t expect those words to come out of his mouth.
Despite being in open air, you feel like all the oxygen has been sucked up. You try to walk away but your legs fall from under you, you hadn’t realised how much you were shaking. Logan reaches out, trying to steady you.
Tears begin welling in your eyes, he goes to wipe them from your cheek, to comfort you out of conditioned habit. “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry-”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” you spit, flinching away from him.
“Please, just let me… this is not your fault.” His words do nothing to soothe you. His bottom lip is quivering and his body shaking with tiny sobs.
“You don’t get to make yourself feel better here. Fuck off.”
“Just let me go get our stuff and then I’ll drive you home.”
You nod your head in response, scared if you open your mouth, you’d do nothing but sob.
With one last look at you, he turns towards the restaurant.
You don’t wait for him to return; you simply turn on your heels and sprint down the road. Your shaky legs carrying you faster than you thought possible.
You can’t see anything, the tears that had built up in your eyes but haven’t yet flowed blocking your vision. You can’t hear anything, the words of your boyfriend, no ex-boyfriend, are ringing in your ears.
You know you can’t return home; that’s the first place Logan would check for you. And he would check for you.
Your body moves on its own volition, taking you to the next most familiar place in the area.
You wipe the tears from your face as you strut into Malone’s. You’re not here to be pitied.
The bar is loud, sticky, and smells of cheap beer and fried food. It’s disgusting, but it’s like home. You think back to all the great nights spent here. It’s giving you the much-needed comfort you desire.
You slide into the booth at the back of the bar. Closing your eyes, you immerse yourself into the music played by the band on stage. It’s not really your style, but it’s loud enough to distract you from any thoughts.
Songs blend into each other and only the occasional tear falls down your face. You know holding it in would make it worse for you later, but you just need to be allowed to avoid this.
Sometime later, you hear the sound of glasses being set on the table, and someone sliding into the booth in front of you. You look over, vision blurred with leftover tears. It’s Dean Di Laurentis, your former crush and Logan’s good friend.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is unusually rough, completely stripped of his usual teasing.
“Hey,” you say back. You look down at what he had placed in front of you. He had brought your favourite cocktail and a glass of water.
“I wasn’t sure which one you needed most at the minute, so I brought both.”
“That’s…thoughtful,” you sigh. “How did you know I was here?”
“Logan texted the group chat asking if anybody had heard from you. Then Hannah texted me saying that she was worried about you. She said you seemed upset and I know you like to come here when you’re upset.”
“Oh my God,” you choke out, the tears come flooding back. So much for being able to avoid this shit.
Dean doesn’t hesitate, he immediately gets up and slides into the booth next to you. He’s so close you can feel the warmth of his thigh against yours. You can smell the expensive cologne he likes to wear.
He reaches out with both hands to gently wipe at the tears running down your cheeks, his calloused thumbs feeling rough against your skin in a way that makes you swoon.
“Do you want me to call Logan? I think he’d want to be here for you.”
That brings out another sob from you, “Turns out, I’m not the one that Logan wants to be there for.”
You’re being unnecessarily cryptic, but you don’t want to say anything that could end up getting back to Garrett and Hannah, they deserve to be happy.
Dean’s hand pauses on your cheek for a second before he continues wiping at the dampness. You don’t see the flash of anger that crosses his face at your words. How stupid was Logan to lose you?
“Anything you want to talk about?” He asks through tight lips.
“No.”
Dean wraps his arm around you and pulls you tightly into his side. You bury your face in his chest, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt as you gently cry. He runs his hand along your arm.
You’re grateful he doesn’t spend any time defending Logan. He just gives you the time that you need. You alternate between wet, silent, sobs and loud hiccupped cries. It’s hard not to think about the situation when you’re being comforted over it.
“It hurts so much,” you whisper, “why wasn’t I enough?” You break down completely now, body convulsing as you cry heavily. There’s a wet patch where your tears are staining his shirt and your nose is running wildly, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t let you go.
“You are enough. You’re more than enough, you’re everything,” Dean says, each word heavy and deliberate.
You wipe your nose before looking up at him, you take him in for what feels like the first time. You never noticed how kind his eyes are. You avoided looking at him too much whilst you were with Logan. Loyalty meant everything to you.
He takes you in too. Your eyes are red and puffy. Your lips raw and swollen where you’ve been chewing on them. He looks down at your lips, then up to your puffy eyes, then back down again. It’s selfish of him to think about you in the way he is right now. He didn’t come to your aid in an attempt to win you whilst you were at your lowest. And he shouldn’t mistake your heart-break now for an invitation.
When Hannah had texted him, he dropped everything to be there for you. He wants to be here for you in the purest way possible but, looking at you now, the boundary he had spent months building is beginning to fall. Dean forces himself to look away from your lips.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to put you in this position, I know Logan’s your friend.”
“Anyone who treats you in this way is an idiot. Anyone. I’m happy to throw a punch if you need me to.”
You laugh between sobs.
“I’m serious,” he mumbles, “tell me what you need from me and I’ll give it to you. Anything.”
“I just need you to hold me.” Your words are vulnerable and shaky, scared you’ll be rejected for a second time tonight.
“Come here.” As he pulls you onto his lap, you swing your legs over his. He guides your head back down into him. Dean wraps his arms around you tightly, shielding you from the neon-lit chaos of the bar.
“Just breathe, I’ve got you.”
Dean rubs circles into your back; his other hand comes to your thigh. His thumb moves back and forth, giving you a physical comfort that you haven’t felt in months.
You finally feel like the tears no longer need to fall. Partly as you’re all cried out but partly because Dean’s soothed something into you. You’re content.
The band starts a new song; the loud crash of the drums makes you flinch. You appreciated the way the loudness hid your sobs before, but now you have a pounding headache.
Dean notices instantly, he pulls you back enough to be able to look down at you. “Let’s go.”
“I can’t go back to my room yet,” you choke out, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, “and I don’t want to go to the hockey house.”
“That’s fine,” Dean says flatly. “We’ll just drive around.” He lifts you out of the booth before sliding out. He puts some money down for the untouched drinks and guides you through the crowded bar, his massive frame cutting a path through the drunk partygoers.
The cold night air hits your face; it feels good after the warmth of the bar. He immediately guides you to his car, unlocking it, and opening the passenger door for you.
“In,” he commands softly.
You slide in, completely exhausted from the day. Dean closes the door, jogs around the hood, and climbs into the driver’s side. The engine purrs to life and he takes off. You don’t know where you’ll be going, but you know you’ll be safe wherever he takes you.
He doesn’t turn on the radio, you watch out of the passenger window in silence as streets pass you by. The reality of what’s happened is setting in, leaving a hollow, cold ache in your chest. You feel like you’re about to cry again.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel. He wordlessly extends his right hand across the console, palm up, a silent invitation.
You look at it for a long second before placing your hand in his. His large fingers instantly fold over yours, squeezing tightly.
The car’s dashboard screen lights up with a text notification, cutting through the darkness.
Logan (00:18): Dean, are you with her? I need to know she’s ok. I fucked up. She-
You can’t read the rest of the message. Your breath catches in your throat, suddenly very aware of your surroundings and the man you’re holding. You try to pull your hand back, a sudden surge of guilt hitting you, but Dean’s grip tightens. He doesn’t let you go.
Without taking his eyes off of the read, Dean gives you a promise, “I’ve got you.”
☄︎ Warnings: Angst, Heartbreak, Slow burn, Reader being oblivious, Sad thoughts / Unhealthy thought patterns
☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan, f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 4611
☄︎ AN: Thank you so soooo much for the response to the first part. It's inspired a series. I hope this is what you all had in mind when I said slow burn cause I'm thinking agonisingly slow 🧍🏽♀️
Waking up most mornings was hard, but waking up in the mornings after your break up with Logan feels next to impossible.
Every morning, you wake up aching. It’s a pain that infiltrates your dreams and has you waking up feeling like a weight has been placed on your chest. Your body reacts before your mind is even fully awake. When the grogginess fades, you feel like you go through every emotion on the spectrum but also, somehow, no emotion. Just hollowness.
Your dorm is too quiet; you were used to waking up to the sounds of hockey boys who didn’t know the meaning of inside voice. Now, the only sounds you hear are the sobs that tumble through your lips when you’re trying to cry silently.
Your room smells too clean; you were used to waking up to Tucker’s cooking or burnt toast when Logan got there first. Now, you wake up smelling the new room diffuser you brought, it wasn’t even a scent that you liked. It just had to be different. Familiar scents made you think of Logan. And cry.
Your body is too cold; you were used to waking up with arms wrapped around you. Now, you wake up clinging to a pillow, desperately trying to recreate the warmth you once felt.
You suppose you’ll have to learn to live like this. It’s been two days. You haven’t woken up to find that this was all one big nightmare. This is your reality now, even if your mind and body were trying to fight against it.
You flinch when your phone buzzes with another notification. It could be Logan, texting to try and explain the unexplainable. Your stomach flips violently, a sensation you’ve become all too accustomed to these days.
With two deep sighs, you force yourself up to sit. Your eyes are swollen, and a dull, familiar throbbing instantly starts behind your left eye. You look over to the nightstand and see the ice-pack and painkillers that Dean had pressed into your hands the other night when he dropped you back at your dorm. “It’s for the headaches,” he had told you, voice soft and deliberate. “Make sure you don’t take these on an empty stomach.” He was firm then.
In the last 48 hours, you had cried so much that your throat was raw. Sometimes no tears would come out, no sound would come out, your body just convulsing in the loneliness of your room. The headaches were always the worst then, and you find yourself grateful for Dean’s forward thinking.
Today won’t be like yesterday, you promise yourself. Today, you’ll do more than just cry the day away.
You rise slowly and walk over to your bathroom. The only benefit to the tears is the wonders it does for your skin, you think as you look in the mirror. You brush your teeth and have a quick breakfast, speed running basic tasks to get the over with.
Sitting down at your desk, you open your laptop. You have assignments to do, a future to build. You refuse to let a boy that didn’t know how to be a man to be the reason why you fail.
You don’t get up from your laptop until the sun sets outside. You didn’t expect you’d get lost in your assignments the way you had, but you’re not complaining. The closer to the end of the day it gets, the closer to the time where you can claim you hadn’t cried in an entire day. That’s progress.
Deciding to take a shower, you put a shower cap on and drag your feet into the bathroom. The moment the hot spray hits your back, the tension in your muscles seems to melt away. The water feels like a caress on your skin, wrapping around you and spreading warmth. The first warmth you’ve felt in days.
Still wrapped in your towel, you sit on the edge of your bed. Dressing always feels like such a chore.
Your phone vibrates again. The feeling in your stomach flips less violently this time. With all you’ve accomplished today, the crushing weight of the last couple of days feels like it’s lifting, if only slightly. You’re left craving connection. Not with Logan, you’re sure of that, but you do want to talk to someone.
Picking your phone up with shaky hands, you unlock it and immediately feel a wave of nausea hit you. You look at the phone app icon… 20 missed calls. You look at the messaging app icon… over 100 unread texts.
You scroll down your contact list until your thumb hovers over Dean’s name. He had told you to text him when you were ready and he wasn’t the kind of guy to say something he didn’t mean. Your fingers shake as you type the most vulnerable messages you ever have.
You (20:46): hey :)
You (20:46): i'm sorry to bother you but i could really use somebody rn.
You (20:47): could i come over? but like, secretly?
Dean’s reply is instant.
Dean (20:47): Come through my window.
Dean (20:47): Use the fire escape.
25 minutes later, you’re at the hockey house, standing in front of the fire escape leading to Dean’s room. The cool breeze of the night helps to calm your nerves. You had read back your message whilst getting dressed. “I could really use somebody rn” playing in your mind on repeat. You made this sound like a booty call.
You know you’re spiralling, panicking that your words have been misinterpreted, but you can’t stop your mind from racing. Does he think you’re coming here for that? Is that why he responded so quickly? Does this make you like Logan now, using people to heal your aching heart?
You consider turning back but your body feels frozen into place. You can’t go back to your dorm, that would be defeat, but you can’t bring yourself to face Dean with these thoughts in your head.
“Get a grip,” you mutter into the dimly lit path.
The sound of rustling startles you out of your thoughts. ‘Just a tree,’ you think to yourself. It’s followed by the sound of the back door opening. It’s definitely not a tree. If whoever it is comes around the corner, you’ll be spotted. You make a split-second decision, frantically climbing up the ladder.
The window is open as you climb up. Dean’s waiting for you, sat against the table under the window sill. You awkwardly fumble over the table as he guides you in.
He puts you gently on your feet and immediately steps back, dropping his hands from where they were around your waist.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.” The word comes out strained, like you’ve forgotten how to speak. It’s probably the first word you’ve spoken in two days, you realise.
As you look around his room, an undeniable feeling of tranquillity falls over you. The only light in the room is an orange-y lamp in the corner; it makes the room feel like a sunset. His room has personality, clearly lived in, but clean and organised. What kind of hockey boy kept a clean room?
It makes your mind immediately start to spiral again. Was this all for you because he thought he would be getting some? “Sorry.” Blurts out of your mouth before you can stop it.
Soft blue eyes turn to you and you look away immediately. “Hm?” Dean questions.
Your eyes fixate on his very interesting bookshelf. “I… I read back my message and think I might have led you on.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Dean’s voice remains soft. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see he’s still watching you. You feel overwhelmed.
“Just… I meant I need somebody to talk to. Not I need somebody. That’s a… different.” Rebound is the word you want to say but can’t, you don’t want to speak that idea into existence, to give him the chance to reject you.
A short laugh escapes him. He says your name with such a patience that it stirs something within you. “I know you. I know what you meant. I want to be- no, I will be here for you in whatever capacity you need. I know you need a friend, and a friend wouldn’t let you make any rash decisions fuelled by heartbreak.”
Rejection it is.
Dean doesn’t wait for you to respond, he goes to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the mattress of his bed. He pats the space next to him. You walk over and plop down next to him. Once sat, he shifts his body weight, leaning slightly into you, shoulders brushing.
Instead of leaning away, like your mind is telling you to, you lean into him. Head resting on his shoulder and his head resting on yours. Dean doesn’t pressure you to speak and a comfortable silence falls over you both.
It’s weird. Silence before had felt so heavy and turbulent. Silence now, in Dean’s presence, feels so stable. Even your mind, which is still racing, was being nicer.
Dean’s the first one to speak, his voice low and steady, “I still don’t know the details, and it’s okay if you never want to tell me, but I want you to know that you did nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this.”
“I know,” you whisper, it really is something you know, but it doesn’t change how it makes your heart squeeze to just think about it. “It just… hurts. Knowing he looked at me and wished I was someone else the entire time that we were together. How do you even… how could I-.”
Your bottom lip quivers, you’re determined to hold in your tears but a few stray ones betray you. You wipe them with your sleeve.
“That’s because he’s an idiot,” he whispers back, voice thick with raw emotion, “I don’t understand how anyone can have you and still ask for more. You’re…” Dean cuts himself off before he says too much. He thinks about how vulnerable you are and reminds himself that you’re only clinging to him now because you need him.
Silence falls over you both again. The tears stop flowing eventually & the world melts away in the little protective bubble you’ve created; surrounded by the smell of Dean. In here, nothing can get to you.
He’s so close that you can feel the heat radiating from him. You imagine from this position, it would be so easy to tilt your head back and press a kiss to his jaw… you jerk your head away, you shouldn’t be encouraging your delusions.
Dean looks at you, head tilted to the side in question. In that moment, you look at him fully for the first time since you entered his room. His dyed blonde hair that usually framed his face is slicked back. His piercing blue eyes are soft as they track your eye movements over his face. His nose is perfect and his lips are… swollen… and bruised. He sees your eyes squint as you focus on his lips.
“I got into a fight at the rink,” Dean confesses quietly. His eyes drift to his hands.
“At the rink?” You repeat slowly, trying to process why he sounds this guilty about a fight. To you, hockey players fought all the time on the ice, and you not-so-secretly find it hot as hell.
“Mhm,” Dean murmurs.
Then it dawns on you, “but there’s been no game since I last saw you… who did you fight with?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Logan.”
Your breath catches and you blink a few times at him, as if that will help you process what you’ve just heard. For the life of you, you cannot understand why he’d be fighting his teammate. “Dean… you… What? Why?”
“Cause he was an ass to you.” There’s no hint of regret or shame in his voice. It must be nice to be so confident.
“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment. You can’t remember the last time someone defended you like this, took a punch in your honour.
“Are you mad?” Dean asks, he’s smiling now, looking very proud of himself.
You look at his split lip, then up into his eyes. “That depends… did you at least get a good hit in?”
Dean’s grin is full and cocky as he turns to you. “Oh, yeah.”
Eye contact with Dean always feels electric. His eyes always soften as they take you in and a small smile pulls at his lips. You always find yourself smiling right back, unable to tear your gaze away.
Even before Logan broke your heart, it has been a while since you last felt anything like this. But then, you remind yourself, you’ve seen this look on Dean a thousand times directed at a thousand different women. He’s magnetic… and just helping a friend in need.
You look away, eyes roaming over the pictures lining his walls and on his dresser. “No way, is that-.”
Dean follows your line of sight; you’re looking at a picture taken earlier in the year. You remember parts of night vividly, other parts clouded by how wasted you were; it was the first hockey party you had ever attended. You had met Dean that day in class. He was going on and on about a costume party, and your friends had convinced you to go. In the picture, Garrett, Logan, and other hockey guys you don’t recognise are in the foreground posing for the picture. In the background… you and Dean are there… doing body shots. Your tongue is shoved into his belly button.
“Oh my God, how mortifying!”
“You’re going to love this,” he jokes as he jumps to his feet and eagerly runs to the drawers. He slides the top one open, rummages through a pile of what you can only assume to be junk, and pulls out the tiara made of tinsel that you were wearing in the picture.
“Oh my god,” you groan, face falling into your hands as a flush of heat hits your cheeks. “I looked for that for ages, why do you have it!”
“I seem to recall a song that you liked came on, you wanted to dance, and I was threatened into keeping watch of it.” Memories flash into your mind. “I was told I could lose a thing between my legs that I’m very precious of, if I didn’t hold on to this for you until you asked for it back.”
Dean looks at you, you look at Dean. You do remember this. In fact, you remember having spent most of that night attached to the hip. The only time you weren’t with him laughing, drinking, or dancing, was the five minutes you spent in the bathroom.
His eyes drop to look at the tinsel tiara in his hands, then back up at you. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, contemplating what he says next. He’s trying to push your just far enough away from the negative thoughts that he can bring about a smile, but he doesn’t want to overstep. He wouldn’t take that chance now.
“You left me with a tiara and no princess.” He looks at you, measuring your reaction. It’s partly true, you and Logan had started dating shortly after that night.
You let out a breathless laugh, the pain from earlier quickly being replaced with something much lighter. “Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis,” you say, deliberately drawing out every syllable of his name. “You’ve always had my number; you could have returned my tiara at any time.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth rises into that effortless, devastatingly handsome smirk he gives when he wants to have someone wrapped around his finger. “Pretty sure Logan wouldn’t have liked me showing up at your dorm to play dress-up.”
You roll your eyes; a real laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, please, since when do you care what other guys think?” This feels… fun and what’s a bit of harmless fun between friends?
“Fair point,” Dean concedes smoothly, he has a playful glint in his eyes, “but I do care what you think and you gave me very clear instructions. I’m nothing if not a rule follower.”
“Oh, are you?” You challenge, crossing your arms and arching an eyebrow.
“Mhm, a real do as you’re told kind of guy.” Even as he says this, he raises the crooked tinselled tiara above his head. Dean holds your gaze before slowly lowering the tinselled tiara down onto his hair. He’s challenging you right back.
Your eyes widen in fake shock. “Isn’t that like treason? Pretty sure I could have you arrested for that.”
“Well, are you going to come and arrest me then?” He challenges.
You shake your head and wag your finger at him. There’s harmless, then there’s that.
“Fine.” Dean rests the tiara on his head. There’s something so funny to you about it. He is wearing a tight tank top, his shoulder muscles and biceps bulging as he dramatically twirls around with the tiara on his head.
“You look ridiculous,” you say between laughs. You haven’t laughed this hard in a while, it feels like you’re doing an ab workout.
“Yes, but I’m also really hot, so it cancels out.”
That makes you laugh harder. You’re trying to keep quiet; the walls aren’t that thick. But the fact that you haven’t laughed in so long is making everything 10x funnier.
Dean watches you laugh with a soft expression. His cocky grin gone. He’s missed the sound of your laugh. Looking down at you, shaking with laughter, he feels a wave of clarity hit him. He wants to tell you. He wants you to know that he’ll do anything to make you laugh and keep you laughing. If that means he needs to twirl in a sparkly tiara, he’ll do that until his feet burn.
“I need some evidence of how you stole-.”
“-Guarded.”
“Stole my tiara.”
You reach into your pocket; grabbing your phone and aiming the camera at him. He immediately goes into a body builder pose, lifting one arm above the other. He pouts and raises an eyebrow, doing his best to smoulder. You take a few snaps as he throws out a few more poses.
“The fans will love a versatile king,” he says, shaking his hair as if he was trying to sweep it out of his face, “post it.”
Dean walks back over and slides back down on the floor next to you, taking his place at your side.
“You want me to post you?” You question, laughter still tickling you. “Look at this mess.”
You lean the phone over to him, scrolling through the pictures you took when a notification banner pops up across the top of the screen.
It’s Logan.
You don’t read the message, quickly locking the screen and slamming the phone down face-first on the floor. The mood dies immediately. Beside you, Dean’s mood changes too, he takes off the tiara and places it beside him.
It’s like you can physically feel the weight of Dean’s swallow; his jaw is tight, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “You haven’t blocked him?”
“I- no.” You have no further explanation beyond that. As your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you desperately wish you had. Dean must be thinking how pathetic you are to be holding out hope of reconciliation.
But you know, you believe, that that isn’t the reason you haven’t blocked him. You know you could never take him back after this. But a fragile part of you doesn’t want to let this go.
Deep down, you think it’s because maybe Logan will message to tell you that it was all a big, cruel, practical joke. At least then you’d get your dignity back and stop feeling so unworthy.
Deeper down, in a place you are too scared to face, you think it’s because blocking him will bring the end to this chapter, the chapter where Briar hockey boys have a place in your life. You’re scared to burn the only bridge that connects you to them. To all of them, but especially to Dean.
“Do you want to block him?” Dean’s voice cuts through the suffocating silence. Your eyes drift over to him and you’re surprised to see no hint of judgement in him. He’s genuinely just asking.
You nod your head. You can’t speak; your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.
“Let me help you.” He reaches his hand out for your phone; you unlock it and give it to him. Closing your eyes, your head falls back against the mattress. This is exhausting. You want to pretend like this isn’t happening.
“Done,” Dean calls gently, “and I didn’t mean to snoop, but I think you should respond to your friends. Hannah, Allie, Tucker… they care about you.”
Your eyes snap open, your head lifts from the mattress, your exhaustion being replaced by sheer panic. “Tucker… Tucker messaged me? Does he know?”
Dean gives you a small, reassuring nod, handing your phone back to you. “Logan’s been scowling for days. You haven’t been around. He’s perceptive. I think he just wants to know that you’re okay and that you’re eating. None of us know the details, so don’t worry about that.”
The negative emotions within you are pushed out again, replaced by a wave of an emotion that you couldn’t place. While Logan had spent months making you feel invisible, you had a group of people behind you noticing that you weren’t around. Maybe blocking Logan wouldn’t mean burning that bridge.
“They’re going to ask questions though,” you murmur. Your eyes seek his, looking for the sense of comfort you feel when lost in Dean’s eyes. “And I can’t- I don’t have the energy to explain.”
“Then don’t,” he says simply, eyes locked onto yours. “Tell them you’re okay, you’re with me, and you’ll talk to them tomorrow. They won’t push.”
You snort and roll your eyes. “Really? You think neither Allie or Tucker would push if I tell them I’m with you when it’s almost midnight and haven’t spoken to anyone in days?”
A low rumbling laugh comes from Dean. “Okay. Fair. They’ll probably both accuse me of kidnapping you… but you know what let them. I’m not scared of Tucker. And Allie…” He pauses, a genuine hesitation, “Okay, I’m a little scared of her but whatever. Tell them.”
Dean shrugs it off but you know for a fact he’s a least a little intimidated by Allie. Everyone is.
“Why do you want them to know we’re together so bad?”
“Because… it will help them sleep better knowing you’re okay. Knowing you’re safe.”
“True,” you respond.
A small ache forms in your chest, leaving you feeling a little defeated. Your silly little heart is trying to find romance where it isn’t. He’s being a good friend. That’s all this is.
You shoot off two quick texts, one to your group chat with the girls and the other to Tucker. It’s the same to both: i’m okay, w Dean, talk tomorrow. Love u
“There, sent. Better now?” You say, turning off your phone and setting it down on the floor.
“I’m proud of you, I know that wasn’t easy.” You know there’s a serious, protective, side to Dean, but it always catches you off guard when he stops being the easy-going pretty boy.
The door swings open seconds later without a curtsey knock; you jump and throw yourself against Dean’s side, hiding your face from whatever intruder it is. They can’t know you’re here.
Dean’s arm instantly comes up, half-shielding your frame.
“Tucker, close the damn door,” Dean whisper shouts, Tucker’s just standing in the doorway, chest heaving as if he’s just run up the stairs.
You look up in time to see Tucker slide in and close the door behind him with a soft click. “No, you get out and close the damn door.”
Tucker completely ignores Dean, running over and pulling you into a fierce hug, he squeezes so hard you feel breathless. “It’s really good to hear from you.” He pulls back to look at you, “Logan’s in my bad books right now, so if you want me to ‘accidentally’ check him into the boards at practice tomorrow, I absolutely can.”
A faint laugh bubbles up your throat; you would actually love to see that but you’re committed to remaining mature. “Oh, no, that’s so sweet of you but it’s ok.”
“It’s really no problem; I was planning on doing it anyway,” Tucker replies easily, flashing you a toothy smile. He pats your shoulder before standing up and walking back toward the door. “You have a lovely night, okay? And you,” he says, pointing at Dean, “behave.”
“What did I do?” Dean exclaims, raising his hands in protest, but Tucker’s already gone.
The energy Tucker brought into the room is gone now. It’s just you and Dean again, having gone through the rollercoaster of emotions you had. You lean your head back against the mattress again, your eyes slowly closing. Today has been a lot for you, an entire mountain to climb. Not all of it was bad, a faint smile ghosts your lips when you think of Dean twirling in the tiara, but the sheer weight of your emotional exhaustion has manifested into bone-deep physical exhaustion. You hope he doesn’t kick you out, the idea of falling asleep inside this house again is lulling you to sleep easily. You don’t think you could fall asleep this easily back at your dorm.
Beside you, Dean gets up and walks over to his dresser. He quietly pulls open a drawer. When he turns back to you, he’s holding a worn-in Briar baggy shirt and some shorts. “You take the bed,” he murmurs.
Even if you wanted to argue with him, you simply don’t have the energy to. Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you and begins pulling out a spare pillow and blanket from his closet. He remains with his back turned, so you change quickly and slide beneath his heavy duvet. The sheets smell of something so distinctly Dean and you smile as you breathe it in.
“Can I turn?” You realise you’ve just been watching his back.
“Oh! Yes, sorry.”
He places the blanket and pillow on the floor, and goes to settle down. “Absolutely not,” you say, causing him to freeze on his way down to the floor. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. We can share the bed, we’re adults.”
Dean looks up at you. Even in the dim light of the room, his eyes look like they shine. The corner of his mouth twitches, “are you sure you can keep it in your pants?”
You roll your eyes, a sleepy twitch of your lips, “are you?”
He turns off the lamp and lays down on the bed next to you, keeping a respectful distance away from you. He stays above the duvet, using the blanket to keep himself warm. You recall a good night being whispered and you’re sure you respond.
When you next open your eyes, the room is being lit by the sun shining through the window. Dean is already awake when you wake up. He’s on his back, one arm bent behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. Sensing your movement, he turns his head to look at you.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks, voice raspy and heavy with morning.
For the first time in two days, you’re able to say you slept well.
✰ description: sometimes plans unravel in the most unexpected ways, and the moments you never see coming turn out to be the ones that matter most. in the chaos of victory and love, a carefully held secret finds its perfect, dazzling release.
✰ pairing: bengals!joeburrow x singer!reader // you are in love masterlist
✰ a/n: pushing the joe is careless when he's emotional as fuck agenda day by day. i hope this comes across how i envisoned in my head!!
M&T Bank stadium still hummed with the aftershock of triumph, a low, living thrum that clung to the seats and rose from the turf like heat from sun-baked concrete. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it, the kind of resonance that settles in your bones and refuses to let go. It wasn’t just a win; it was the kind of victory that rippled outward, startling the country, shifting the whole narrative in a single night. It was the kind of raw, unfiltered joy that was lodged in your chest, pressed against your ribs, making it hard to breathe and impossible to look away. The John Madden Thanksgiving celebration table sat just a few feet away from him as he parted the crowd like the red sea, wide-eyed and utterly ensconced in quiet wonder, emotions threatening to take control of him: the glistening turducken centered like a trophy, the sides arranged with almost ceremonial precision, the whole iconic spread glowing under the unforgiving lights. It made the moment feel larger than life, steeped in history and childhood dreams.
It felt like the world had paused for him, for this, the culmination of a childhood fantasy and a nearly impossible comeback folded together into one electric, sacred sliver of time.
He stood among it all, helmet off, curls flattened in places from the sweat that was still cooling along the nape of his neck. A black beanie concealed the mess that was his hair, meant to tame the strands but also shield him from the chilled Baltimore air. His cheeks were flushed, skin hot from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something far more fragile sitting just beneath the surface. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the tail-end of the game’s intensity still pulsing through him. His teammates drifted around him, shouts echoing through the open-air expanse, but Melissa’s voice cut through the chaos like a direct line. “Joe,” she called, angling the camera towards him for an interview, “Look around here. We were talking about how crazy this is. But what is this moment? You know, take in this moment on Thanksgiving night. What are you most grateful for?”.
Joe drew in a long, shaky inhale, the kind he took only when he was trying to gather himself and his thoughts, trying not to let the world see how heavy his heart felt. His voice had already gone rough from the game, from the shouting and the yelling he hadn’t done in nearly two and a half months, but now it carried something deeper, a rasp born of emotion sitting high in his throat. His eyes shimmered under the bright lights, not quite with tears, but not quite dry either, catching the golden stadium glow like they were reflecting the entire night back at him. He blinked slowly, lashes wet, and when he exhaled, it wasn’t a smile or a laugh or even disbelief; it was something softer, something that was cracked open within him. Something human. Something raw. Something that made the air around him feel suddenly quieter, more intimate, despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.
His gaze swept the stadium, taking in the stands still buzzing with orange and black, the sideline commotion, the sky splintered with the remnants of fireworks. He had dreamed of this exact night since he was a boy: Thanksgiving football. Prime time. The whole country watching. And now he was standing in it, after clawing his way back from ten weeks of pain and hell and uncertainty. Every muscle in him still hummed with that memory, the rehab, the fear of setbacks, the quiet nights studying film knowing he couldn’t play yet, and the relief of finally being back felt almost…overwhelming.
“I’ve always wanted to play on Thanksgiving night,” he said, voice warm but pulled tight, a little breathless, carrying the weight of every dream he’d ever held as a kid watching games on the couch, imagining himself in the stadium under those bright lights. Every syllable trembled slightly, the grind of his voice thickened by energy, but also fatigue that he hadn’t felt in what felt like years, and the mere relief of just being back on the field. “I’m just…most grateful to all the people in my life that helped me through these last ten weeks,”. His throat closed up mid-sentence, and he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple jumping as if each word cost him something. It wasn’t just gratitude; it was the culmination of fear, determination, and months of doubt, all coiled up inside him and spilling out now. “Certainly wasn’t easy for me,” he added, voice quieter. Every word he spoke carried memory: from the lonely nights of rehab, to the endless repetition of drills, or the frustration of seeing what he couldn’t do, and even the ache of wondering if he’d ever come back the same. It was a quiet nod to every sleepless night, every tiny victory, every hurdle, every person who had stayed patient and steadfast with him while he clawed his way forward.
He let out a small, half-laugh that sounded more like a release than amusement, a sound that was almost musical in its fragility. It was the laugh of someone who had been holding his chest together for too long, letting the tension go in one breath, one tiny exhalation. He knew how difficult this was for him, how it had tested his patience, his body, his mind, which meant he understood, at a visceral level, how difficult it had been for those around him, the people who loved him, who had worried silently and worked tirelessly to lift him up. That laugh carried both humility and recognition. He wasn’t standing here alone. Every hand that had held him up, every voice that had encouraged him, every sacrifice they’d made had led to this.
His hand went instinctively to the back of his neck, rubbing the damp skin there, grounding himself the way he always did when he was on the brink of feeling too much. “You know, all the things that I’ve been through in my career so far…,” he shook his head, voice faltering as he pushed through it. “I’ve got people that just want the best for me and work really hard to put me in great position to go and play well, get back out on the field,”. Another breath. Raspy. Heavy. The kind that said more than the words ever could; that said “I didn’t know if I’d make it back in time,” that said “I fought like hell for this,”.
“Physical therapists, trainers, doctors. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these,” he added, almost under his breath, the humor in the line soft and worn around the edges. He blinked hard, once, twice, looking up at the lights like he was trying to keep the tears right where they were—not falling, not yet—not here, not now, not in front of the country. But the emotion sat stubbornly in the corners of his eyes. When he finally looked back at Melissa, the smile he offered was small, trembling at the edges, vulnerable in a way only people who truly loved him would recognize. “And…,” his voice dipped lower, gentler. “It’s fun. It’s just fun to be back out here with the guys and experiencing this,”. He said it like it was the simplest truth in the world, like beneath all the pressure, all the expectations, all the cameras and narratives and scrutiny, he was still just a man who loved the game. A man who missed his team. A man whose heart finally felt steady again.
Melissa nodded, giving him space to breathe, space to sit in it—ten weeks of pain and pressure and doubt crashing into one night of glory spearheaded by him. Everyone around them could sense it too, the way his presence had bent the entire sport back into shape tonight, the way the field itself seemed to shift under the gravity of his return. What he did out there wasn’t just skill; it was the unmistakable signature of a rare, high-caliber player, the kind who alters narratives and restores hope simply by stepping onto the turf. And tonight, everyone witnessed that truth. He blinked again, more rapidly now, and you could see the red gathering at the rims of his eyes. His voice had grown hoarse, ragged at the edges, and when he spoke again….
He didn’t even notice the shift in himself.
He didn’t notice that he was about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross.
He didn’t notice he was seconds away from changing both of their lives.
“And...I’m thankful for all my loved ones and friends. I have a really great support system,” his tone steadied for a brief second, but only barely, the slightest shake still threading through the words. His eyes flicked briefly toward the suite, toward the people who had cheered him on, who had sent messages that made him feel like he wasn’t alone in this, who had waited and hoped alongside him for every minute of those ten weeks. “I’ve been through a lot this season, a lot in my life, a lot just trying to get back out there,” he admitted, “And it’s because of them, because of all of them, that I can stand here tonight, feeling…alive, complete, ready to play the game I love. I can’t say enough about how much that means,”.
His eyes then shifted. Not from the suite, but just from who he was looking at.
His eyes found her.
Radiant and untouchable, the melody in the background of his chaos, the chorus that carried him home, the center of his world, his calm in every storm, the quiet fire that had always drawn him back, his love, his woman, his angel, a song he could never forget.
“But, you know, those people make a group effort for you,” he continued, eyes softening as a blush crept up his face. “Sometimes there’s one person, just one, whose influence eclipses everything else, whose presence shifts the entire axis of your life,”.
“Which is why I’m most thankful for my fiancée.”
The words tumbled out of him, effortless and careless in a way that only true emotion could allow. There was no hesitation, no pause to consider the significance or the optics, no trace of rehearsed diction. It wasn’t a proclamation. It wasn’t a calculated reveal like they had planned to do. It was simply him. Heart-first, reckless, untamed. The way his voice carried it, light with a boyish awe and threaded with the relief of victory, made it feel like a private truth spilled into the public world by accident, but without a trace of regret.
This was the way he always was when his emotions took the wheel. It had happened the first time he told her he loved her, that first night in his new house, snuggled in the comfort of their silly blanket fort, a quiet confession that slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, leaving both of them stunned and breathless. It had happened again, the first time he told her he wanted this—her, them, their life together—for real, a private truth that had been too heavy to hold in any longer, escaping in the only way he knew: carelessly, with sincerity, completely unguarded.
And here it was again, spilling into the open air of the stadium, across cameras, across the eyes of the entire world, in a single, simple word that left no room for doubt. Happiness had loosened every guard he had, unraveling his usual apprehension in sharing anything too important about his private life because of his fear that it would be taken away by forces outside of his control, in favor of unbridled euphoria. He was so ridiculously, so completely content in that moment—back on the field, thriving, and looking directly at the person who had been his anchor through every hard day, every painful setback, every night he stayed awake because he couldn’t get his brain to turn off.
It wasn’t meant to shock anyone. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own, and maybe hers. The word floated in the air, shimmering as though it carried a light of its own, impossible to ignore, impossible to retract. It felt like the first real breath after weeks of holding back, like the first sight of a sunbeam cutting through an endless storm. The joy in his chest made him reckless in the most authentic, endearing way: heart-eyed, unabashed, and completely, completely in love with his person.
He lifted his hand, almost absent-mindedly, waving toward the suite with the kind of sincerity that couldn’t be faked. His eyes softened, corners crinkling with laughter, and because he was thinking of her. The movement was fluid, uncalculated, the natural motion of a man pointing to the epicenter of his universe without a single thought of anyone else watching.
“She’s sitting right up there with our family,”.
Our family.
It was just her, his parents, and some of their friends.
But he said our family.
His words came to him as if they were as casual as breathing, as inevitable as the truth of what he felt every day. They had been waiting quietly, patiently, nestled in the corners of his heart for months, ever since that sweltering July night in Portofino—the night he had proposed, the night the summer heat had made everything shimmer and pulse with a kind of magic that had stayed with him ever since. And now, finally, they emerged on their own terms, carried with such unassuming force that the stadium felt it, the cameras captured it, and millions of people at home heard it as plainly as if they were standing right there beside him.
The camera followed his gesture, panning slowly upward to the suite, capturing the moment in full clarity. The fans who were still in the stadium gasped, a ripple of surprise running like electricity through the remaining crowd. Murmurs bounced across the stands, a collective double-take from thousands of eyes, hearts skipping in unison. But it wasn’t just the stadium; the moment had already exploded beyond it. Millions of fans across the entire world, at home, in bars, on social media feeds, glued to their screens, paused mid-sentence, mid-scroll, mid-laugh, frozen in disbelief.
“Fiancée? Since when?”
“Did he just say what I think he said?”
“I knew it! I called it all along!”
“Oh. My. God.”
“They're getting married!”
It’s remarkable how a single word could ignite a wildfire. Spoken with effortless mitigation, it carried none of the hesitation, none of the caution he usually wore like armor. Not that he hadn’t whispered it countless times in private, not that it wasn’t already theirs, but now it spilled into the public sphere like a bolt of lightning—bright, impossible to ignore, charged with what felt like lifetimes of love and quiet devotion.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, collectively suspended in the gravity of Joe’s words, caught in the brilliance of that simple, devastating declaration, existing only in that gesture, that smile, that simple wave pointing to the person who had always been on his mind, even in moments that were solely about him. It was effortless and explosive all at once, a casual reveal that no one, not the fans, not the announcers, not the millions watching remotely, could ignore. Even the commentators were momentarily dumbfounded, voices catching as they tried to process what had just happened. The stadium lights, the celebration, the lingering echoes of victory—everything faded to the background. All that remained was that word, that wave, that sheer, unfiltered, careless joy that was Joe in the purest, happiest form anyone had ever witnessed.
Joe’s teammates, still lingering nearby, couldn’t contain themselves. They leaned into one another, laughter spilling freely, shaking their heads in disbelief, nudging each other with knowing smirks and half-whistles. “Dude…did he just—?” Mike muttered under his breath, eyes wide, trying not to laugh too loudly. Chase chuckled, elbowing Mitchell, “Bro…he didn’t even think about it, did he? Just…said it,” a low whistle escaped from the corner of the group, and Ja’marr added, shaking his head with a grin, “Oh this boy’s crazy, she gon’ have words for him later,”.
He wasn’t aware of the things they were saying, the audience, the headlines, the chaos his words had just created. He was just trapped in the golden haze of happiness, the kind that came from winning, from being back, from loving someone who had been his constant. His eyes shone, rimmed with the faintest glimmer of tears he hadn’t bothered to brush away anymore, and his grin spread slowly, deliberately, unraveling every thread of stress, worry, and exhaustion that had wrapped around him for weeks. Nothing mattered but the truth in that word, the person he pointed to, and the excitement that had poured unchecked from his heart for the world to witness. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was her.
“She’s my best friend,” he continued, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched Ja'marr's face shrivel up in mock offense.
She truly was; even his oldest friends knew this fact. He laughed with her until his stomach hurt, made silly jokes that only she found funny, and got completely wrapped up in nerding out about everything from superluminal time travel to the most ridiculous pop culture obsessions, because she got him in a way no one else ever could. Around her, his smile went completely loopy, eyes lighting up in that easy, playful way that made him look impossibly happy and impossibly in love all at once.
And it wasn’t just the big things, it was never just the big things. He glowed every single time her name lit up his phone screen, the kind of glow his teammates pretended not to notice because it was embarrassingly obvious, the kind that made him look sixteen again and hopelessly in love. His heart still did that ridiculous little kick every time he pushed open the door and found her there—curled up on the couch, humming in the kitchen, half-asleep in one of his hoodies—whatever version of her the universe handed him, he always paused for a beat like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. He’d just stand there and take her in, soft and stunned, wearing that small, private smile that only existed for her. And even after all this time, after everything they’d weathered and built and held onto together, he was still endlessly, stupidly, head-over-heels excited just to be near her, like loving her had never stopped feeling brand new.
“My favorite person in the world. My rock,” he spoke before he let out a sigh, the kind of sigh that came from being so infatuated with a person that just thinking about it made his heart hurt. And it wasn’t for the cameras, not for the millions watching, but again, simply because thinking of her always did that to him. His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his neck melting away, and the strain across his brow smoothed, as if her presence, even from afar, could hold him steady like a warm, invisible hand.
“I don’t think I would have made it through any of this without her constant support and patience. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around when things like this happen, but she pushed past all of that every single day with me. Made sure I didn't lose myself to the game too much,” he added, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he exhaled through the memory of all those days, the text messages checking in while he was rehabbing, the flowers she sent to the staidium every week for ten weeks straight, the quiet encouragement that had carried him when his own confidence was on the verge of dwindling. His breath wavered, hitching just once, almost imperceptible, and yet it was enough to reveal the depth of everything he felt, the tenderness that he usually kept buried behind his focus and intensity. “She’s really the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me,” he said next. There was no pretense here, no careful wording, no performative tone. It was him, completely exposed, as though he were letting the world look straight into the core of his heart.
“And I don’t need a holiday to show that I’m thankful for her, but since the opportunity is there…” his lips curved into a gentle, earnest smile, fragile yet luminous, the kind that could soften an entire room without a single word beyond it.
“This win’s just for her.”
Meanwhile…
She was perched casually in the suite, one arm draped lazily over the back of the plush plum colored couch, the other cradling a crystal-clear glass of sparkling water that caught the stadium lights and fractured them into tiny, dancing prisms across her fingers. She wore the vintage Bengals sweatshirt she’d grabbed from Abercrombie just days ago, the deep orange and black hugging her in all the right places, a perfect blend of comfort and understated pride. A black mini skirt and sheer black tights completed the look, sparkling subtly under the soft glow of the overhead lights, while her custom boots—sleek, polished leather engraved with Joe’s number and signature—completed the outfit in quiet, personal significance. Her hair tumbled in loose, carefree waves, catching stray flashes of light as she shifted slightly, brushing her shoulders in a lazy cascade of soft curls. She leaned back just enough to be comfortable, turning occasionally to chat with his parents and close friends, smiling warmly, laughter slipping easily between them as she took gentle sips of her drink.
The suite hummed with a layered, living warmth. The kind that only followed a desperately needed win. Voices overlapped in soft waves: Robin was laughing into her phone, updating family members who couldn’t make it to the game, her excitement bursting through each breathless sentence; Jimmy stood at the glass with his arms folded, gaze fixed on the field below, wearing the proud, quiet smile only a father could. The Thanksgiving Turkey celebration replayed on the TV in the corner, the players' voices drifting through the room in cheerful ribbons of noise, each highlight bursting in flashes of orange and black.
But all of it blurred at the edges for her.
She felt suspended in this strange, tender pocket of stillness, present but invisible, part of the room but floating just outside of it, as though everything around her moved at a different pace than she did. The bright hum of postgame energy washed past her while her focus held steady, anchored entirely and unwaveringly on him. The world buzzed, celebrated, carried on around her, and yet her heart beat to the rhythm of just one presence, one gravitational pull.
Joe.
Throughout the game, she had been a careful observer, eyes flicking between the field and the scoreboard, heart thudding with every snap, every throw, every breakaway run. The adrenaline of the crowd and the tension in the stadium were mirrored in her own pulse, an unrelenting drum that tightened and loosened with each play. She cheered, clapped, and laughed, but there was a constant undercurrent of worry threading through her excitement—for his health, for the injury that had sidelined him for weeks, for the intensity of the night and the pressure he carried on his shoulders.
She’d been proud, but every completed pass, every scramble, every touchdown had sent a surge of relief and joy coursing through her, mixed with a careful, almost protective anxiety. By the fourth quarter, she realized she had been holding her breath nearly the entire time, and when the final whistle blew, a rush of elation and exhaustion collided inside her. Watching him win, back where he belonged, better than ever and absolutely unstoppable, she felt an overwhelming mix of pride, love, and a kind of breathless awe she could barely put into words.
And of course, the cameras had found her throughout the night. They panned to her a few times—naturally, inevitably—because her name carried importance that you couldn't just push under the rug for one night, because stardom had its own gravity in a place like this. Each time, she managed a small smile, poised and polite. But what steadied her most was the moment a familiar melody drifted through the stadium speakers during a break. One of her songs. She felt her breath loosen, her shoulders drop just a little. Because she knew him. She knew that somewhere down on that field, even in the haze of adrenaline and pressure, the sound of her voice, though just a recording, just a chorus, would help him breathe a little easier too.
Everything felt perfect for the first time in a long time. For a moment, she felt like she was just a girl. Just his girl—not an internationally renowned musician, the woman with a stadium-sized spotlight shadowing her every step—watching the man she loved living out his childhood dream, glowing under the stadium lights in a way that made her chest ache with adoration.
And then…she heard Joe’s voice fill the suite, drifting from the TV mounted on the wall.
A mischievous, eager smile lifted her lips, already anticipating the moment that was about to unfold. She knew in her bones that Joe would never touch a single bite of the spread without first scrutinizing its origin. He was impossibly particular, impossibly careful; nothing passed his lips without the assurance of who made it and where it came from, and she found the thought impossibly endearing.
But before any of that could settle, a single moment hit her like a lightning strike.
She heard it before she fully registered it. His breath when he said it. His smile. His drawl. His softness. The word.
Fiancée.
The sound of it slipped into her like a chill on a winter's night. Her hand froze mid-sip, suspended halfway to her lips. Her mouth went dry in an instant, the kind of dryness that felt like her soul had short-circuited. Her glass wobbled dangerously between her fingers—a tilt, a slip, the faintest tremble—threatening to spill straight onto the pristine white carpet. Her heart did this ridiculous, panicked stutter, skipping a beat and then racing to catch up, and for a split second, the entire world seemed to mute itself around her. “Oh my god,” she said out loud, stunned, breathless, barely aware of the sound leaving her own mouth. “Did he just…?”.
She turned numbly toward his parents, wondering if they knew about him doing this, but instead caught the exact moment their faces shifted into that perfect, chaotic mixture of glee and shock. Wide eyes, hands flying to mouths, eyebrows shooting up like someone had detonated a confetti cannon in the suite. The room, which had been buzzing with laughter just seconds ago, collapsed into stunned silence. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the glass, squeezing so hard she nearly dropped it. Her brain felt like it was losing connection, glitching, flipping through disbelief and awe and panic all at once.
This wasn’t the plan.
They had agreed, agreed, to soft-launch it next week. They had walked through every detail together, sitting cross-legged on their couch in the soft glow of a late-night lamp, mapping out a plan that felt gentle and private and theirs. Tonight was supposed to be only about him. That had been her wish from the beginning. He’d worked too hard, fought too long, bled for every inch of this comeback; she wanted the spotlight to be his and his alone. That’s why she had told him, insisted, really, in that playful but immovable way she used on him when she was protecting him, that she’d casually wear the ring during the next home game. She’d act like she didn’t notice the cameras, like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, let the internet slowly catch fire in that controlled, graceful burn: whispers first, then theories, then the inevitable frenzy.
A perfect slow ignition.
Then, once everything was buzzing but still manageable, they would announce it officially days later. Clean. Calm. Strategic. Something they could shepherd together, hand in hand, without the chaos of surprise. But now, he’d done something nobody had seen coming. He’d blown it open with one careless, but love-soaked slip, tossing the word into the world like a match into a field of dry grass.
He just, he had said it so casually. So casually. Like it was nothing. Like the word wasn’t a seismic, life-altering revelation to the entire world. Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would detonate across every social media platform within seconds. And in that casualness was the dizzying, sickening beauty of it; the exact way he’d always been when he was really, truly happy. She’d realized this quality from the very first night they’d met, when joy loosened every guard in his body, made him reckless with emotion, made the truth of his heart spill out before he even realized he’d opened his mouth. He didn’t calculate this as he did with everything in his life; he didn’t make a single plan—he felt, and he spoke.
That was who he was with her.
And God, seeing it happen like this, so pure, so vulnerable, made her knees go weak.
She felt a full-body swirl of disbelief and elation, a woozy, stomach-dropping rush that burned through her like champagne bubbles rising too fast. This was him. Her Joe. Her impossibly earnest, impossibly sincere man, who defaulted to honesty when he was overwhelmed with feeling. Her man, who was so in love, so proud, so cracked-wide-open with happiness that he’d let something like that slip without even realizing.
Awe unfurled in her chest, breath-stealing, luminous awe. “Wow. He’s really…he’s so?” she thought.
So in love that he might stop breathing. So unfiltered. So undone by this high he was on that his heart spoke faster than his head.
And he didn’t even know.
“We’re as stunned as you are, sweetie,” Robin smiled after placing a comforting hand on her’s, assuring her that it was going to be just fine, though she honestly wasn’t worried about it; she was just…shocked. “Joey can be…loose-lipped when you’d least expect,”.
She let out a soft chuckle as she nodded, telling Robin she knew all about Joe’s tendency to drop a bomb at the most unpredictable moment, before she felt her phone start vibrating like it had a heartbeat of its own. One buzz. Two buzzes. Three. She fumbled to pull it out, but stopped mid-motion, a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude that this many people actually cared. There were texts from her assistant, her agent, her publicist, and friends and family. Alerts from her manager, from the NFL network, from news outlets, from her socials. Social media accounts she hadn’t even followed were blowing up. The internet was literally imploding, and the mere volume of messages and posts made it impossible to keep up. She couldn’t even look. She didn’t want to.
All she could stare at was the headline on her screen: FROM PRIME TIME TO LIFETIME 🥂 SHE SAID YES!
“That was fast,” she whispered to herself, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she stayed rooted to the spot. Drink in hand, her body leaning into the plush couch for support, she felt every carefully constructed shard of composure crumble in one careless, perfect, beautiful moment. Her eyes were wide, glistening with equal parts disbelief and joy, and she could feel a slow, thrilling flush creeping up her neck as her heart raced in wild, unrelenting beats. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry, to run to him…all at once, a chaotic symphony of emotion that left her stupefied with delight.
“I can’t believe he just said that,” she murmured, a slow, astonished smile spreading across her face. “I can’t believe this is really happening,” she thought, letting the thought roll over her again and again, each time sweeter and more surreal than the last. She could speak about it openly now that people were sure to ask her about it, she could post pictures, she could share it with the world, because at last, finally, the quiet, private world they had built together had broken into full, dazzling life.
God, she wished she could just jump onto the field right then and there. But things are never that cinematic or storybook in life. So, she'd do what she'd always do. She would wait for him outside the locker room before their flight back, pacing just enough to feel the floor beneath her boots, yet unable to shake the fluttering in her stomach. Every step, every exhale, carried the anticipation of seeing him again, the him who had just carried an entire team, an entire stadium, an entire nation, through a night that felt impossible and turned it into success. She needed to see him, to hear him, to feel the ease of that familiar, loopy smile that always melted her, the one that made every impossible thing feel achievable, as though just being near him could rewrite the laws of gravity. And above all, she wanted to congratulate him—not just on this hard-fought win, not just on finally living out a lifelong dream, but on the quiet, relentless courage it had taken to fight through ten weeks of pain, of doubt, of clawing back to the very field that had felt, for a time, unreachable.
The words he had spoken still lingered, thick and warm, hanging in the air as if refusing to dissipate. They vibrated around her, echoing in the walls, threading through the carpet beneath her feet, coiling inside her chest, and tightening her heart in the best possible way. Fiancée. Just that one word, spoken with careless ease, carried the promises whispered in private and dreams built together. It swirled through her veins like electricity, dizzying and intoxicating, leaving her breathless, cheeks flushed, heart hammering, and a constant, unrelenting sense of amazement that this, all of this, was really real.
That she finally had everything she had ever wanted.
Thankful for my Fiancée.
In that one word, everything shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t just his word, or hers, or anyone else’s. It was theirs. A quiet, blazing, irrevocable truth that existed only between them, and yet the whole world had somehow caught its reflection. The world outside could wait. For her, for him, this moment was infinite.
An hour had passed since the chaos of the stadium had begun to fade, easily replaced by the quiet hum of post-game energy lingering like a faint echo in the walls. His parents had gone back to the hotel to freshen up before their flight, leaving the hallway almost still, except for the occasional shuffle of staff or distant clatter of equipment. The air was warm in contrast to the cool air outside, tinged with the faint scent of turf, cologne, and the remnants of celebration.
She walked through it slowly, each step deliberate, the press of the tile under her boots grounding her even as her heart raced. Staff and assistants passed by, offering quiet congratulations with polite smiles, murmuring low, “Wishing the best for you two on your new Journey!” or “So happy for you!”. She returned small, measured smiles, nodded politely with words of gratitude, but beneath the surface, she was a storm of nerves and anticipation, her pulse a rapid drum that seemed to only get louder with every passing moment.
Little did anyone know, though, that this moment—this perfect, chaotic, joyous moment—was the culmination of a story that had already been quietly unfolding for months. They had been on this journey together for a long while, carefully navigating it in the quiet spaces between the public eye, in whispers and glances, in laughter and soft, stolen touches. And now, after months of planning, patience, and quiet devotion, the world was about to witness only the tip of what they had already promised each other in the private language of their love.
Her hand drifted up instinctively, brushing lightly over the glint of the ring she had slipped onto her finger on her way down—a breathtaking, constellation-forged circle that seemed to hold the night sky within it, a perfect, luminous token of a single word that had changed everything.
Yes.
The cool metal against her skin steadied her for only a heartbeat before the reality of everything crashed back in, warm and overwhelming. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath the ring, that impossible diamond causing this woozy, effervescent swirl that always hit her when life shifted under her feet because of him. This was unique, though; this was the new future they’d just stepped into, the new tidal wave of attention she knew was about to hit them. And yet…what thrummed through her chest felt achingly familiar. The dizzy rise of butterflies, the breathless shift of the atmosphere, the way her knees went a little weak—it was the same feeling she’d had the second time she saw him, after that Fourth of July weekend in the Hamptons. Back when every cell in her body seemed to jolt awake the moment she opened the door and found him standing there, backlit by the Los Angeles dusk, looking at her like she was the only person he’d flown across the country for.
The same vertigo. The same warmth sweeping through her in one unstoppable rush. The same quiet knowing in her bones.
Back then, it was the shock of seeing him on her porch when she least expected it.
Now, it was the shock of realizing he had just called her fiancée on national television.
And somehow, impossibly, both moments felt like the universe gently placing a hand on her back and nudging her further into a life she’d already started falling for.
She remembered that weekend in Los Angeles like it was yesterday, because it had felt impossibly fated, too specific, too perfectly timed to be anything but the universe pressing them closer. She’d flown into LA, secretly, for studio sessions for her new album, exhausted and half-asleep on her couch, when a soft knock echoed through her quiet house. She opened the door expecting a delivery, maybe her assistant, maybe a friend, certainly not him—Joe Burrow, standing there on her porch in the late California evening, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blue hoodie, duffle bag resting against his leg, looking equal parts nervous and determined.
“Hi.”
That was all he had said to her before a minute of silence had nestled its way between them. But it wasn’t uncomfortable silence; it was silence born from disbelief, from excitement, from the impossible closeness of realizing he was actually standing on her doorstep right now.
And the shock of it hit her like a delayed current, because this wasn’t just any man. This was the man she’d met at a party she hadn’t even wanted to attend—the kind of gathering that made her skin itch, all champagne smiles and whispered commentary behind manicured hands. People had been gossiping about her the entire night, eyes tracking her like she was a spectacle instead of a human, like what she was going through was some kind of TV series and not her real life, and she’d spent most of the evening trying to disappear in plain sight.
But he hadn't been like them.
He’d been the only one in the room who didn’t look at her like she was a headline or a cautionary tale. The only one who didn’t judge her, didn’t gawk at her, didn’t treat her like she was either too much or not enough. He was the only one who had simply seen her—quietly, gently, without agenda.
And now, outside of that Hamptons haze, outside of the noise and the flash and the scrutiny…he was here. Standing in front of her, hoodie wrinkled from the flight, hair messy in a way that made her chest tighten, hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be standing on her porch but couldn’t stop himself from showing up anyway.
She never did ask how he’d gotten her address, remembering that it definitely hadn’t come up at all during that weekend they’d met, not even during the dinner they went to the next night, but he offered it up immediately, stumbling through an explanation before she could even open her mouth. One of their mutual friends from that party had given it to him after Joe spent nearly an hour trying to figure out how to ask her without seeming like a creep. He didn’t want to ask her because that'd ruin the surprise detail of the whole thing, and it also would come off a little too stalker-ish for his liking. And he definitely didn’t want to ask anyone who might gossip. So he went to the one person he trusted, who they both trusted, made them swear not to tell a soul, and even then he’d hesitated, second-guessing himself the entire ride to Beverly Hills.
He told her he'd flown out for work, meetings stacked back-to-back with Body Armor and Alo, but the second he realized she was in the same city, something in him refused to ignore it. He’d shown up without warning, eyes hopeful yet equally as unsure, mumbling, “I, uh…didn’t want to be in the same city as you and not see you,”. And just like that, just from the way he said her name in the soft glow of her porch light, with that nervous little smile and charm, her world had tipped again.
That entire time he was there with her felt like a fever dream—soft around the edges, warm in the middle, the kind of memory that glows even as it forms, like it already knows it’s going to become important. After she’d let him inside and watched him hover awkwardly by the entryway, unsure of where to stand or what to do with his hands, she’d nudged him gently toward the kitchen with a smile and told him to sit, relax, breathe while she made them a bite to eat, knowing he likely was too nervous to eat anything all day. She’d moved around her counters in that quiet, instinctive rhythm she had whenever she cooked for someone she cared about, pulling out peppers, slicing chicken, setting rice to simmer. She didn’t tell him she remembered—how he’d once mentioned during that party, offhand, that spicy chicken with rice and peppers was something he practically lived on during his LSU days. She just made it, like muscle memory, like a private offering wrapped in familiarity and care.
He sat there watching her, elbows on her counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, smile softening as every second passed. His gaze wandered around her house with curiosity, taking in the little details that made this space unmistakably hers—the soft glow of the magnets on the fridge she had collected from her travels, the stacks of notebooks and lyric sheets artfully scattered across the living room table, her grammy's placed neatly on a shelf by the TV, the subtle scent of vanilla and citrus that clung to the air. Then he took her in, really took her in, watching the way her hair caught the light, the tilt of her head as she moved around her kitchen, the way her fingers danced over the knife handle and the cutting board as she chopped onions for the rice. He listened intently, letting her words wash over him, the laughter in her voice when she told him how she’d been thinking about him all day, and the way she described the movie recommendation he’d sent last night—the X-Men film she hadn’t seen yet. “Maybe we could watch it later,” she said with a teasing lilt, “Since you’re already here,”. His smile softened at that, a little unsure, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be this close, yet every fiber of him wanted it.
And at some point between the sizzle of peppers hitting the pan and her glancing back to find him smiling at her like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, he’d admitted, almost sheepishly, that he didn’t want to intrude. Didn’t want her to feel obligated to let him stay over. Didn’t want her to think he assumed anything—because he hadn’t planned any of this. Showing up at her door. Being invited inside. The way he felt being near her. None of it.
But she’d insisted anyway, gentle but firm, voice quiet in the soft lamplight of her kitchen. The idea of him tucked away in some random West Hollywood hotel room—with paper-thin walls, no privacy, no safety—felt wrong in a way she couldn’t fully articulate. Something in her tightened at the thought of him alone, restless, orbiting the same city but not her. It tugged at a deeper place in her chest, a place she hadn’t examined yet but trusted instinctively. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t rational decision-making. It was something more peaceful, controlled, whispering from somewhere behind her ribs: It’s safe. Let him in.
And he did. And she did.
Even then, they were both trying to be respectful of whatever thin, buzzing line they were toeing—pretending they didn’t feel it, pretending they weren’t already leaning toward each other in ways neither of them wanted to unpack yet. So that first night, after eating dinner and watching the movie, they didn’t sleep in the same bed. He took the guest room, leaving his duffel neatly by the chair like he didn’t want to accidentally take up too much space; she stayed in her own room, curled beneath familiar blankets that suddenly felt strangely too big, too cool, too empty. Through the quiet of the house, she could hear faint shifts, his footsteps soft on the hardwood, the quiet rustle of fabric, a low exhale like he was trying to steady himself.
And on opposite sides of her home, they lay awake with identical thoughts looping endlessly, “He’s here. He’s really here. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? I told myself I wouldn't do this again...but why does this feel so…different? Why does this feel so right?”. She stared at her ceiling as if it could give her answers, the glow from the city slipping through her curtains and painting the room in soft gold. He stared at his own, arms folded over, heartbeat irritatingly loud in his ears, the guest sheets warm from everything he wasn’t admitting. Neither of them slept more than a handful of minutes, their minds stretched tight with awareness of each other, of the unspoken thing blooming between them, of that soft, pulling ache that comes when something is beginning but neither of you has found the courage to name it yet.
But the second night? That line dissolved without either of them realizing it. No dramatic moment, no decision made out loud. It just…happened, quietly, like gravity doing what gravity does once you finally stop resisting it. She’d walked down the hallway to grab something from her office, passing the cracked door of the guest room, and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the laces of his sneakers, though he had nowhere to go. He looked up when he sensed her there, and the expression he wore—the soft, shy, almost nervous smile he only ever had in those earliest days—knocked the air out of her chest. It felt like the whole house went still around them.
She leaned against the doorframe, pretending she had some actual reason to be there. He cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t been staring at the carpet, thinking about her. She made a passing comment about how the AC in the living room was rattling too loudly for her to sleep. “So,” she said lightly, “Um…the AC in the living room? It’s… rattling. Loud. I don’t think I’ll be able to take a nap with it like that,”. He nodded, trying to act normal and as if he wasn’t debating whether he should knock on her door for the past half hour. “Oh,” he murmured, trying for nonchalance and failing adorably, “Yeah, well… the mattress in here is kinda weird. Too firm. Too cold. Too…” his eyes lifted, met hers, softened. “…too unfamiliar,”.
None of that mattered, though, because none of it was the truth. The truth was that they were drawn together like two halves of a thought, finally completing themselves.
And without either of them being able to say who moved first, they drifted toward each other. Soft steps, nervous smiles, electric silence. One moment they were standing in the hallway, and the next they were in her bedroom, the hum of the city outside blending with the quiet rhythm of their breaths. Climbing into her bed happened as naturally as exhaling. He took his side, she took hers, the space between them thin and trembling.
It was awkward for maybe…three seconds? Then their bodies found each other like they’d done it a thousand times.
They fit. Perfectly. Effortlessly. Like puzzle pieces that had been carved apart long ago and finally pressed back into place.
Her head slipped beneath his chin as though his shoulder had been made for her alone. He wrapped an arm around her waist, slow and tentative at first, then with a certainty that made her chest ache. “Is this…is it okay?” he mumbled against her head, hands almost hesitant as they maintained their place on her back. She smiled into his chest, almost pushing herself into his warmth, this warmth she’d never felt before, “It’s fantastic,”. Their legs brushed, then tangled, then settled into a gentle knot of heat beneath the blankets. He breathed out, deep, steady, relieved, and she felt the sound vibrate through his chest, a quiet reassurance she didn’t know she’d been craving.
The room smelled of faint lavender from her sheets and the soft, earthy warmth of his hoodie, and the combination wrapped around them like a cocoon. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek; he felt the slow rise and fall of her breath against his ribs. Close like this, they weren’t two people figuring out how to be around each other—they were something else entirely. Something new. Something inevitable. They fell asleep like that, all snuggled, wrapped up, tucked so tightly into the safety of each other that neither of them seemed to notice when the night softened into morning. And when the sun finally forced its way through her curtains, gold spilling across the bed, they were still tangled exactly the way they’d been hours before, holding on like neither of them had slept next to anyone in years.
Because in a way…they hadn’t. Not like this. Not where it mattered.
The days were just as intoxicating as those nights were. Slow and effortless, the kind of days that felt borrowed from some softer timeline where neither of them carried expectations or headlines or the weight of who they were supposed to be. In the mornings, they swam in her pool, sunlight flickering across the water in a mosaic of gold as they drifted toward one another without meaning to. She’d float on her back, smiling into the sky, and he’d watch her with that dazed, enthralled look he thought he was hiding, eyes tracing the curve of her shoulders, the way her hair fanned across the water, the subtle shift of her gaze as she noticed him watching and let herself linger a beat longer, just for him.
He’d tease her about her terrible backstroke, she’d splash him in retaliation, he’d chase her across the shallow end, both of them laughing too loudly for two people who were technically still strangers, and through it all, she’d find herself staring at him—the way his muscles flexed as he pushed through the water, the way his lips curved when he grinned at her, the heat radiating from his sun-kissed skin. And he, in turn, couldn’t look away from her, the line of her jaw, the swell of her laughter, the way the sunlight caught her in ways that made him forget every other rule he’d ever lived by. Every glance, every flicker of eye contact, was a little daring, a little intimate, a silent acknowledgment of how impossible it was to look away.
But then he’d slip, just once, calling her “beautiful” under his breath when she beat him to the steps, and something would spark in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years.
They dried off on her patio, towels wrapped around their shoulders, the breeze cool against their damp skin as they talked about everything and nothing. He asked her about her music, about her childhood, about the things she hadn’t told anyone yet, and she found herself answering with a softness she usually guarded. She asked him about football, real, technical questions, and watched his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You…know a lot more than I thought you would,” he’d said, almost shy about it.
“I told you…I grew up watching. I’m not just pretending to care because a National Champion and Super Bowl contender is sitting in front of me and eating my watermelon,” she’d teased, bumping her knee against his. And she could tell he liked that. A little too much, maybe. It was in the way he leaned in when he explained something, in the way his hands gestured absentmindedly as he spoke, in the way he got that gentle, touched look on his face every time she understood a detail most people never bothered to learn.
In the afternoons, she led him through her studio, her sanctuary, the place no one else ever entered without her express say-so. Yet he moved through it with reverence, shoulders slightly hunched, as if afraid to disturb something delicate. He didn’t touch a single thing unless she handed it to him, but he looked at everything—her lyric scraps, her in-progress melodies, her notebooks with barely legible scribbles—as though each piece was precious.
“This is where you make magic,” he murmured once, running a finger along the edge of her mixing board without quite touching it.
She laughed softly, but something about the way he said it made her feel seen in a way she rarely was.
As the days in Los Angeles stretched on, the space between them began to shrink in ways that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with gravity. He would lean just a little too close when she handed him something in the kitchen, their hands brushing and lingering, and she felt a shiver trail down her spine every time it happened. Her laugh would catch in her throat when his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, and she caught herself leaning back just slightly to feel the brush of him against her, reveling in the tension that hummed between them.
They moved around each other with a new awareness, a slow carefulness—his shoulder brushing hers when he reached past her, her fingers tracing the edge of a countertop near his hand, neither of them daring to cross the line, but both acutely aware of how thin the space had grown. Every glance, every small, accidental touch carried a promise, a heat that neither of them had yet named but both already felt deep in their bones.
And at night, they slipped out just long enough for a private dinner, tucked away in a dim little corner of a restaurant where no one recognized them. The lighting was warm, the music quiet in the background, candles flickering between their plates. He sat close, closer than a man who was supposed to be casual, his knee brushing hers under the table every time he shifted. She kept pretending she didn’t notice. He kept pretending he wasn’t doing it on purpose. She nearly choked on her wine when he told a story from his Ohio State days, something stupid involving a prank and a fog machine, a confused strength coach, and a fire alarm that absolutely did not need to go off at seven in the morning.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Joe insisted, holding up both hands as if pleading his case. His eyes were already sparkling, the exact shade of trouble she’d come to recognize as his “I’m lying through my teeth but in a cute way look,”. She snorted. “You’re literally the worst liar I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, because I work with pop stars. Full-time delusional behavior is kind of their brand,”.
Joe leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “Okay…maybe it was a little my idea,”.
“A little?” she laughed, covering her face with her hands because she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop giggling, couldn’t stop feeling like her ribs had been turned into champagne bubbles.
He nudged her knee under the table, soft and teasing. “Fine. Half my idea,”.
She peeked at him between her fingers, giving him the kind of look that said “I know exactly who you are,”.
“Joey.”
He dropped his head, shoulders shaking as he laughed, “Okay, okay…it was all my idea. But in my defense, I didn’t think the fog would, like…migrate. And in my defense, Liam shouldn’t have agreed with Coach about how I throw like a girl,”. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the thought, “It's misogynistic, and he's wrong. One bad day of throwing, I mean. Give me a break,”.
“Migrate?” she echoed, ignoring the rest of what he said to prevent him from going on a tangent about this misogynistic coach because 1, she knew he'd get heated, and 2, she wanted to be able to give unfiltered commentary when he told her stories like this, which was hard to do in a resteraunt despite them being in a private room. So, she dissolved into another round of giggles. “It’s smoke, not a flock of geese,”.
He grinned at her like she’d given him the sun on a platter, warmth glowing across his cheeks, dimples deepening as she continued to laugh. “You’re cute when you make fun of me,”.
That was the first time he had realized how obsessed he was with her laugh.
“And you’re cute when you incriminate yourself,” she shot back, nudging his foot beneath the table.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t even pretend not to stare. “Yeah, well…I was trying to impress you. Had to make sure you knew that I used to be somewhat spontaneous and fun,”.
She felt her heart hiccup. Her chest squeeze. Her smile shift from amused to soft.
“You did,” she admitted quietly. “You have been this entire time,”.
His chest felt like it had been punched and then set on fire all at once. Every time he looked at her, really looked at her—her laugh spilling over, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the subtle tilt of her head when she was caught in a joke—he felt simultaneously elated and vulnerable, as if his entire world had shrunk down to this one moment, this one person.
The stories, the jokes, the stolen glances, the easy, teasing way she leaned into him…it all hit him like a wave he didn’t want to fight, leaving him light-headed, giddy, and feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to tell her everything he was feeling, wanted to make her understand how completely she’d upended his carefully measured life, but all that came out instead was a breathless grin and the faintest, nervous chuckle before he leaned closer, whispering, “Good. Because just wait until I tell you about what we did to Coach O after that win against Ole Miss,”.
And somehow, miraculously, they made it through the entire weekend unseen. No paparazzi lurking outside the gate. No fans catching blurry photos. No blindsiding tabloid posts humming under the surface. It was just them, two people suspended in a world that didn’t know them yet, two people learning each other in the quiet spaces between sunlight and dusk.
A stolen pocket of time. A beginning disguised as something casual. A weekend that still felt, years later, like the first breath of the rest of their lives. Looking back, she wasn’t surprised that the world had tilted the way it did that weekend. The shift had started in her doorway in the warm Los Angeles dusk. But that entire time period, with him in her home, in her bed, in her orbit?
That’s when gravity changed. That’s when her heart chose him before her mind ever caught up.
Now, standing here, more than a year later, every heartbeat still felt impossibly vast, every inhale sharp with awe, and she felt it all again—pure, dizzying excitement surging through her chest, making her toes curl instinctively inside her boots, as if she needed every bit of grip just to stay tethered to the ground against the tidal wave of joy that threatened to lift her entirely off her feet.
Every movement felt heavier, slower, laced with a strange, almost compelling newness, as if time itself had stretched to hold her in this narrow hallway, suspended in that delicate, breathless space just before she would see him. The air around her sparkled with tension, thick with the almost tangible taste of anticipation, and in every quiet creak of the floor, every whisper of passing footsteps, she felt the universe contracting, folding in on itself, honing into the single point where she would finally be with him again. Each thump of her heart reverberated in her chest, a drum of expectancy, and the very world seemed to pause, waiting alongside her for the moment their eyes would meet.
And then she heard it, the loud CLANK, subtle shift of the locker room doors opening, the brush of movement from behind them, and her chest stuttered, her breath caught in her throat, and everything narrowed down to a single point of impossible focus.
Him.
Her breath hitched almost without warning, a sharp, uneven intake that lodged somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and her chest swelled with a fullness that was both thrilling and almost unbearable, like she was collapsing inward and floating outward all at once. There he stood, Joe, every bit the man she had watched from afar, revered quietly, and yet here he was—impossibly near, impossibly real, impossibly present. His gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in that way that had undone her countless times before, soft and knowing, and his eyes, glossy and bright with lingering emotion, found hers immediately, anchoring her in the moment. Every loose curl falling untamed, the faint flush of red across his nose and ears from the evening chill, the dried sheen of sweat across his forehead and temples, all of it combined into a disheveled, lived-in perfection, a raw, magnetic reality she adored with her whole heart.
She took him in fully, eyes roaming over him as if memorizing every detail: the way his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw her, the small shift of his head, the quiet intensity in his gaze. Her hand drifted lightly to her ring, tracing the smooth, sparkling surface of it almost subconsciously, out of habit, a private reminder which he’d noticed, of the promise they had quietly shared for months. Her cheeks burned with heat that only he could bring out, the flush creeping across her skin, and she felt breathless in a way that wasn’t entirely from the stairs or the lingering post-game adrenaline. She felt small, and yet expansive, held together by the gravity of this moment, and she knew he could see it all. The flutter of nerves, the joy, the love that had become impossible to hide.
His body still hummed with the energy of the game, energy he needed to get out of his system, but the second his eyes found her, it all softened—the rush of the win, the chaos of the aftermath, even the ache of ten weeks rehabbing his toe—none of it mattered. She was there, leaning against the wall, every detail seared into him instantly: the way her hair caught the light, the subtle curve of her smile, the gentle glow of the ring on her finger. He felt his chest tighten in that familiar, beautiful way, the way it always did when he saw her and remembered that this was real, that she was his. For a moment, he almost couldn’t breathe, standing there taking her in, her flushed cheeks, her wide, astonished eyes, and knowing she was looking at him with the same wonder and love that had him reeling inside. Everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to feel, condensed into that single heartbeat as he met her gaze, utterly captivated.
For a long, suspended moment, they simply stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze. No words were needed; the silence spoke volumes. It was the same electric stillness as that night in Los Angeles, when he had appeared on her doorstep with nothing but a hope and a dream. And now, somehow, impossibly, that very dream had materialized before him, and she hadn’t needed him to summon her. She had found her way to him, on her own, and every part of him recognized it, every part of him had been waiting for it.
It took her a long, slow moment to notice it, the subtle quiver of his lips, the faintest tremor that betrayed the flood of emotion he was still carrying beneath his calm, measured exterior. She had known, because of course she had seen the way his eyes had glossed over twice after the win, how his breath had hitched ever so slightly when he was speaking in his Press Conference, how the edges of his smile had faltered just for a second before he caught himself. This small movement now was the continuation of all of that, the quiet aftershock of everything he had buried beneath adrenaline and duty and spotlight. It was a whisper of the vulnerability he’d carried through the chaos of the stadium, and it tugged at her chest with such aching tenderness that it felt like her ribs had to expand just to contain the swell of love inside her, like her whole heart was rising to meet him.
He wanted to speak, he wanted to—but every time he tried, the moment swallowed his voice whole. His throat tightened, breath snagging, mouth parting only for air, not words. The enormity of the night sat on him like a second heartbeat, loud and hard to swallow, and whatever he thought he might say dissolved before it ever reached his lips.
Her fingers twitched almost involuntarily, yearning to close the distance, to hold him, to give him a landing place after a night that had demanded so much of him. Without a single word, she pushed off the wall, letting the tension in her legs become momentum. She crossed the space in a few decisive steps, her hand finding his with a firm, instinctive grip. The warmth of him beneath her palm, the slight tremor in his fingers, sent a ripple through her that was equal parts comfort and transcendence. They slipped past the last of the staff, through the lingering haze of victory, until she pulled him toward a narrow, out-of-the-way storage closet that most people never even noticed.
Inside, the world fell away. The space was unremarkable, dimly lit, quite dusty, smelling faintly of cardboard and old equipment, yet the moment the door clicked shut behind them, it transformed. It felt like a sanctuary she’d carved out with her gentle hands, a small, sacred pocket of stillness where the noise of the night couldn’t reach. She had created a world for just the two of them, sealed with the soft press of that closing door.
He looked at her then—really looked—and something in him seemed to still, the way a storm quiets just before the rain finally gives in. The confusion in his eyes mingled with the adrenaline still humming hot through his veins, with the unspent emotion he’d been trying and failing to outrun since the game ended. The last two months lived in his expression: the pressure that had coiled around his ribs, the pain he had swallowed like stone, the doubt that had clawed at the back of his mind, the victory he hadn’t yet processed. It was all there, etched faintly into the weary lines at the corners of his eyes, the tight, exhausted set of his jaw. And beneath it, flickering, fragile, painfully tender, was the bare truth of him: he was overwhelmed, undone by the enormity of what tonight meant, and he didn’t yet know how to stand steady under it.
And she was the only person in the world he trusted enough to see him like this.
She stepped closer, slow and sure, lifting her hands to cradle his face with a tenderness that almost broke him right there. Her thumbs traced gentle, careful circles at the corners of his glossy eyes, where tears trembled and threatened to spill. At her touch, he physically melted into her hands, his eyes fluttering closed as if the weight of the last few weeks was suddenly allowed to rest. He pressed his cheek against her palm, leaning into her in a way that spoke of complete trust and surrender. Her hands were steadying, soft but grounding, a quiet promise that everything outside this cramped little room could wait. Her touch seemed to whisper in a language only he could hear: It’s safe here. With me. Let it fall.
“I…” he tried, but the word snagged on a breath that stuttered out of him, thick and uneven. His voice rasped, hoarse at the edges, as though even speaking required a strength he didn’t have right now. The words caught in his throat, shattering against the tide of emotion he’d been tamping down since the field, through the postgame interview, through the grin he’d forced when his eyes had glossed over twice after the win. She could see it building again now—feel it, like pressure rising under his ribs—everything he had pushed through these past few months, all the moments he almost cried but didn’t, all of it pooling right here in front of her.
He needed to let go. God, he needed it badly.
So she tightened her hold just a little, guiding him closer until their foreheads nearly touched, giving him the smallest, gentlest permission.
“I am so proud of you, honey,” she whispered.
And that was it.
He broke.
The walls he always kept up, the armor he wore like a second skin, the composure he’d gripped with white-knuckled determination for weeks—everything gave out at once. It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was the kind of collapse that only happens when someone has been holding themselves together for far too long. He fell into her like he’d been walking toward this moment since the clock hit zero, his body recognizing her long before his mind caught up. His forehead found her shoulder instantly, the move practiced but not rehearsed, familiar in a way that spoke of countless nights where she’d held him through quieter storms.
His breath hitched, not a sob and not steady either, something fragile living in the space between the two. She felt the tremor begin in his chest, then ripple outward, a slow unraveling that made him press closer, like he needed the warmth of her body to remember he wasn’t on the field anymore. She wrapped her arms around him on instinct, one hand sliding into his damp, mussed post-game hair, palm cupping the back of his head as if shielding him from a world that suddenly felt much too loud. The other hand moved in long lines down his back, stopping right beneath his shoulder blades—over that one quiet spot she always touched when he was overwhelmed, the one that could soften him faster than any whispered reassurance.
He breathed her name into the curve of her collarbone, barely voiced at all, more a warm exhale against her skin than a word. She heard everything he couldn’t articulate in that sound: exhaustion, adrenaline, disbelief, joy. His shoulders shook once, then twice, and he tried to laugh it off—she felt the tiny puff of air against her neck, the aborted attempt at humor—but he couldn’t pull himself together enough for it. Instead, a soft sniffle slipped out, then another, unhidden and unguarded.
When he realized he wasn’t being watched by anyone but her, that he could actually crumble here without consequence, a small, shaky smile curved against her shoulder. The kind of smile he only had when his emotions got ahead of him, relief mixed with happiness mixed with something so full it didn’t know how to stay inside him. It brushed her skin like a confession.
I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I get to fall apart in your arms.
It took a long time before he managed a single word.
“Yeah?” he croaked out, the syllable scraped bare from emotion, hardly more than breath.
“More than you could ever imagine,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair again, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in that slow, absent way she did when he lay on her chest after long days. Her other hand slid lower, tracing the curve of his spine, following the familiar path she’d touched a thousand times—slow, steady, without theatrics. Not to calm him. Not to fix anything. Just to remind him she was here.
He breathed a little deeper at that, a little steadier, like the rhythm of her hands reshaped the rhythm of his lungs. He tucked his arms around her waist, gathering the back of her sweatshirt in one hand the way he always did when he needed to feel her under his fingertips. His cheek stayed pressed against her shoulder, warm and damp, his breath fanning across the fabric rhythmically now, no longer stumbling. She held him there, stroking through his hair, tracing his back, smoothing her palm over his neck, then up again, then back down—as though drawing invisible lines of comfort across him. He leaned all of his weight into her, trusting her not just to hold him up but to hold this moment with him, to make it something sacred rather than embarrassing. And she did. Quietly. Patiently. Without even thinking about it.
“I love you a lot, and you’re amazing, you know that?” he mumbled into her neck, pressing a soft kiss to her sweet spot through his tears.
“And you’re insane. Like genuinely insane, but I love you too much to even begin to explain to you what you just did,” she sniffled, a few of her own tears building up in the corners of her eyes as she pulled him closer.
Minutes passed, and she was still tucked under his chin, still wrapped in the warmth of him, when the laughter started to bubble up again—quiet, breathy, the kind that softened every tense line in his body. She felt it first, the shake of it beneath her palms, before she even heard the sound. And when she leaned back just enough to see his face, his eyes were still pink at the rims, lashes still clumped with tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe, but the smile pulling at his lips was unmistakably him—soft, boyish, a little sheepish in the way it curled upward like he was only just remembering how to feel joy again.
“You know our team is about to have our heads on a platter tomorrow morning…right?” she said, brushing her thumb under his eye in one gentle sweep, catching one last tear before it could fall. “I mean, you could’ve given them a heads up,”.
He huffed a laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers, noses touching lightly, his breath warm against her lips. “Couldn’t help myself. Love my fiancée too much to not give her a shoutout during one of the most special moments of my career,”.
The word still felt unreal, suspended between them like a spark. Fiancée. Spoken out loud. Claimed. Announced to the world.
Her hands slid lower, fingers grazing the thick muscle of his arms, feeling the tiny spasms finally beginning to release. She brushed her thumbs over the inside of his forearms, the place where his skin was always softest, the place he only ever let her touch like that. This was the way they always found each other in the dark, the way they existed in the same breath without trying. The way she reminded herself that this man, this incredible man, chose her every single day, and how he reminded himself that this physical embodiment of heaven chose him. “Well, your fiancée loves you very much for including her in this special moment with you.” Her voice dipped softer, gentler, because she meant every syllable. “But she also expects you to deal with some of this publicity we’re about to get now that you let the cat out of the bag…in the most nonchalant way possible,”.
He pulled back slightly, blinking at her with that dazed, lovesick look she’d always secretly cherished—the one he got when she said something that hit him just right, the one that made his lips part like he had something to say but got too full to say it. Then he dipped his head, smiling against the side of her jaw, kissing her cheek once, then again, slower the second time, lingering like he wanted to memorize the shape of her skin. “Absolutely.” His voice came out low and warm. “We can get on that tomorrow…after we spend the rest of the day together recovering from what’s about to happen when we’re home tonight. But only if that’s okay with my fiancée, of course,” he smiled smugly, proposing something that had already been on her mind since the clock hit zero.
Her fingers slid up into his hair, curling through the strands as if she could somehow hold all of him in her hands at once. She pulled him closer, tilting her head just so until their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the small space between them. The warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm, made her chest tighten with a mix of awe and relief. Then, softly, she leaned in, brushing her chilled lips against his in a slow kiss—light at first, testing, savoring the feel of him, before letting it deepen for a heartbeat longer, a quiet celebration of all the tension, the victories, and the love that had led them here.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads still resting together, her voice was quiet, breathless, threaded with tenderness and mirth. “Your fiancée would love that very much,”.
She said it with a smile she didn’t bother trying to hide, because why should she now? The world knew. Their people knew. The name was out there, tied to her, tied to him, finally spoken aloud with the kind of easy boldness he’d never dared before.
She watched his eyes flutter shut, watched the way his shoulders softened again with the truth of it, the relief of it, the dizzy, giddy holy shit of it. His hands found her hips, drawing her closer, fitting her against him as though they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes holding each other like lifelines. He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips—slow, lingering, not desperate but deeply full, like he was savoring the moment, the privacy, her. When they finally broke apart, he kept her close, his fingers laced behind her back, chin resting atop her head. She felt the gentle sway of him, the soft, unconscious rocking he did when he was exhausted and overfull with emotion, like he was trying to comfort both of them at once. She let her arms circle his waist, hands slipping under his shirt to the softness of his skin, stroking lightly, feeling him breathe easier with every touch.
Outside the door, voices and footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway—teammates, reporters, staff—all looking for them. Life was still moving. The world was still buzzing. His name, their name, was ricocheting across the internet, flashing across people’s screens, already rewriting narratives.
But here? In this tiny, dim, closet-sized bubble of space?
It was just them. Her heartbeat against his. His breath on her hair. His hands holding her like she was the only thing keeping him upright and the only thing he ever wanted to hold onto.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured into his chest, lips brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. “We’ll deal with everything tomorrow,”.
He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Tomorrow,”.
Tonight wasn’t for the cameras. Or the headlines. Or the chaos of what his admission had unleashed.
Tonight was for him, leaning into her like he’d been waiting for his entire life to do it. Tonight was for her, whispering soft reassurances into his hair. Tonight was for them—exhausted, trembling, giddy, in love—finally letting themselves feel all of it.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow could come whenever it liked.
✰ description: every room was bait, every song a confession. You built the night like a shrine—sweat, silk, and sin stitched together for him. every laugh was a dare, every sway of your hips a prayer he’d finally come through. but as the lights bled pink and gold across your skin, the truth whispered through the noise: maybe joe burrow only ever wanted the game, not the girl who kept playing it for him.
✰ pairing: LSU!JoeBurrow x Reader // my masterlist.
✰ a/n: hey 🧍♀️let's ignore the fact that this took me like 4 months to write and post. lowkey nervous as fuck (!!!!!) about it and if it lands as how i imagined but fuck it we ball. but anyway, i hope you enjoy part 1! let me know what you think :) also, this is inspired by the song party 4 u by charli xcx. read the song lyrics/listen to the song.
wc: 24.3k
warnings: fwb adjacent, smut, unprotected p in v, mentions of sex, sneaking around, lots of suggestive content, (MDNI). angst, language, he's an asshole, she's stupid <3 few mentions of y/n.
>> part 2 will be linked here once posted.
taglist is at the bottom. (ask to be added).
Flashback — Last week of April 2019, Baton Rouge
“Fuck, take it. Take this cock, sweetheart. Knew you wanted it bad. Came in here with an agenda, hm?”.
Joe’s baby blues caught you in their tide, glittering and blown dark with hunger, the edges of blue blurring into black until you couldn’t tell where want ended and need began. They shimmered like the ocean at dusk—deep, restless, aching to swallow you whole. Those eyes had always been your weakness, the ones you’d gladly drown in, again and again, if it meant feeling this alive. And now, with them fixed on you like you were the only thing that mattered, you swore you could taste the flavor of forever on your tongue.
He was all heavy breath and frantic grip, his hands digging into your hips so hard you were sure tender bruises would bloom there by morning—secret, pretty little proofs of tonight that only you would know were hidden beneath your clothes. Every thick inch of him stretched you perfectly, dragging against your soaked, sensitive walls, sending electric jolts up your spine that made your thighs quake. Sweat practically dripped from your chest to his, slick skin sticking together as the humid Baton Rouge air swirled through his apartment from the cracked window, thick with the heady scent of sex.
The way you pulsed around him made another sound rise from his throat, his chest heaving like he couldn’t catch enough air. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack, completely lost to the way you pressed against him, how your body seemed to pull him deeper with every languid grind of your hips. Everything had blurred into the heated weight of his body under yours, the smooth, desperate slap of skin on skin. Your mouth was slowly going dry from all your breathless cries as you chased every dizzying high only he ever seemed capable of giving you. Each roll of your hips sent another burst of stars behind your eyes, his hands maintaining their tight grip on your body like he was terrified you’d slip away before he could give you everything, before he could take everything you had left to offer.
His abs clenched under your palms, hot and slippery with his sweat, the salty taste of it still lingering on your tongue from where you’d lazily dragged it over his skin a few minutes ago. “Shit, Joe. I’m so close,” you gasped, nails raking down his chest and leaving angry, red trails, the sensation making his hips jerk. His hands found your ass, palms spreading over the curve of you, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper. He thrust up into you with a slow, punishing rhythm—like he wanted to feel every inch of you around him, leaving no spot untouched, like he was trying to engrave himself into your body one stroke at a time because you were only like this for him.
You felt his cock drag against your cervix, hitting that one spot in particular that always seemed to unlock something within you, something strong, something no one but him could reach. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard thudding against the wall in a shameless rhythm that seemed to echo your racing heartbeat. Somewhere distant, you might’ve worried about the noise, about his neighbors hearing you both for the past hour, but tangled up in Joe like this, nothing else existed but the restless slide of his cock and the way he made you cum, over and over and over again.
“Yeah? You gonna cum all over my cock again? Hm? Gonna let me fill you full? Fuck, keep going, baby. Just like that,” he grunted. His face was flushed deep pink, the blush making him look maddeningly adorable and sexy at the same time, hair damp and tangled over his forehead. Those ocean eyes were nearly black with lust, pupils blown wide as they devoured every inch of you, like he couldn’t believe you were real, spread out, shaking, dripping for him.
You tried to lean down for a kiss, needing to be as close as you could to him, but his hips were driving up so forcefully that your mouth kept sliding off. A needy sound ripped from his throat when you hit a kegel, then his hand tangled in your hair and dragged you down, crushing your mouth to his, giving in to the desire. Your mouth collided into his in a messy, desperate kiss that bordered on feral, like he hadn’t kissed you in days rather than mere minutes. It was all clashing teeth and tangled tongues, wild, consuming, the kind of kiss that scorched through your chest and tore the breath right out of your lungs. It didn’t soothe anything; it just devoured. Made you forget the suppressed emotions, the distance, the questions. Made you forget everything but him. You pressed in closer, mouths falling open as you greedily swallowed down each shaky breath he offered, like you couldn’t stand the thought of any part of him escaping you.
His voice broke through the haze of your uneven breaths, soft, deprived, barely more than a whimper that sent a shiver down your spine. “Keep going, you’re doing so good angel, fuck…need you all over me,” he murmured, his words dragging you deeper into the spinning heat between you. His lips traced a trembling path along your jaw, each touch feather-light but charged, as he whispered against your skin, “You feel so good princess, need you like this every day,”. Every broken syllable echoed the desperation in his eyes, pulling you further into the dizzying circle of want and need, until the rest of the world fell away and all that mattered was the way you fit perfectly together.
His warm breath ghosted over your mouth as you bit down on his plush bottom lip, catching the faint, sweet taste of yourself still clinging there, a reminder of how he’d been between your thighs just moments before, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough of what you had to offer. When your tongue slid back into his mouth, his groan vibrated straight through your chest like a struck chord. It rolled into your mouth, and you drank it down like you had been parched for centuries, like you just couldn’t get enough of the way he numbed every last one of your senses. He kissed you like he was trying to melt into your skin, like if he just went deep enough, he’d carve his name right into your bones, and you’d let him. You’d let him do it over and over, until you couldn’t remember where he ended and you began.
“God…baby…shit,” he whispered, the words tumbling out almost like a sigh, unguarded and instinctive. That…that name. It lit something deep inside you, made your pulse trip, and your entire body tighten around him in a way that had him sucking in a sharp breath. That did it for you. Hearing him call you that, soft and without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he didn’t even realize how badly it would make you fall apart for him. It was maddening how your breath caught, how your muscles tensed, how every nerve lit up until you were strung out and trembling, barely able to take it. The heat curled tight in your belly, higher, higher, until it finally snapped, sharp and all-consuming, pleasure tearing through you in a blinding wave that left you gasping his name like it was the only word you knew.
Whenever he spoke to you like this—so sweetly, so sure, like you were his in every way that mattered and not just in the secret gardens of your imagination—it made everything feel sharper, deeper, real. Like maybe it wasn’t just a dream. Like maybe you really were his. And God, that made it so much better. Every touch, every breathless thrust, every whisper against your skin felt laced with something heavier, not just want, but pure, undeniable need, the kind that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with you. The kind of need that came from missing you before you even left, from craving your laugh in the middle of a crowded room, from catching his breath when he looked at you and realized, again and again, that you were real.
You clenched around him with a choked, shuddering sob, back bowing in a helpless arc as your nails scraped down his fever-warm skin. Stars continued to bloom behind your eyelids, dazzling and cruel, while his name slipped out on a trembling breath, “You feel…you feel so good, Joey,” almost small, like a secret you weren’t supposed to share. Your hips kept moving in a steady rhythm, grinding down to draw out every last aching surge of him inside you. No matter how many times you found yourself here—tangled up in him, laid bare under his hands—it still felt impossibly new. Like he was unlacing you carefully, stitch by fragile stitch, until there was nothing left but this pure, desperate version of you that only he ever got to see. “Joe…Oh my– fuck, Joe–,” you gasped, voice fracturing around his name, clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in a world suddenly spinning too fast to hold onto.
“That’s it…that’s my good girl. So tight, n’warm, fuck, keep fuckin’ me just like that…,” he groaned, hands sliding up the curve of your lower back. His fingers curled, nails scraping lightly along your spine, sending shivers skittering through your body while his eyes drank you in greedily, the way your tits bounced with each rock of your hips, how your messy hair clung to the sweat-slick curve of your neck and shoulders, the dazed, blissed-out smile that curved your kiss-swollen lips. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wished he could’ve said that to you, but something inside of him prevented the thought from taking shape before he could even part his lips.
“Y- yeah, right there, Joey,” you whispered, head tilting back to expose your neck, breath hitching as his cock rutted into you, your pupils dilating, signaling your impending orgasm. His hips rolled upward with eager, almost frantic urgency, each stroke driving him closer while stealing your breath in ragged gasps. His palm spread wide over the gentle swell of your lower belly, pressing down just enough that he could feel every thick, eager throb of him buried deep inside you. The contact sent a warm shiver racing through your core, making you hyperaware of how snugly he fit inside you, how each beat seemed to echo in the delicate pressure of his hand, like he was claiming every last inch of you from the inside out. A soft, breathy whimper spilled from your lips, answered by a rough groan from Joe, the two sounds weaving together in the dim space between your mouths.
His cock twitched inside you as hot, messy spurts of his cum poured out in rhythmic waves, flooding you with a heat that made butterflies fill your body, your pussy desperate to hold every bit. Each drop of his release felt like a brand against your slick walls, sending delicious tremors through your entire body until your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell open on a soft gasp. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you, perched above him, flushed and glowing, your lashes fluttering as you tried to catch your breath, still faintly moving your hips like you couldn’t bear to lose the feel of him while you chased your high. Heat pooled low in your belly as he filled you completely, until you felt impossibly tight, impossibly full, until his release was leaking out of you and mixed with your arousal, like the two of you were teetering on the fragile edge of something neither of you could yet bring yourselves to name.
A fractured, almost startled noise slipped from your lips, caught somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, as your fingers tangled desperately in his messy, golden brown hair, clutching tight to ground yourself while pleasure rolled over you in dizzying swells. Your entire body seized with a quick, shuddering movement as the orgasm finally ripped through you. It hit hard, flooding through your body, sending shockwaves through your veins, your thighs tensing, hips stuttering against his as your walls clenched tight, spasming around him in pulsing waves. Joe held you tighter, burying his face in your neck, mouth moving against your skin in a fervent litany of your name. His voice cracked from the flutters making their way through his stomach, barely audible in the mix of your cries, but still there, like he was trying to stake his claim on the air between you, so even the shadows would remember it long after you both fell still. “Agh…fuck, you’re unreal. Always so fuckin’ good for me. Can’t ever get enough of this pussy, you know that?”.
When you finally collapsed forward, utterly spent and trembling, he caught you without hesitation. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to him, while his other hand cradled your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart twist. He guided you into a slower, lingering kiss that left your lips tingling with a certain heat, the kind that curled low in your belly and made your thighs press together instinctively. It sparked something hungry inside you, even though you both knew neither of you had the energy to act on it again. His chest heaved under your palm, heart pounding wildly like it was desperate to break through and fuse with yours, each frantic beat a bare, unspoken admission of just how hopelessly entangled the two of you had become.
Eventually, you rolled off him, bodies slick with sweat and each other’s release, lungs straining as you both struggled to tame the pace of your hearts. The ceiling fan above offered only a low, lazy drone, its faint rattle the sole sound slicing through the heavy, humid stillness of his bedroom. Beneath the tangled sheets that clung to your legs like soft restraints, his hand found yours without hesitation, fingers threading through with urgency, almost desperate in nature, like he was terrified of letting this haze fade away. “Fuck, that was…,” Joe murmured, his other hand running shakily through his damp, tousled hair. His eyes were wide, glazed over with exhaustion and the lingering heat of spent desire, dark pools that held you captive in their unguarded honesty.
“Got him so good he’s seeing the pearly gates right now,” you smiled to yourself before turning to look at him.
“Good. Obviously,” you teased, your voice dropping into a stifling rasp that wrapped around each word like velvet and fire. There was a teasing edge to it, but beneath that, a natural undercurrent—a flicker of pride mixed with something understood, a dangerous kind of certainty. Your lips curled into a smirk, the kind that hinted at secrets you weren’t quite ready to share, but that he already felt like he owned. Your eyes locked onto his, sparkling with mischief but also tracing the quiet hunger lingering in his gaze, the way his breath hitched when it caught the curve of your smile, the almost imperceptible shiver running through him like electricity.
You saw it, the way he fought to keep control, but couldn’t hide how utterly drawn he was to you, how deeply entwined he was in every inch of your skin and every stolen touch. “It’s me,” you added, every syllable laced with playful satisfaction and a touch of something reckless; a challenge and a promise all at once. You wanted him to know you were the one thing he couldn’t resist, the addiction he never wanted to break, even if he pretended he could.
He let out a short, shaky laugh, something between a mock scold and genuine wonder, chest stuttering like he still couldn’t quite catch his breath, something that was common for him when he was around you, something you hadn’t picked up on. His head tilted, eyes soft and a little dazed before they rolled in mock exasperation, the reluctant smile giving away how he still couldn’t believe the way you always managed to get to him. “You’re so cocky,” he muttered, but it was clear the words carried no bite. His fingers brushed against your arm almost absentmindedly, a small touch that betrayed how much he liked this—liked you.
“You say that,” you breathed, inching closer until your lips hovered dangerously near the soft skin behind his ear, your voice low and edged with a teasing dare, “But every single time I’m on top of you, you look like you’re about to fucking levitate,”. Then you said it—quieter now, like it slipped past your lips before your heart had the chance to second-guess it. “You don’t look at anyone else like that,”.
It was merely a breath of truth laid bare and vulnerable in the hollow between you. A soft confession veiled as an observation, tenderly extended like a fragile, bleeding thread woven through the silence. He didn’t reply immediately. That wasn’t like him. Joe Burrow, quick with a joke or a clever retort, always ready to shield himself behind humor and keep the mood easy. But now, there was a silence, a pause stretched longer than any before, like your words had struck a chord too deep, landing in a place he rarely let surface.
“...Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, but his voice was high, a sign of a lie. Just a thread of weakness in the seam. But it was enough. Enough to break the surface. Enough to let something else spill through.
You let out a breath, half-laugh, half-resignation, soft, sad, and knowing. “...Yeah, you do,”.
He laughed too, but it wasn’t the easy kind you were used to. It felt like it had been forged under pressure, like it was meant to hold up the weight of everything he wouldn’t say out loud, like he was trying to hide something. There was something heavy in it, maybe even something bruised. And for the briefest second, you saw it. The thing he hid under all his teasing and charm. That flicker of need. Of longing. It burned in his eyes, quiet and unguarded, before the mask slid back into place, and the moment was gone.
The silence that followed was thick. Tense in the way that made your pulse thrum louder in your ears. One of those silences that dares you to fill it. That makes every breath feel like a risk. Every glance feel like a confession. But still, he looked at you. Steady. Dark eyes locked on yours like he was trying to say something without moving his mouth. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. You didn’t know exactly when it stopped being just play, only that it had. That somewhere between the teasing, the dreams said out loud, and the late-night tangles in his sheets, something shifted. For you, at least. And sometimes, in the quiet between his touches and his promises, you swore he felt it too. That maybe he’d crossed over the same invisible line and just hadn’t dared to look back.
But neither of you named it.
Because names made things real. And real came with consequences, you weren’t sure either of you was brave enough to face.
You glance over at his nightstand, eyes catching on the bright yellow Spongebob alarm clock that looks almost comical in the dim, sex-warm glow of the room, its wide grin frozen at 11:45 p.m. It’s late, so close to midnight. You should be in your own bed right now, wrapped up in cool linen sheets, half-asleep with the hum of your sound machine playing soft raindrops or stormy waves, getting some rest before tomorrow’s early drive to New Orleans with Jules and Lyra. But instead, you’re here. Of course you are. You’re always here when Joe calls. Tangled up with him in his narrow, creaky full-sized bed, the mattress soft in the middle from years of use, the corners always threatening to squeak when you shift too hard. One of his pillows smells like his lavender detergent, the other like his skin. The fitted sheet is slightly askew, twisted from the way the two of you had stumbled in, kissing through the doorframe, clothes falling in a trail from the front hallway to the foot of the bed. His comforter is heavy and too warm, but you’re both underneath it anyway, limbs knotted, hands mapping each other like you’ll forget if you stop. The walls are thin, the fan overhead rattles like it’s on its last life, but none of it matters…because you’re here.
With him. Always.
“God, I’m gonna sleep for three days straight after I get back from New Orleans,” you chuckle, words muffled as your nose nuzzles into the warm curve of his neck. The apartment around you is decent-sized and perfectly imperfect—cracked plaster walls dotted with faded Star Wars posters, a scattering of old high school trophies proudly displayed on worn oak shelves, each one a silent testament to Joe’s relentless drive and long nights spent chasing his dreams. The mismatched furniture tells its own story; scuffed coffee tables, a well-loved recliner that’s clearly seen better days, making the space feel lived-in, real, and somehow undeniably his.
Yet in this moment, it feels like your own sanctuary. He just has this way of making you feel so safe, so cared for, so…lov–
Your laugh cuts through the haze like a sudden flare of light, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth that still clings stubbornly to your skin. You’re still buzzing, caught in the dizzy aftermath of finishing college for the year—your last final just this morning, his yesterday—and the relentless weight that had settled into your shoulders over endless months has finally cracked and crumbled away, leaving behind a delicious, almost addicting frivolity. Maybe that’s exactly why Joe had called you over tonight, to finally breathe again, to let the pressure unravel and fall away, to celebrate with the kind reckless abandon that only he seems to understand—a celebration whispered through heavy touches and careless kisses that drown out everything else.
You never pushed for answers, never needed to. That careless, door’s open if u wanna come through text from him was all the invitation you required. The kind of half-hearted call you should’ve dismissed, but never did. It was enough to send you slipping into your shoes with a racing heart, whispering to yourself that it was only for the sex, just for the rush, just for the feeling, just for the way he made you feel alive in a way nothing could come close to. You told yourself you weren’t desperate for more, even as you craved every fragment of his attention, every scrap of being wanted—no matter how little or how fleeting. You didn’t mind dropping everything at the slightest beckon, didn’t hesitate to let him pull you back in.
Your fingers curl lazily against his chest as you shift, just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw, still tasting the faint, artificial tang of the cheap Gatorade he’d downed earlier to replace all the fluids you keep stealing from him. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, then smiles, that crooked, half-lidded grin that’s so unmistakably, achingly Joe. His arm snakes tighter around your waist, pulling you against him until your leg slides easily over his hip again, your bodies slotting together like you were always meant to fit this way. “Good,” he murmurs, voice scratchy, sounding just like his voice did before he fell asleep, his lips ghosting over the mark he left on your collarbone. “Means I can keep you here,”.
Your stomach flips at the way he holds you, the way he speaks to you, not casually or carelessly, but like he needs you there, his big palm splayed across your bare back, thumb tracing idle, featherlight patterns that make your skin prickle and your heart squeeze painfully tight. It’s gentle, almost adoring, and it doesn’t feel like friends.
It never does.
You shift closer until your nose bumps clumsily against his, your grin softening into something quieter, more vulnerable. Every breath he exhales brushes warm over your lips, the steady rhythm of his chest beneath your hand reminding you how close you still are, despite everything left unspoken. “You’re sappy as shit for someone who could barely bother to text me back during spring ball,” you joke, voice coming out too breathless, too fond, betraying everything you wish you could keep hidden.
You could barely get hold of him during spring ball, and it gnawed at you in a way that felt unfair for something supposedly casual. One minute, he was circling around you like gravity didn’t apply, waiting outside your lecture hall just to walk you home, blowing off plans with the guys to linger around your plsvr for hours, his big hand splayed possessively over your bare stomach when you’d be watching a movie on the couch, as if to say mine. Then, like someone had flipped a cruel switch, he was gone. Calls rolled to voicemail, your texts went unread for hours or even days, and when he finally did answer, it was short, distracted. The weekends that used to be filled with his raspy laugh, tangled sheets, and midnight snacks from that rundown Circle K off Highland Road were suddenly hollow. You tried to tell yourself it was fine, it was supposed to be fun, easy, but it felt anything but.
Then one night, weeks later, he showed up on your doorstep at 3 a.m, sharp ring of your doorbell snapping you right out of slumber. Heart in your throat, you opened the door to find him standing there, hood pulled up, eyes wild and blown wide with something you’d never seen in him before. He was panting, the bags under his eyes giving away his clear exhaustion, chest heaving like he’d run across half of Baton Rouge to get to you, hands flexing restlessly at his sides. Before you could even say his name, he pushed inside, crowding you back against the wall, his lips crashing down on yours in a kiss so desperate it nearly stole your balance. It was all heat and hopeless hunger, his breath tearing out of him in shallow, uneven bursts, like he’d been starved for air, for you, for weeks. The second your lips met, it was as if something inside him finally snapped, all that pent-up tension flooding out in a rush. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t drink you in fast enough to soothe whatever had been clawing at him from the inside.
You never asked him what happened to him that night, though you wanted to many times, but bit your tongue. You never pressed or tried to coax it out of him, because that was where the invisible line was. The one you both danced around so carefully, despite slipping up a handful of times. It was difficult to maintain that boundary with Joe, especially when you were so caught up in the moment to the point where you’d forget that he wasn’t yours to keep, or yours to lose.
His answering laugh rumbles through his chest, jerking right under your fingertips as it snaps you back to the present, and for a second, it makes your pulse pound so hard you swear he must feel it. But then there’s a flash in his eyes, a quick, guilty shadow that passes almost before you can catch it. Still, it tugs at something inside you, a tiny ache that blooms painfully behind your ribs. Then his hand tightens at your waist, thumb sweeping slow, conscious circles into your side, like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he’s fraying; he can feel it. It’s a small, instinctive gesture, but it feels dangerously close to an apology, one he’s never going to put into words, one he knew he wouldn’t mean, no matter how badly your foolish heart hopes he might.
“Don’t start,” he warns playfully, but there’s something else, something heavier lurking between those words.
Then, he’s pressing his lips to your bare shoulder; not a quick, sloppy kiss just to hush your curiosity, but one that stays, his breath spreading over your flushed skin in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s gentle, but like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, or brand something implicit into your flesh so it doesn’t fade when you leave. When he finally pulls back, his eyes find yours, soft and searching for any sign of discomfort, but there’s something else there too, that you can’t understand.
It seemed like a hint of sadness.
“Hey,” he breathes, so softly it nearly gets lost beneath the lazy spin and groan of the old ceiling fan. His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing as if he’s forcing the words up from somewhere deep inside him. It’s quiet, almost casual, but there’s a faint tremor in his voice that gives him away. His hand twitches where it rests on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to grip tighter or let go altogether. You watch the way a faint muscle jumps in his jaw, the way his eyes roam your face with an almost frantic kind of softness, taking in your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your still-damp hair fanned across his pillow.
“Don’t forget me this summer, okay?”.
It’s such a simple plea, but it hits you like a lightning strike, knocking the breath clean out of your lungs. For all the times he’s pulled you close, all the nights entangled in his sheets, the quiet confessions whispered against your bare skin, neither of you has ever dared to name how deep this runs beneath the surface. It was supposed to be straightforward. Friends-with-benefits, no strings attached, just fire and touch and escape from all your problems and commitments. But somewhere along the way, those invisible strings have wound tighter and tighter, knot after knot, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins. You want to tell him you couldn’t forget him if you tried, that he’s already stitched into your bones, a ghost burned into your skin by those campus lights and late-night walks back to yours, by the careless laughter and whispered regrets that swirl around you both. But you stay silent, because the truth is messy and twisted in that knot you don’t know how to untie without fully ripping the threads, full of misread signs and missed chances, and the painful ache of wanting something more from something that was never meant to last.
The words won’t come, not like how you want them to. So you just nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, forehead tipping forward until it rests against his. His sigh rattles through both of you, his hand tightening on your waist again like he’s trying to hold you there, like if he grips hard enough, he can stop time from rolling forward without him. The moment stretches, just seconds away from fading, so you force out a breathless laugh to keep it from breaking, bumping your forehead lightly against his cheek as you roll over. “How could I?” you tease, voice cracking on the edges despite your best effort. “You’d hunt me down and kill me in Madden from three states away,”. As you turn your face toward the ceiling, you exhale a quiet, bitter little sigh that only you hear. “Humor always hides true feelings,” you think. Weren’t you an expert at that?
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes like it usually does, flickering out too fast, like something is sitting just behind them that’s not allowing him to be at ease in this moment, casting shadows where light should live. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck. He tugs gently, guiding you down until your lips meet his, and the kiss starts slow, hesitant almost, like he’s trying to pace himself against whatever this is that keeps blooming between you in defiance of everything left unsaid. But it deepens too quickly, the way it always does. His mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to breathe you in. It’s a kiss that trembles with something too big, too real, something that has no place in the safety of a no-strings arrangement. There’s nothing casual in the way he kisses you now. Nothing detached in the way his breath stutters against your skin.
He holds you like you matter. Like you’ve always mattered. Like he can’t stand the thought of forgetting even a single inch of you once you’re gone again.
And when he finally pulls back, it’s only by a breath, just enough to let the air return between you. His lips still ghost yours like they’re reluctant to let go, and his eyes, wide and glassy in the dim glow of the room, stay locked on yours. Searching. Hungry. Afraid. As if there’s a question trembling on the tip of his tongue, one neither of you has ever dared to ask out loud. One that could shatter whatever this is…or finally give it a name.
It hits you then in that fragile pause between breaths; this is where you always lose yourselves. Not in the distraction of sweat-slicked urgency, the desperate web of limbs and gasping moans, but right here, in these quiet, stolen seconds where it’s so painfully obvious there’s something else burning beneath your skin.
His name slips from your lips before you can stop it, “…Joe,”. The sound is so soft it barely exists, yet it feels earth-shaking in the small space between you. You raise your hand without thinking, your fingers trembling faintly as they brush through the damp curls stuck to his forehead. The strands cling stubbornly until you sweep them aside, giving yourself the excuse to touch him. The pads of your fingers linger against his temple, your palm drifting toward his cheek as though it belongs there. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like the most natural thing in the world—to cradle him, to hold him steady, to let your touch confess everything your mouth won’t.
But then you see it happen, the subtle flinch in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers and shutters over, like steel doors clanging shut, “Mmhm,” he clears his throat, using the awkward sound to distance himself even further. He’s pulling back, retreating into himself, and in an instant, you both remember exactly what this is supposed to be. The ache rushes in to fill the void, curling tight around your ribs, nestling into old, familiar hollows. You swallow it down, knowing it’ll only wait there, patient and hungry, until the next time it rises up to drown you both all over again.
Then his phone buzzes harshly on the nightstand, slicing through the fragile quiet like a bomb bursting under pressure. The vibration rattles against wood, jarring and unwelcome, and in a single moment, the closeness between you begins to slip through your fingers. You feel it like a tide turning. Joe sighs, dragging a hand through his already-tousled hair, and mutters, “It’s just the O-line groupchat,” voice low, casual. Too casual. His eyes flick away, never quite landing on yours, like he knows—knows—if they meet yours now, he won’t be able to lie with his mouth, let alone his eyes.
You nod like you believe him, like your heart isn’t already tripping over itself. But the buzzing won’t stop, and neither will your mind. Is it really them? You’ve seen how much they text, how dumb the memes are, the pre-game motivational bullshit. But something in the way he said it, too fast, too practiced, makes the words settle heavy in your stomach.
What if it’s someone else?
Some girl?
Someone he texts when you’re not here? Someone he hasn’t kissed the way he just kissed you? Someone who gets pieces of him, you’ll never see?
The thought punches the breath right out of you, your throat tightens, burning, as a sunken kind of discomfort climbs up your spine and spreads through your chest. The silence that follows is suddenly splintered at the edges, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe. But even that hurts. Every inhale feels too tight, too shallow, like your lungs have turned traitor. Still, you laugh—if you can even call it that. It’s brittle, more reflex than humor. Like maybe if you make it sound light enough, it’ll lift the weight from your chest. Like maybe you can fool him. Fool yourself. “Get it together,” you scold silently, but the words feel limp and useless against the sting behind your eyes.
He shifts beneath you, just a small movement, but your heart lurches anyway, like it’s bracing for the end. You close your eyes, press your face into the warm skin of his neck, and breathe him in like he’s oxygen, like if you inhale deeply enough, he might stay. Stay in your air. Stay in your body. Stay in your life. But the phone is still buzzing, and the silence is still loud, and your mind won’t stop whispering all the ways this moment could fall apart.
You gather it all up, his warmth, his piercing gaze, the ache blooming down in your chest, and tuck it away like a secret, something sacred. A keepsake for the drought to come. Because some part of you, quiet, trembling with doubt, already mourning, knows this might be the last time you’ll get to hold him like this. Because with Joe, everything shifts on a breath, and the tide always pulls away before you’re ready.
Then, in the smallest, saddest corner of your mind, his words settle like dust, “Don’t forget me this summer,”.
You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a plea anymore. Like he was preparing you for the pain of being forgotten, or bracing himself to be the one left behind.
Maybe it was both?
Maybe he was already halfway gone when he said it.
End of flashback
You didn’t forget, Joe.
But he forgot you.
Maybe not on purpose….maybe. But the truth of that lived only in Joe’s heart, buried beneath the grind of daily workouts, the relentless churn of two-a-days, the mounting expectations that came with being LSU’s golden boy. The chosen one. The pressure of it all stretched tight across his shoulders, the weight of the team, the fans, the future he’d worked so hard for. But maybe there were distractions, the kind you didn’t want to think about. Girls with plump, glossy lips and perfect eyeliner and easy laughs, girls who didn’t press too close or hold on too tight. The kind who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer, who didn’t look at him like you did and see straight through the accolades and the spotlight to the boy underneath.
They didn’t touch him like he was breakable. They didn’t know how to pull him apart the way you did—but maybe that was the point. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen, not like that. Not by someone who kissed him with everything they had and still waited by a silent phone hours after he left, waiting for the next time he’d reach out. Maybe it was easier to be touched by people who never really had him at all. Because you had him. You had him. In the breathless pauses between games, in the hush of midnight when it was just skin and sweat and the sound of his voice in your ear.
Maybe there had always been others, but you wouldn’t know since you’d never asked. You didn’t get to, or maybe it was because you knew you didn’t want to hear his answer, so you never tried. There were never any rules when it came to the two of you. You didn’t say don’t kiss anyone else, or call me every night, or don’t fall for someone new. You didn’t want to tie him down, at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was supposed to be easy, light, something fun and fleeting, born in the hazy heat of fall and sustained through winter’s sharp edges, bleeding into the blossoming spring. And maybe it was, until it started to feel like more. Until your phone stayed dark for too long, until you kept unlocking it just to make sure it hadn’t glitched, hadn’t somehow missed him.
You caught yourself waiting during those sticky, humming summer nights, bare-legged, sprawled across your bed with the fan oscillating uselessly in the corner, the air polluted by thoughts of him. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, cicadas and crickets droned outside the open window, and still, you hovered over your phone like it might blink to life with something that mattered. Every buzz had your hands reaching out, your stomach flipping in somersaults. It never said “joey <3 ,” but god, you wanted it to. The heat made everything feel heavier. Your limbs, your thoughts, the ache of missing him, his presence, his space in your world.
The misery of waiting lingered inside you, seeping into the small flashbacks of stolen moments you managed to carve out together. It had always been like this with the two of you—quiet, sometimes fleeting, secret little things. Those secret moments snuck between the madness of the grueling College Football season had to be your favorites. You remember the sweat on his skin after games, the rasp of his voice as he pressed you back into his mattress and mumbled things into the crook of your neck that you were never quite sure were meant to be heard. You remember waking up tangled together in the glow of dawn, legs braided, fingers laced, soft kisses and giggles being exchanged as you watched him stumble around his room to find you a clean shirt. His scent clung to your body long after he'd left your side.
You remembered his hoodies draped over your shoulders during those chilly morning walks to your favorite coffee shop after leaving his place, the fabric still warm with him. You remembered the flowers waiting on your doorstep every Monday, without fail—because he knew you hated Mondays and wanted your first smile of the week to be because of him. You remembered the nights he’d skip gaming with his friends just to sit beside you on the couch, pretending not to care about Dancing With The Stars but cheering anyway when your favorite couple nailed their routine. You remembered his bucket hats pulled low over your eyes at crowded frat parties, the way his hand always found yours—steady, sure, curling around your waist like it was intuition. Like you already belonged to him, even before either of you dared to say it out loud.
He made you feel like his girl.
But he never said the words like he meant it. And now, with the insistent silence pressing between you, it felt like those words might never come—like maybe he was never meant to mean them at all, no matter how much your heart yearned to hear them.
You told yourself to move on, to keep things simple, to believe it was nothing more than just a season passing. But no matter how hard you tried, your heart still jumped every time your phone buzzed. Deep down, you were still holding on to hope.
You hoped he remembered. Hoped he missed you. Hoped you weren’t the only one stuck in the in-between.
Because you didn’t forget. You just couldn’t. But it sure as hell felt like he had.
Present Day — End of August, Baton Rouge
“One thousand pink balloons?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as your eyes skim over the now-creased corner of your hyper-organized party checklist, pen tapping anxiously against the clipboard.
“Check,” Jules replies, her voice bright, if not slightly amused at the number of balloons you wanted at this party. “Well…kinda. The Party Depot didn’t have a thousand pink ones, so we had to compromise. Two hundred pink, two hundred purple. And….they’re all shaped like stars. I figured you wouldn’t hate that,”.
You could already see it, your little rented house drowning in a galaxy of helium stars, soft shiny shapes bobbing at every corner, their glossy skins catching the fading light like constellations in motion. They’d be tangled in string lights, bumping softly against the ceiling beams, drifting with the lazy Louisiana air that seeped through the windows and clung to your skin like longing.
It was gaudy. It was extra. It was completely ridiculous.
And it was perfect.
Because maybe if the house felt like a dream, if everything shimmered just right, if the lights glowed warm enough, the drinks poured fast enough, and the music played loud enough, it would distract you from the ache in your chest. Maybe the night would stretch long enough to fully forget. Or maybe…just maybe, he’d walk through that door like it–
No.
“Fuck no. Get it together,” you muttered under your breath, too sharply, like saying it out loud might make it true. Like pretending you didn’t care might eventually make the caring stop.
You’d put too much work into this to go back now, to let yourself spiral. Not tonight, not over him. You’d been planning this party for weeks, a blowout sendoff to a summer that had left you sun-kissed, sleepless, and strung out on feelings you couldn’t name. One last night to let loose before fall swept in with its endings and silences. Your rental off-campus had been transformed into something out of a fever dream—windows thrown open to the heat, floorboards vibrating beneath the bass of a half-finished playlist that still sparked heated debate in the group chat. Someone had dragged the big speakers out to the front porch, letting the entire block know that tonight was the night. Ice clinked in coolers tucked into every corner, and the unmistakable scent of cheap tequila and sugared mixers already hung in the air like a dare.
“That sounds perfect, actually. What about the playlist?”.
“Check,” she stretches the word like it deserves a gold star. “Got all the tunes you love, some early Britney, Taylor, Miley, Paramore, a bunch of club classics, a bunch of songs from Matt’s frat playlist, hottest songs of this summer, and your weird little requests,” she says, pausing to raise a suspicious brow. “Gunna, Tame Impala, Cudi,” she ticks them off like they personally offended her, her face scrunching up by the time she gets to the last one. “I mean, seriously, babe. Since when have you ever listened to Kid Cudi? Is it 2010 or something?”.
You shrug, too casually, like your heart doesn’t beat double-time at just the sound of his music. “I like the vibes, okay?” you snap a little too fast, voice more competent than you mean it to be. The defensiveness creeps in before you can stop it, curling around your words like barbed wire. Because admitting the truth feels like cracking open a door you’ve fought hard to keep shut. “Can’t I just listen to the music for the vibes without it…without it meaning anything? Like, not everything has to have some big, deeper meaning or connection or whatever. Sometimes a song is just a song,”.
You're rambling now, the words tumbling out faster than you can control, and it’s clear neither of you believes it. “Keep it together. It’s not worth it,” you silently scold, the words sharp and clipped inside your mind like a slap on the wrist. You straighten your shoulders, forcing a deep breath past the tight coil in your chest. Your heart’s been threatening to give you away all morning, and now your nerves are fraying at the edges, pulled thin by memories you’ve been pretending don’t sting anymore.
You blink, shake it off, and refocus. A 3-step plan you’d mastered this summer, thanks to all the long, empty days spent sitting alone with your thoughts, haunted by memories you couldn't outrun. All because of him. That blue-eyed, maddeningly charming fuckboy with a chokehold on your heart. The one who knew exactly how to ruin you with a smile, who’d wormed his way into your bloodstream so slowly you didn’t even notice until it was too late. “Drinks?” you ask, voice a little too high, too chirpy, as you pivot toward something safer, easier. “Did we get all the drinks?”.
“Check,” she snorts. “Lyra’s bringing her concoctions with her, bar is stacked with any and every drink possible, and Jason even stacked the High Noons, Surfisides, and White Claws into little towers like they’re champagne towers at the Met Gala. It’s giving frat-boy Gatsby, and he’s real proud of himself. Part of me thinks he did it to impress you,”.
You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself—it was unexpected, a burst of sound that startles even you. For a second, it feels good, like breaking the surface after holding your breath too long. But the moment is fleeting because the laughter tapers off almost as quickly as it came, collapsing into the awful feeling that’s been humming beneath your skin all week, persistent and unshakable no matter what you do. “Cake?” you ask, quieter this time, like the word itself is too heavy for you to speak out loud.
“Jalen's on his way with it. He texted me all confused because the bakery labeled it ‘birthday cake,’ and he swore we weren’t celebrating anyone’s birthday. I told him to let it go; it’s probably just the flavor. Oh, and he picked up the candy from Jessica’s. Purple Smarties in little plastic “L” cases, just like you wanted. They kinda look like molly though, so if cops show up, maybe show them they’re not drugs and just a product of your obsession with all things purple,” Jules says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she scrolls through her phone.
The product of your obsession with all things purple…or his?
You nod absently, letting the conversation drift for a moment as your gaze sweeps across the decorated space. Those pink and purple balloons start to fill the room and bob like starlit dreams above the beerpong table that has seen much better days, catching the light and twirling lazily in the breeze filtering through your double-pane windows.
The pink ones were for him, specifically him, because you remembered the way his eyes had lit up when you surprised him with those shiny pink balloons that one Valentine’s Day. A holiday meant for couples, for grand gestures and soft declarations, yet somehow you’d ended up spending it together, just the two of you, because back then neither of you really had anyone else. Not officially. Not in a way that mattered. But that night hadn’t felt like an accident or a consolation prize; it had felt electric, like striking a live wire. Everything about it was charged; the hunger in his kisses, the way his hands had roamed your body, the breathless laughter that spilled between whispered curses and bitten-back moans. You’d torn through his apartment like wildfire, attached to each other for hours, insatiable and starved, chasing that feeling like it might devour you whole. The air had gone thick with heat and sweat and something heavier—want, maybe, or something dangerously close to those 4 letters, to that one word that you just couldn’t speak out loud.
And afterward, you’d collapsed into a tangled mess of limbs and stolen breath, eating cold Chinese takeout in bed, your bare back pressed to Joe’s glistening chest, his lazy smile warming over your shoulder as you licked dumpling sauce from his finger, and sometimes from the salt-slick of his skin. Between bites, he pressed soft, deliberate kisses to your shoulder—the kind that always made your heart skip.
You rambled on about how your professor was pissing you off by giving you 8 tedious assignments to do every day with little to no time to actually absorb the content, the frustration rolling off your tongue, while he nodded along, eyes crinkling with that easy, understanding look only he gave you. As your voice slowed, exhaustion pulling at you, Joe slipped an arm around your waist, his calloused hand tracing lazy circles on your stomach, soothing your tension like only he could. His voice softened to a low murmur, nerding out about some new science book he’d dived into the night before, the same kind of obsessive, offbeat passion he had for everything he loved—football plays, his stats, and sometimes you—his words a gentle, steady rhythm that carried you deeper into sleep, safe in the warmth of him.
The playlist was stitched together with intention, every track laced with his favorites. Songs only he would recognize, only he would understand. It was subtle, quiet even, but purposeful. Cudi, of course, always Cudi, because he’d sworn by him since freshman year of high school, called his music scripture when he was seventeen and searching for something to hold on to. You’d memorized the way he hummed those same verses under his breath on long drives and slow mornings, after brutal losses and gritty wins, when the world felt too loud or too quiet or just off. There was nothing random about it, not a single shuffle or skip. You wanted him to feel seen before he even realized it, wrapped up in something familiar, something that sounded like safety, like history, like him.
And the cake…god, even the fucking cake was for him. No one else knew what it meant, not really. No one knew how last December had slipped through your fingers like smoke, how his birthday had come and gone while you were miles apart, swallowed by winter break and everything you couldn’t control. He’d brushed it off with a casual shrug, like it was nothing, like it didn’t sting him the way it did you, but you saw past the easy dismissal. He had driven all the way from Athens to your hometown for your birthday during Thanksgiving break, seven long hours just to be there because he knew how much it mattered to you, how much you needed him by your side in the mix of your entire extended family that always managed to drive you up the wall. But when it came time for his birthday, you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same for him. It felt like crossing a line you weren’t ready to cross, because that wasn’t your role in his life, even though he had already crossed it for you and took on that role without hesitation.
So, to make it up to him in your own silly, apologetic way, here it was, his birthday cake months later, waiting to be placed in a quiet corner of the room—a cake rich with dark chocolate ganache and layered with silky hazelnut filling, the exact one he always picked up from that cozy, family-owned bakery near his house in Athens. It was more than dessert; it was a promise you never said aloud, that you’d always be there for him when he needed you, a whispered apology for not reciprocating his actions baked into every slice, a celebration of him even when the words felt too heavy to speak.
Deep down, it wasn’t just about decorations or the logistics of throwing a party. Every choice, the shimmering pink and purple balloons, the carefully curated playlist, the cake picked with quiet, secret meaning, was soaked with him, threaded through the night like an unspoken vow. Your hands moved as if by habit, arranging and organizing things until it was picture perfect, but beneath that motion, your heart beat louder than ever, pulling you deeper into memories and feelings you barely dared to name. This night, every flicker of light and every echo of music carried the remnants of a boy you hadn’t spoken to in months, yet whose absence carved out an ache that stretched like an endless shadow. It felt like a lifetime since you heard his voice, yet here you were, building a world for him, an echo of what once was, or maybe what you still hoped could be.
You tuck the clipboard under your arm, the worn edges pressing firmly into your ribs as you rise, muscles aching from days of preparation. The bass hums through the thin walls like a slow, steady heartbeat, its vibrations threading through the floorboards and settling deep in your chest. Above, fairy lights twinkle softly, casting pools of warm, golden light that flicker like fireflies caught in glass—soft and inviting now, but later tonight, those same lights will blur into dark hues, smeared by laughter and spilled drinks, pulsing wildly as the party spirals into drunken chaos. Jules’s eyes catch that glow, shimmering with mischief and something almost conspiratorial, as she twists a loose strand of hair around her finger. Her voice breaks the quiet, cutting through your spiraling thoughts, “So, you sure you’ve got everything? No last-minute freakouts because the buffalo chicken dip tastes like chalk or the beer pong table collapses ‘cause we forgot to hot-glue that weak leg back on?”.
You rolled your shoulders, feeling the familiar pain settle deep in your muscles, a slow-burning reminder of the last few relentless days spent darting between crowded stores, juggling endless phone calls, and scribbling through never-ending checklists. The feeling was like a dull thrum beneath your skin, like a tug at your heart that reminded you you were still human, not some flawless machine churning out a perfect party. Still, you forced a steady smile, trying to inject confidence into your voice despite the physical and emotional exhaustion pulling at your bones. “Yeah, it’s all locked down,” you said. “I went through the every last boring detail myself this morning, triple-checked everything. There should be no incidents of the food poisoning or table collapse nature,”.
Jules leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the door, then snapped back to yours, shimmering with a mix of mischief and something unreadable, an unspoken question hanging just beneath the surface. She knew you better than anyone, saw through the careful smile you plastered on and the way your eyes darted away. “He’s back in town, you know,” she murmured, the words slipping out like a secret meant only for you, sinking deep into your chest and making your heart stutter despite every effort to stay composed.
Your breath caught, a sensation of pressure pushing on you like an unseen fist curling around your ribs, pulling inwards until the air in your lungs felt paper-thin. The room didn’t quite stop, but it shifted. The bass, once quick and careless, seemed to drag, each thud elongating into a heavy, reverberating echo that rattled through the floor and climbed up your spine, syncing to the thrum of your heart. Heat crept up the side of your neck, not from the gust of hot air filtering through the backdoor where a frantic Lyra stumbled in clutching a towering pitcher of jungle juice that blocked her view, making her sway and weave as she tried to navigate the room, or the one shot of tequila you took earlier to pre-pregame burning faintly in your chest, but from something far quieter, far more dangerous. You swallowed, the motion slow, almost painful, the back of your throat dry as if you’d been thirsting for something just out of reach, taunting you.
You tried to smooth your features, to wear that effortless, unreadable calm you’d perfected. A tilt of the chin. Relaxed mouth. Eyes that saw but didn’t feel. But inside, a crack had formed, thin and delicate, threatening to split wide open. And Jules saw it. She always did. She caught that half-second betrayal in your gaze, the one you thought you’d buried deep, and her lips curved into a grin. The kind of grin that said she’d spotted the fracture and was content to watch it widen, piece by piece, until you couldn’t hide it anymore.
He was back in town. Of course you knew he was back in town. How could you not? That dumbass practically broadcast it for the entire world without saying a word to the one person he should’ve told directly. It was just an Instagram story three nights ago, blurry but calculated. Him, Ja’Marr, and Justin out front of Fred’s, the neon beer signs bleeding red and gold into the damp sidewalk, the glow catching in the glass of half-finished bottles. The caption? In good company. And there he was, half in the shadows, half lit in that ugly warm neon, leaning against the brick like the whole block belonged to him.
Like he didn’t give a damn if you saw it.
Like he knew you would, which is why he didn’t care.
The moment your thumb lingered over the screen, the memory of Fred’s came crashing back with brutal clarity, impossible to ignore. You could almost feel the greasy, smoky haze that clung stubbornly to your hair for days after those nights, thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. That pungent, metallic tang of cheap draft beer lingered on your tongue as you watched the bartenders work frantically behind the sticky counters, their shirts damp with sweat, shoving cups across to eager hands. Neon beer signs buzzed faintly above the wooden booths carved up with initials and hearts, their red-and-blue glow throwing soft halos over faces flushed from too many shots. The floor was perpetually tacky under your shoes, every step a reminder of spilled drinks and nights blurred by the pounding bass of bad pop remixes. You remembered how the laughter there always came a little too loud, loose from the bottom-shelf liquor, how the air itself seemed alive with the heat of bodies pressed too close together, shoving and swaying in the narrow aisles. It was chaos, it was messy, but in those moments—bathed in golden bar light with Joe’s shoulder brushing yours—it had felt like the center of the universe.
You saw him there quite often, framed by the dim, flickering lights that cast long shadows over the bar. His lean figure slouched against the worn wood, eyes always on high alert and darkening whenever some overconfident idiot got too close to you. You remembered the way he’d catch your eye across the room, that smoldering look, equal parts warning and desire, a silent claim. His gaze would cut through the noise, zeroing in on you with a possessiveness that sent an electric jolt straight through your veins.
All it took was one simple gesture with his fingers, one glance from his eyes toward the side door, and the world shrank down to just the two of you, even in the middle of Fred’s chaos. That one particular night, when the tension between you finally cracked into something more than a rendezvous in a storage closet at some random party a month ago, he pulled you away from the pulsing crowd, his hands rough but sure on your hips, guiding you with a silent authority. The chipped paint behind the dartboard scratched your skin through the thin fabric of your top as he pressed you flush against it, his heat searing through the dense, smoke-scented air. His lips found the soft skin of your neck, dragging kisses that left a trail of fire, each brush of his mouth making your pulse spike. He murmured your name like a prayer, words slurred from the drink he’d been nursing all night. His hands tangled in your hair, tugging gently, as his mouth traveled from your neck to your jawline, and lower, tracing a path of need and promise.
The crowd’s laughter and the clatter of darts faded into nothing; the space around you existed solely for his hands and lips, the brush of your skin against his chest, the warmth radiating between you. When his mouth finally claimed yours, it was urgent, desperate—a messy, heated collision of teeth and tongue that stole your breath. Your hands fumbled to peel away buttons, to find skin beneath layers of fabric, each touch igniting a fire that raced through your stomach and thighs. The dartboard corner was too small, too exposed, and the world outside too loud, so he pulled you toward the bathroom, his hands sliding lower, gripping your ass, pulling you to him.
The transition was dizzying, one moment you were pressed against the wall in the shadowed corner, the next you were stumbling through the narrow hall toward the bathroom, your chest heaving, lips still locked. The fluorescent lights flickered above the cracked mirror as he pushed the door shut behind you with a soft thud, the scent of alcohol and hand sanitizer mixing with the warmth of your bodies. You both paused for barely a second before he claimed you again, urgent, fevered, lips pressing against yours with all the need he’d been holding back, “Taste so sweet, beautiful. Mm, where’ve you been my whole life?”. Your bodies tangled on the cold tile countertop, skin sliding and pressing together in a rhythm that was entirely your own. His hands roamed freely, mapping every curve, every hollow, every contour you’d thought you knew, discovering new ways to make you gasp, to make you arch into him.
Breathless, gasping, lost in the taste of alcohol and skin, the scrape of his fingertips, and the raw, primal desire that pulsed between you, you forgot the rest of the world. Fred’s was never just a bar for you. It had been the place where your bodies first spoke when words failed, where the chaos of youth and the thrill of secrecy were captured in every touch, every whispered curse, every desperate, messy kiss that left you trembling and craving more.
Seeing him back there…yeah, it hurt you in a way you weren’t ready for. “Why can’t I just forget it,” was the only thought swirling through your mind, a thought which slammed into you, hot and acidic, flooding your throat until it was hard to swallow. It felt stupid, childish, pathetic even, and yet it hollowed you out just the same. Your stomach tightened and twisted, like your body knew before your mind could catch up. It shouldn’t hurt this much. God, it shouldn’t. He was never yours like that for you to act this way, never promised, never held by anything more than late-night words that dissolved by morning. But the truth was messier than that. Somewhere between the stolen glances across crowded rooms, the heat of his breath against your ear, the way his hand would find the small of your back without looking, you’d claimed him. Quietly. Secretly. Pathetically.
You just couldn’t explain it.
And you sure as hell couldn’t ignore it.
But you tried.
“Well,” you said, voice soft and careful, “I hope he had a great summer…and that he enjoys these last few days before school and football starts again,”. You forced another smile, but it’s thin and faltering, unable to disguise the strain beneath.
You felt the weight of your phone in your back pocket all of a sudden, all cool and heavy, basically mocking you because you could just…text him again, its screen dark but somewhat promising. Your mind lingered just a moment longer than necessary, “Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something, he likes it when I do this…right? Show him that I need him?” you thought, as if the right words were hiding somewhere between hesitation and hope. The thought both terrified and tempted you, twisting through your mind like a slow-burning fire. You were often always the one reaching out first, sliding into his messages, picking up the pieces when he vanished without warning, like some cruel game where one of you was always left guessing. Joe was all in when it suited him, but then just as quickly, he’d pull away, leaving you stranded in the cold with nothing but the echo of what you thought you had. The miscommunication stretched between you like a chasm, and the same cycle of doubts gnawed at you relentlessly.
Was he avoiding you? Is he just really busy? Did he want you, or just the idea of you? Is he hiding something? Should you cut him some slack, you aren't technically his girlfriend? Was this how he showed his affection, or was this something more tangled and toxic, a push and pull that left your heart bruised and begging for more?
Every unanswered message fed the doubt, and yet you found yourself desperate to reach out anyway, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’d stay. And here you were now, teetering on that ledge once again, despite what happened…or what didn’t happen this past summer.
You felt Jules’s stare lingering on you from the corner of your eye, and you quickly shoved down the fluttering urge to confess your true feelings inside. Because if you let that slip, if you let her see how much you were folding beneath the surface, you’d be signing up for another exhausting, three-hour lecture about self-worth—the kind that painted Joe as nothing more than the college fuckboy you ran to when you needed a hit of something to distract you from reality, but never the man who’d be there to hold your hand through the hardest parts of life. You weren’t ready for that truth yet, not when your heart still clung to the fragile desire that maybe, just maybe, he could be more. That maybe you could fix him, because sometimes he wasn’t so bad…so you swallowed it, locked it away, and gave Jules a tight-lipped smile instead.
You already knew that tonight, as the music throbbed and bodies swayed close, your fingers would betray your resolve. They’d instinctively reach for your phone, the screen glowing like a beacon in the dim light. You’d stare at that empty message window, heart hammering in your chest, typing out words—short, hesitant, full of longing—only to delete them again, caught in a loop of hope and fear. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for you to break the silence; fear that reopening the door might let everything crash down. Because somewhere deep in your tangled heart, the part that still clung to him like a lifeline, you weren’t ready to let go…not tonight, maybe not ever.
He had settled into your bones, a quiet pulse beneath your skin, so deeply rooted that pulling him out felt impossible, like trying to unwrite the story your body was made to tell.
With a slow breath that feels heavier than air, you shake your head, “He can come with Ja’Marr and Justin if he wants, but honestly, I don’t care. He’s not my problem anymore,”. The words fall like armor, a carefully crafted shield you wrap tight around your body. Then, with a clipped edge meant to close the conversation before it starts, you add, “So, to answer your question before you even ask…no. I’m not texting him,”.
You don’t wait for Jules to respond; you don’t want her to see through the gaps in your mask even more than she already has. Because beneath the surface, you know it’s a lie you’re telling yourself. That the hunger to reach for your phone will gnaw at you all night, pulling you back toward a past you’re desperate to forget but can’t quite let go of. Still, in this moment, you don’t care. You need to believe it, even if only for a little while.
Turning sharply on your heel, you start up the stairs, the worn auburn wood creaking underfoot like a slow countdown. Each step feels like you’re pulling away from everything tangled in that name, the promises left unsaid, the silences that screamed louder than words, the idea of what could’ve been. You’re climbing not just toward the bedroom where you’ll get ready, but toward a delicate hope that maybe, tonight, you can rewrite the story you’re so tired of living.
You won’t text him. You can’t. You won’t put yourself through that again.
2 hours later
You will text him. Fuck, you already did. You’re putting yourself through it again.
It wasn’t supposed to happen, despite your subconscious telling you that eventually you’d give in. But it wasn’t supposed to happen so easily; you were going to resist. You had promised yourself that much, clinging to that vow like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. But promises made (semi) sober in the quiet of your bedroom have a way of dissolving under the heat of a crowded room. Somewhere between the sharp burn of Fireball sliding down your throat, the cinnamon bite searing all the way to your stomach, and the sticky-sweet aftertaste coating your tongue, your resolve began to soften.
The music wasn’t helping—New Rules by Dua Lipa pounding through the walls, the bass rattling your ribs, the lyrics threading themselves into your veins like they owned you. Ironic. Cruel. A challenge you didn’t need. The song looped and looped, vibrating through the soles of your heels until even the air seemed to hum with temptation.
And then there was the top. That reckless, dangerous purple corset tank, the one you’d told yourself you were saving for a night that mattered. Tonight, apparently, mattered. It hugged your body with ruthless precision, as if it had been crafted by someone who had studied you from every angle, memorized every dip, every swell. Sequins were stitched into the fabric like shards of starlight, catching every passing flicker of neon and fairy light, glimmering as though the room itself was conspiring to make you impossible to ignore. The thin straps framed your shoulders and collarbones like deliberate brushstrokes, guiding the gaze downward to the neckline’s daring plunge, where your tits, pushed up just enough to catch the attention of anyone interested, looked almost too perfect to belong to you. The boning cinched tight around your waist, a constant reminder with every breath that you were dressed like a weapon, and tonight, you were willing to aim.
It wasn’t just the alcohol buzzing in your bloodstream; it was something stronger, headier. That risky kind of confidence that makes you stand a little taller, makes your gaze linger longer when someone’s looking back. The room smelled of liquor and perfume, your friends' bodies pressing close in a haze of heat and noise while they finished their makeup, and somewhere in the middle of it all, your pulse began to race with the thought of him. The thought of being seen by him.
“Text him, Idiot. Just text him,” a voice hissed inside your head, curling around your skull like smoke from a 3-alarm fire, impossible to ignore. “You know you want to, you know you want him. You miss him. Miss the way he whispered in your ear. Miss the way his lips crushed yours, tasting like everything you’d ever wanted, like he actually cared when he kissed you. Miss the way he fucked you like he didn’t give a single damn about the world around you, how he hit every nerve, every spot inside you that left you gasping and trembling. You miss the way he listened to you, the way he laughed around you, the way he made you forget every single problem in your life. He was like a drug, and you crave it. You crave him. You crave it so much it aches, right here,” it murmured, a hot, almost tangible pressure against your chest. “You know you want to feel his hands on you, dragging you into him, you know you want to lose yourself in him again, just like you always do. So why don’t you?”.
Maybe it was the Fireball. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the way the corset made you feel like you could walk into a room and make it yours. Or maybe it was that fucking voice in your head, but whatever it was, it pushed you over the edge. Your phone was already in your hand before you’d fully decided to pick it up, the glow of the screen lighting your face in the dim, flashing dark. You hovered, thumb trembling over the keyboard, the word don’t whispering weakly somewhere in the back of your head.
But your body was already leaning into do.
And without giving the rational part of you time to intervene, you typed out those three reckless little words and hit send on the message you swore you’d never send again.
you: u coming over?
Three simple words. That’s all it took. Plain on the surface, nothing more than a casual invite, but beneath them sat everything you’d never dare to say out loud. At least not to his face.
You’d told yourself it was harmless. Everyone in his circle had been invited, all of his friends, even some mutuals from out of town who were here to see him, every name ticked off the list with careful precision. Leaving him out would’ve been obvious, too planned. It would’ve painted you as cold, petty, the villain. And you weren’t that person.
Not really.
So you typed it out, thumb pausing over the send button for a single, tight breath. Long enough to feel the weight of the choice, short enough to pretend it didn’t matter. And then…send. Gone. Out there in the universe, where you couldn’t pull it back. You told yourself you wouldn’t check. Wouldn’t wait. Wouldn’t give the thought of him a single second more than necessary. If he showed up, he showed up. If not, well, that was that. You weren’t going to hover over your phone like some lovesick idiot, willing a reply into existence. Not tonight, and certainly not after months of what felt like psychological torture.
But, as Lyra’s fingers traced slow patterns across your chest and arms, spreading the warm, sticky shimmer of BodyGlow glitter oil across the expanse of your soft skin, her voice droned on, a mix of frustration and worry about how her boyfriend had been ghosting her all day, your resolve slipped as quickly as the oil down your arm. The sweet, almost intoxicating scent of the liquid—hints of vanilla and something floral—mingled with the warmth of her touch, the subtle sparkle catching the soft light and dusting your skin in tiny flecks of light. Yet, none of it distracted you. Your mind wandered, caught in a restless spiral, fixated on that text, the simple message silently glowing on your screen, a potential unread thread of hope and anxiety tangled together. It hovered just out of reach, a whisper of what could be, pulling at your chest like a pull you couldn’t ign–
“Ah, fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, the words barely audible over the hum of the party, which was slowly kicking off below your tiled bathroom floors. Your fingers brushed the smooth, cold surface of the marble countertop, then snatched your phone back into your hand like it was the lifeline you couldn’t let go of. Your thumb hovered over the screen before you finally tapped his contact, the simple message sent earlier appearing in stark black letters,
you: u coming over?
— read by do NOT text at 9:21 pm.
You blinked, heart tightening as the seconds stretched out, your breath shallow. The glowing screen mocked you with its silence. Then, just as you began to slide your gaze away, your eyes caught the little timestamp below the message, read at 9:21 pm.
Half an hour ago.
Your heart sank.
The realization hit like a sucker punch, twisting low in your gut as you felt a burning sensation in your throat, almost as if you were about to throw up the entire contents of your stomach. He’d seen your message—he’d seen you reach out, lay yourself bare in three simple words—and then he’d done the one thing that hurt the most. Absolutely fucking nothing. Again. No reply, no acknowledgment, just cold silence stretching across the digital space between you. And that silence wasn’t just an absence; it was on purpose, heavy, and louder than any answer he could’ve given. You hated yourself for hoping, hated how your pulse had jumped the second you hit send, how you’d imagined him showing up, the way his eyes might find yours in a crowded room with that adorable grin of his.
And now? Now you were left with the emptiness, with embarrassment, the knowing that you’d reopened a door he never intended to walk through again.
You should’ve known better. God, you did know better. This was his game, pull you in close enough to taste him, then vanish before you can breathe him in. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t play again, but here you were, standing in a glitter-dusted top, hair curled just so, every detail of tonight’s party unconsciously built with him in mind, the music he liked, the drinks he’d never turn down, the crowd he’d want to be seen with.
And for what? For a half-hour-old read receipt?
Bullshit.
He was acting like nothing had ever happened, like the nights you’d shared, the words whispered, and the heat tangled between you had vanished into thin air. As if last year, every stolen look, every brush of lips, every promise that hadn’t been named, meant absolutely nothing to him. You could still see it, clear as day, that night in his apartment, the soft lighting, his chest pressed against yours, the way his eyes had held a glimmer of something promising, something tender, something that said don’t forget me just like his mouth did—like he’d meant it, like it was real.
You thought it was real.
And now? Now he was here, in your thoughts again, indifferent, untouchable, like you were a puzzle piece he’d tossed aside. Was this some sick joke to him? Were you just a punchline, a thrill that faded as soon as the laughter was over?
You drew in a shaky, uneven breath, trying to calm the storm twisting in your chest, willing yourself to release it, to stop caring. To stop imagining that lazy, crooked smile that always made your stomach clench, or picturing his eyes sliding over you with that hungry, secretive intensity that had haunted your dreams more than once. He was an asshole; it was that simple. He always had been. Every charming word, every fleeting touch, it had all carried a double meaning you’d ignored for far too long.
Maybe tonight, maybe finally, you’d force yourself to see it for what it was.
Joe Burrow moves through life in the orbit of his own wants, and you…you were never the sun he revolved around, no matter how bright he made you shine.
The drinks made it worse.
You honestly felt like you were one shot away from entering full-blown psychosis. You were spiraling...hard.
The cheap liquor, all bitter, sticky, and sloshing in plastic red cups, was supposed to sand down the jagged edges inside you, to smudge the outline of that feeling lodged so deep in your chest it had begun to feel like part of your anatomy. You’d hoped it would strip you down to that warm, reckless haze where nothing mattered, numbing your neurotransmitters, almost like you wanted to return to that euphoric trance that you felt because of Joe, but this time your only decision would be which stranger’s hands you’d let on your skin tonight just to erase the mark of his touch. But they betrayed you, just like everything had been lately. Instead of numbing the thought of those blue eyes, those cold, consuming eyes that had never once looked past himself, they sharpened it. Each swallow was a slow twist of the lens, dragging him into perfect, merciless focus.
You saw his smile in every face—that infuriating, devastatingly perfect smile—the one that curled slowly at the corners when you’d say his name in that flirty, sing-song tone that was second nature whenever you caught him after your last class of the day.
You’d stumble into his apartment, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air like he’d left it there just for you, the door already unlocked in silent anticipation of your arrival. Your baby blue bag would slide from your shoulder, landing with a soft thud against the worn leather of his couch. Sometimes you’d hear the hiss of the shower, steam curling out from the cracked bathroom door, or catch him slouched in his gaming chair, sweat still clinging to his skin from another grueling practice under the suffocating Baton Rouge heat. No matter where you found him, you’d close the distance. You’d slip into the shower with him, water cascading over the sculpted lines of his shoulders, your lips pressing a slow trail of kisses along the hard curve of his biceps, tracing upward until they met the warm, intoxicating softness of his mouth. Or you’d climb into his lap, sinking into the solid breadth of his frame, feeling the tension melt from his body as you wrapped your arms around him, tucking his head into the curve of your neck like you could shield him from the world—and for those moments, maybe you almost did.
You heard the sound of his voice in your ear every time someone spoke to you, carrying that dark rasp that seemed to scrape right along your nerves. It wasn’t just a whisper; it was a possession, each word threaded with heat and command, dripping with the most salacious things a person could say to you, things that left your skin flushed and your pulse stuttering. You could still feel the ghost of those nights, the way the world would narrow to the four walls of his room the second he pulled you inside, door slamming shut with finality. He’d press you deep into the plush give of his mattress, his broad frame caging you in, blocking out everything but him—his scent, recognizable and warm; the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms; the shadows of his body moving against yours in the dim light. After every game, it was the same ritual, the same urgency. His hands rough, his touch greedy, as if you were the only thing strong enough to bleed the leftover tension from his bones. He didn’t just take; he devoured, and you let him, every time, because the way he claimed you felt less like sin and more like gravity.
And then, afterward, when the storm had quieted and the air between you still hummed, you’d lie tangled together in the wreckage of it all, sheets twisted and clinging to skin still slick with sweat. The glow from his bedside lamp would spill across the sharp lines of his shoulders, catching the gold in his hair, the small moles scattered across his chest. Those were the moments that ruined you—the quiet ones, when the world felt smaller, safer, like maybe this thing between you could survive the noise outside. He’d trace slow, absentminded circles against your thigh while he talked, voice softer now, no longer the commanding rasp that undid you, but something vulnerable, something achingly real.
He’d ramble about anything and everything—his next game, a play he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, how he missed his mom’s cooking, how sometimes he wondered what his life would’ve looked like if he hadn’t been good at football. You’d listen, cheek pressed against his chest, your lips brushing his skin every now and then just to feel him exhale. And when it was your turn, he’d listen, too. He’d ask questions, trace the edge of your jaw when you got emotional, press soft kisses to your cheeks like he could anchor you there, in that fragile bubble of warmth and exhaustion.
Those were the nights that fooled you into thinking he was yours. Not the kisses, not the sex, not the whispers that came right before dawn—but the way he looked at you then, like you were the only thing in the room that made sense. Like he would melt right into you if it was possible.
The distortion of every memory you wanted to forget just became clearer, and clearer, and clearer, no matter how many drinks you had in your system, no matter how many guys were looking at you like you were the prey to their predator. It was as if he was in the air you breathed, and the blood coursing through your body.
And what didn’t make it easier was that Ja’Marr and Justin had shown up too, striding through the kitchen with arms slung over each other’s shoulders, their easy grins strong enough to cut through diamond. They moved through the party as if they owned the place, like they’d been here a hundred times before. Like they could find that secret Pink Whitney stash blindfolded—the one you and your friends had hidden behind a cutout in the wall, covered by a Geaux Tigers dartboard—the bottles tucked away there since Parent’s Weekend last year, when someone’s dad nearly stumbled onto it after throwing a dart a little too hard.
But the truth was, they’d never been here. Not once, not even with Joe. You were sewn into the seams of Joe’s world, into the booths of his favorite bar, the dim corners of his apartment, the toothbrush you kept in his bathroom next to your favorite philosophy body wash that you swore he’d use when you weren’t around, that seat in Tiger Stadium that always belonged to you, but he was never stitched into yours. He never stepped over your threshold with the same casual ease, never made himself at home in the spaces you called yours unless it was when nobody was looking, except for that one birthday earlier this year, which you still don’t know how he agreed to. Regardless, it was not enough to bring his friends into your space despite you bringing yours into his, not enough to blur the lines between your worlds, no matter how many pieces of yourself were lost in his.
That’s why the sight of them here, laughing too loud, pouring themselves drinks like they’d been doing it for years, scraped like salt against the open wound he’d left behind. It didn’t happen by accident; guys like Ja’Marr and Justin didn’t just “wander in” to places they’d never been. They were too known, too I’m gracing you with my presence to just…show up. He’d told them to go. Which meant he knew, and still, he didn’t come. He knew the text you sent hours ago wasn’t some lazy “you up?”. It was a hand reaching out, asking him to show up in your space, in your life, without the shadows. Together. But instead, he’d sent his ghosts, letting their presence fill the corners where you’d imagined him standing.
“Did he send them because…because he’s done? It’s over? So now it doesn’t matter if they’re here? Because he doesn’t plan on coming back into my life?”. The thought looped relentlessly in your mind as you leaned against the windowsill, fingers curling around the cool cup, eyes straining down the street for the man of the hour. The echo of Mr. Brightside blasting over the speakers vibrated through the wooden floor, shivering up your spine and settling low in your chest, mixing with the jittery adrenaline that always seemed to follow him, even in his absence.
And then it hit you—an unwelcome epiphany, cutting through the drunken haze, the music, the chaos unfolding around you. Ja’Marr and Justin weren’t just bringing their physical presence into your home when they strolled through the front door. With them came the echo of a truth, a revelation you’d been avoiding all summer, a truth that throbbed with every pulse of the music and every phantom vibration in your pocket.
He'd never walk through the front door. He'd never done it before, and he'd never do it now.
Those late nights Joe told you to leave the back door of your house unlocked for him weren’t about spontaneity, or some movie-scene kind of romance; they were about making it easier for him. No knocking, no waiting, no chance of being seen. Just slipping into your space like it was his, like you would always be there waiting in the dark. At first, you had told yourself it was kind of thrilling, the sound of the door clicking shut, the low tread of his footsteps down the hall, the way your stomach would leap in anticipation even if you were half-asleep. You told yourself it meant something, that he wanted you enough to come to you in the quietest hours of the night. But it was always the same. When the world was asleep, or just wasn’t paying attention close enough, you were allowed to have him—his laugh muffled against your pillow, his hand lazy on your thigh, his head tilted back on your shoulder while the glow of the TV softened his profile. He’d kiss you in those moments, recklessly, like this was the greatest thing he’d ever done, like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like kissing you was as natural as breathing. And you let yourself believe that was intimacy, that was what it meant to be wanted.
He’d never walk through that crimson colored front door, not where the welcome mat and the warm light could catch him, not where anyone might see and wonder who he was to you. He’d never walk through the front door like friends did—even people like Ja’Marr and Justin—like family did, like you wanted him to. He’d only ever slip in the quiet way guilty things do, silent, quick, the air barely disturbed behind him, leaving no sign he’d been there at all. That door, those thresholds, were for people who belonged, people who could stake a claim in your life without leaving scars or shadows behind. He’d never be that person. He’d never be the man you wanted him to be, the one who could hold your gaze in public, who could stand fully present in your world without slipping away into silence the second someone looked too long, the second someone started asking too many questions.
Which is why it was so pathetic, the way your eyes kept flicking to the front door all night, each making the disappointment worse. Every time the hinges creaked or someone with his build stepped inside, your breath snagged in your throat. Stupid, foolish hope flaring before it burned out again.
Lost in your thoughts, you barely registered Ryan weaving through the crowd until he collided with the wall beside the windowsill, a graceless thud that made you flinch. His bleary, half-lidded eyes found yours, and he grinned like he’d just discovered something brilliant. Ryan was…a character, to say the least. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had enough street smarts to navigate a party without making a total fool of himself. You remembered the night you met him—the same night you met Joe, ironically enough—how the two of you had been locked in a ridiculous, delightful debate over what your last-ever meals would be if you were on death row. You were laughing so hard your ribs ached, clinging to every absurd suggestion he made, the warmth of the conversation wrapping around you like a soft, familiar blanket, when Joe had cut in without warning. He’d snagged you mid-laugh for a game of beer pong, his presence magnetic, impossible to ignore, like he’d been waiting just to stake his claim.
One thing led to another, the night dissolving into a blur of stolen touches and heated whispers, and by its end, you found yourself in some random storage closet with his head buried between your thighs, the rough scrape of fabric against skin replaced by the shocking softness of his mouth. Your fingers tangled in his golden, star-dusted hair, tugging gently, memorizing the feeling of him, the slick heat of desire that had nothing to do with anyone else in that room. Every gasp, every shiver, every flicker of light across the walls pressed itself into your memory like ink on skin, impossible to erase, impossible to forget.
You often wondered what might have happened if Joe hadn’t barged in on your conversation that night. Ryan wasn’t…bad, not by a long shot. He was sweet in an earnest, goofy way, sometimes dorky, effortlessly athletic, and undeniably easy on the eyes. There was something comforting about his energy, a warmth that didn’t demand or consume, unlike the fire that had always burned between you and Joe. Maybe, just maybe, if the circumstances had been different, he could have been something more than a footnote in the chaos of that night.
“Great fuckin’ party, Y/N,” he slurred, and before you could step back, his hand landed on your bare shoulder. The touch sent an involuntary shiver up your spine, a flash of warmth that should have felt electric, should have felt comfortable, but instead it felt foreign, just wrong. Your body tensed automatically, leaning just slightly away even as a small, guilty part of you was tempted to lean into it, to feel something, anything, but it wasn’t him. That’s why you didn’t like it, because it wasn’t Joe. Every instinct screamed that this hand didn’t belong, that the familiarity and desire you craved with Joe couldn’t be replicated here, no matter how much you tried.
Ryan’s gaze roamed over you, opal eyes sliding over every curve you’d spent hours shaping for tonight, lingering too long where it shouldn’t, consuming with a greedy, drunken curiosity. “Damn…you look…hot,” he murmured, voice hanging heavy in the humid air like a warning you didn’t want to hear. He leaned closer, breath warm and slightly sweet with liquor, and added, almost boastfully, “I’m glad to see you finally movin’ past…him. ‘Cause you…you’re hot as fuck, and anyone would be stupid to waste this,” he gestured toward your body with his free hand, “on that small dick bitch Burrow. I mean, he don’t know how to handle all this,” his hand shifted, sliding up your collarbone in a slow, deliberate graze, and the heat of his palm made your chest tighten, coil, and constrict with tension. This wasn’t fireworks. This wasn’t the dangerous, intimate pull you remembered. It was invasive, unfamiliar—a brazen touch that carried no memory, no history, only the weight of plain, entitled desire. You stiffened, lips pressing together as you forced a laugh that fell hollow, trying to stabilize yourself against the pulse of the bass thrumming through the floor.
“I think you needed to throw this party, y’know?” he teased, lifting a random cup off the windowsill in a lazy salute before leaning back against the wall. “To prove to yourself there’s more to life than mediocre college quarterbacks who think they’re God’s gift, only to end up pushing paper in some soulless finance firm once they realize the NFL isn’t calling their name. Trust me, he isn’t worth shit,” his laugh broke out, thinking that he was saying something to lighten your mood when in reality, you just wanted to slap him in the face.
“Pppfh,” you snorted, shaking your head. His audacity was infuriating, like a slap you couldn’t land. You thought about Joe, about how if he were standing here right now, Ryan wouldn’t even dare open his mouth. Not a word. Joe would make it so obvious, so final, that Ryan wouldn’t know whether to crawl under the nearest couch or recite the LSU fight song backwards just to save face. And honestly… that thought made the edges of your anger blur with something warmer.
Joe might’ve been an asshole, might’ve been the worst decision you’d ever made inn your life, but he was also the most talented person you’d ever met. Even when he was being smug or quiet in that annoying way that made you want to wring his neck, there was something undeniable about him. He carried himself like he knew where he was going, like he had it all mapped out, down to the very last destination, the very last play. The first time you actually talked, sober, about football, you’d felt it. The sharpness of his mind, the way he saw the game like it was a language only he was fluent in. You knew then he’d make it far. There was no other option for someone like him. Glory was written in the stars for him long before he showed his face on this earth.
Each time Ryan leaned too close, each time his eyes lingered, the thought of him, the one who should be here, pounded louder, an intense ache threading through your chest, tightening your throat, making your eyes burn. In the space between the beat of the music, between the laughter and clinking plastic cups, you felt Joe there—the ghost of him. And yet, you were here, caught between instinct and desire, between the touch of someone who wasn’t his and the memory of the only touch that ever mattered, haunted by the knowledge that nothing Ryan could offer could ever fill the space Joe had claimed inside you.
Once you’d managed to peel away from his clumsy, alcohol-heavy attempt at pressing himself into your orbit in a way that made you want to throw up, you slipped back into the crowd like you needed a distraction, desperate for air that didn’t reek of cheap beer and bad intentions. The kitchen became your refuge, not quiet, not really, but less suffocating than the growing chaos outside. Cups littered the counters, the faint sticky tug of spilled liquor clinging to your shoes as you stepped around bodies. It was a mess, but what more did you expect?
“This’ll be a pain in the ass to clean up,” you sighed to yourself as you leaned back against the fridge.
Your phone stayed in your hand like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the glass as you pretended to scroll, a half-hearted cover that no one cared enough to question, but your eyes never moved far from his name. It sat there like a beacon, a curse, the thread holding you hostage. Sometimes you swore if you stared long enough, you could will it to light up. You checked every few minutes, feigning disinterest, but your heart still tripped over itself each time the screen blinked awake only to reveal nothing new.
Twice now, no, maybe more, you’d caved and called him. So much for self-restraint and telling yourself to stand up.
Once in the corner of the kitchen by your budding Peace Lily, another time in the locked pantry with the old light buzzing overhead like a secret keeper. You pressed the phone to your ear in the chaos, the sound of muffled bass bleeding under the door as you clutched the device like it could make everything around you disappear. The low, automated rhythm of his voicemail was both relief and torture. Relief, because you weren’t brave enough to hear him answer, what would you even say?
I hate you, but I miss you. Please come over to this stupid party I threw for you?
Tragic. Literally tragic.
But going to voicemail was also torture, because it meant silence, absence, distance. You always hung up before the beep, pulse racing like you’d been caught stealing something. Shame pooled in your gut, thick and sour, like wanting him still was wrong, foolish.
You should’ve been moving on by now. That’s what everyone said, what you told yourself you’d do tonight, what you pretended to believe in daylight when the ache wasn’t so strong. He’d made his choice, hadn’t he? Left you to piece yourself together while he walked away without a backward glance. Still, here you were…standing in the midst of what should’ve been the best way to start off the new school year, with the taste of liquid freedom burning your throat, trying not to crumble every time your phone stayed dark or the hinges of the door squeaked.
The spiral wasn’t stopping, no matter what you did.
“I only threw this party for you. Please come through. Please, Joe,” the mantra hissed in your head, threading between the walls of chatter and the glittering lights, sinking into your veins like a persistent undertow. You wondered what he was doing—if he was sprawled on some battered couch with his playbook open, if he was out with his other teammates, if he was with some other girl, or if he was just sitting in that brooding silence he wore so well. The thought twisted in your chest like a sharp vine, constricting and sweet all at once, pain laced with the ridiculous hope that he was thinking of you too. “Wish I knew what you were thinking,” you murmured under your breath, letting the words vanish into the air as you poured another shot of cheap liquor into a red solo cup, the bitter burn searing down your throat and doing nothing to numb the feelings, making you dizzy.
Your fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles blanching, as your eyes flicked to your phone for the hundredth time, half-expecting, half-hoping that he’d text you or call you back. And the thought that hit the hardest, more vicious than any thought of anyone else, was this.
If his name flashed across your screen right now, if even a single syllable of you escaped his fingertips in a text…you’d cave. You’d fold completely. No hesitation. No armor. No pride. You’d forget every bitter feeling, every time you cried until there were no more tears, every awful thought you’d had about him.
But…why. Why was it so hard to move past him? Why were you so hurt? Why were you so hung up on him?
Why were you acting as if he lov–
Crash.
The abrupt crack of glass splintering tore through your thoughts, the sound so sudden and violent it felt like it split through your chest. Your head whipped toward the window, your pulse leaping as shards burst inward and scattered, raining down in a glittering, chaotic cascade. They bounced across the floor like jagged fragments of ice, catching the light in harsh, fractured gleams. For a beat too long, you were motionless, lungs locked, unable to draw in air as you stared at the destruction. It wasn’t until your eyes dropped lower, drawn instinctively to the thing that had landed at your feet, that your stomach twisted, your body snapping back into focus.
A football.
A Wilson.
But not just any Wilson football. His Wilson football.
You knew before your brain could form the thought. The scuffed leather was etched into your memory, the pigskin dulled from countless snaps and practices, the seams worn smooth in certain spots where his hands always settled. Even from a distance, you recognized it the way you’d recognize the slope of his shoulders or the cadence of his voice—instinctively, unshakably. There was a faint smear of dirt along the laces, the kind of mark that came from the way he gripped it, spinning it endlessly when he thought no one noticed. You remembered how it would rest against his thigh when he leaned back on your bed, or how he’d toss it lazily into the air and catch it again, each motion threaded into the rhythm of your days together. The football wasn’t just a ball. It was him, it was everything he carried with him, and suddenly it was here, in front of you, like a cruel reminder dropped into your orbit.
Your chest tightened, your breath thinning until it barely reached your lungs. The party around you dulled, the chatter and laughter warping into something distant. The thrum of conversation blurred into static, until all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat—and underneath it, rising unsolicited, the sounds you thought you’d buried. The deafening roar of a stadium crowd, the rhythmic slam of cleats against turf, the cadence of plays barked through the haze of adrenaline. And then softer, more dangerous, his voice. Quiet and steady, pitched with that warmth he reserved only for you.
You weren’t at the party anymore. You were there, on that night, the one etched into you with unbearable clarity. The night when you finally understood just how dangerous he was to your heart. The night you realized you might not survive the gravity of Joe Burrow.
Flashback to Tiger Stadium – Midnight, October 18th, 2018.
“Joe, b- be careful…we’re gonna get caught,” you giggled under your breath, clutching his hand as he tugged you further down the tunnel that spilled out onto the broad, turf field. The echo of your footsteps against the walls felt deafening in the quiet that fell over Death Valley tonight, and your heart raced at the thought of someone discovering you both goofing around after hours. But Joe didn’t even glance back, his long strides confident, his hand firm around yours like he knew exactly what he was doing. Walking through the same tunnel he ran out of every Saturday felt electric, almost like you were high on something, like the walls themselves hummed with the ghostly roar of past crowds.
The air smelled faintly of turf, sweat, and history, and every step seemed to match the rhythm of his life on that field. You could feel it, the energy he carried, the way it lingered in the very concrete beneath your feet, coiling around your veins and making your pulse sync with his. The world outside the stadium, the worries and rules you’d left behind, faded into nothing, replaced by the thrill of secrecy, adrenaline, and the impossible intimacy of moving through his world unnoticed.
When the heavy shadows gave way and the wide-open expanse of Tiger Stadium unfolded before you, your breath caught. The massive stands—the same stands you’d be in every Saturday—loomed overhead, empty and dark, but even without a single fan in sight, the place oozed with glory and possibility. You felt the cool October breeze crawl up your spine once you’d stepped out of the tunnel, the grey Super Mario hoodie you’d stolen from his closet not doing much to shield you from the chill that the night brought you. The sleeves fell past your hands, and you tugged them tighter, burying your face into the worn cotton that still smelled like him.
Your voice trembled with half-giggle, half-fear, and it only made him laugh under his breath. That low, boyish chuckle that always seemed to spark a fire somewhere deep inside you. “Relax,” he drawled, his lips so close that the word brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your neck. His arms slid around your waist from behind, strong and certain, the kind of hold that promised he’d never let you go, tugging you back into him until your spine curved against the solid warmth of his chest.
You could feel the steady pitter-patter of his heartbeat pressing into your back, its rhythm calm where yours raced. “Joe Cool. Always,” you whispered with a small, knowing smile, the words tasting like a secret only you shared. Even here, off the field, in the desolation of the empty stadium, you could feel the same effortless calm radiating from him—the same unshakable, stoic composure that made him untouchable on game day. It wasn’t an act, it never was. It was just…him, every steady breath, every sure step, every slow grin that tugged at the corners of your heart and reminded you why you’d been drawn in from the very start.
His breath fanned against your hair, carrying the faint trace of mint gum mixed with something more pungent, wilder—adrenaline, danger, the rush of what you were doing. And when his chin dipped just enough for the rough line of his jaw to graze your temple, you thought you might actually melt into him, lost in the safety of his body even as the world beyond the tunnel threatened to catch you both. You shifted subtly in his arms, just enough to tilt your head and catch the glint in his eyes, a mischievous sparkle layered over that familiar, controlled certainty that seemed to radiate from him. But beneath the teasing glint, there was something softer, more vulnerable. He was here, with you, fully present, and in that fleeting moment, the stadium lights reflecting off his irises revealed it all. The thrill of sharing this secret world with you, the candid joy of having you beside him, and the unmistakable glow of someone who closes himself off to the rest of the world, but has found a rare, unguarded happiness in your presence.
“Joe,” you warned again, softer this time, though the curl of your lips betrayed your words. You tried to sound stern, to remind yourself that sneaking into the stadium after hours was wildly reckless, a risk far beyond your usually cautious nature, especially on a scholarship that demanded perfect grades and impeccable behavior. But your pulse betrayed every attempt at control, beating in your ears, racing along your veins, as his lips grazed the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. That little touch sent a shiver curling down your spine, making it impossible to focus on logic or consequences.
“You’re too worried, princess,” he murmured against your skin, each word punctuated by a soft, willful kiss. Then another, lingering longer this time, warm and insistent. His hands flexed lightly against your waist, pulling you tighter into him, molding you to the shape of his chest as if challenging the whole world to try and pry you away. “It’s just us,” he whispered, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles into your side, “No one’s watching, made sure of it,”.
You should’ve asked him what he meant by that, “Made sure of it.”, but you were too distracted by the idea of just the two of you being in this behemoth of a stadium, alone, with nobody to interrupt you or pull you away from each other. You could run across the field, twirling like Misty Copeland in Swan Lake, spinning and leaping across the turf as if the stadium were your stage and no one existed outside these walls. You could practice your touchdown celebrations in the end zone, stomping, spinning, and flinging your arms in dramatic arcs, each movement a little wild, a little ridiculous, a little gloriously free. You’d spent an embarrassingly large number of hours inventing them in your head, imagining the perfect mix of flair and mischief after watching Joe practically have none. Part of it was selfish, just the sheer joy of moving without rules, of being completely silly in the middle of a stadium that had seen so many cutthroat, intense games, but never anything like this. Part of it was hopeful, too, a secret mission to teach him some of your moves, to see that spark of competitiveness mixed with carelessness in him, even if he’d never admit it.
The entire stadium could have vanished into thin air, and you wouldn’t have even noticed, not with the way his arms caged you in, not with the way his lips seemed to map every inch of your skin like it was his favorite thing. You were here tonight, at this ungodly hour, because he wanted to show you what the stadium felt like from his perspective. It was because his dream was so big it didn’t just belong to him anymore; it felt like it lived inside these walls, stitched into the turf, painted onto the end zones, humming in the silence and waiting patiently for him to claim it. And somehow, standing there with him in the dark, it began to feel like maybe it lived inside of you too.
Those hours he spent dreaming out loud in your bed painted a picture too vivid for you not to see. The words would spill from him late at night, when the world was quiet and the only light came from the golden streetlamp cutting through your curtains. His voice carried a belief he rarely let slip in front of anyone else, a rhythm so stable like he was reciting scripture, although he hardly ever talked about it. But somehow, it was so rooted inside his brain, as if he had been telling himself this in silence every single day.
He wanted to go far, farther than anyone would’ve ever expected from the kid who’d been buried on a depth chart, forgotten behind bigger names. He showed you a side of himself no teammate, no coach, no reporter had ever been allowed to see. The side that dared to believe he could climb from being a third-string afterthought to the one standing at the top of the mountain, the name on everyone’s lips, the QB who changed the game not just in College, but in the big leagues. In the NFL. His eyes would gleam in the shadows at the mention of making it there, and you could hear the way his heartbeat sped beneath your palm when you touched his chest, as if just saying it out loud made it all feel like it was happening right in front of him.
“You really think you’re gonna be out there one day?” you asked, your voice careful, tentative, as though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer. “Holding the gold, everyone wearing your name proudly, millions across the country chanting your name…,” you trailed off, afraid you’d said too much, afraid you’d revealed how completely you believed in him even when you weren’t sure you should. In your mind, you could already hear it; he roar of the crowd, the commentators’ voices rising over the air, “And at quarterback, number 9, Joe Burrow!”. The image hit you like a wave, the stadium lights blazing down, fans screaming, the snap of the ball, the crunch of cleats on turf, and there he was, all confidence and determination, living the dream he’d been sketching out in your bedroom for hours, every whispered ambition and secret hope laid bare.
Joe’s lips stilled against your shoulder, and for a suspended moment, the world narrowed to the hush of the night, the faint rustle of the wind, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against yours. His breathing fanned across the hollow at the crook of your neck, a rhythm that somehow calmed you in a way nothing else had. The chaos of your life—classes, obligations, late-night parties, the endless churn of your thoughts—faded into static, leaving only this unexpected pocket of tranquility, a pause you hadn’t realized you were craving.
And yet, he did.
He shifted then, straightening until his chin rested lightly against the crown of your head. You felt his breath brush the top of your hair before his voice came, “…Not think,” he murmured, each word carrying weight, certainty, a fire that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. His hand glided over your stomach, a flutter rippling throughout your lower belly, pulling you impossibly closer, as if the simple press of his palm could stitch a promise directly onto your skin. “…I know,” he added, and it wasn’t a boast or a challenge. There was no arrogance in the way he said it. No bravado, no inflated ego. It was just faith, simple and unshakable, carved deep into his bones, resonating through every sinew of his body. And in that moment, you believed it. But not because you had to, but because the way Joe Burrow said something with that kind of conviction made the world itself seem to bend toward it. Every doubt, every worry, every fear felt suddenly weightless, suspended in the gravity of his certainty. You were caught in it, willingly, and somehow, impossibly, you knew he’d always hold you there.
“And you know…you’re gonna be out there with me,” he murmured, the words teasing, curling into a smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips the instant they left his mouth—because he knew exactly how they wound through your chest and left you breathless. He pivoted, turning the two of you so you faced the empty stands behind him, the evening air brushing against your flushed skin, crisp and intoxicating just like his touch. His fingers found yours again, guiding your hand upward, threading your warmth with his in that familiar, possessive way that made your pulse skip. He directed it toward one of the private club suites, his gaze never leaving yours as he studied your expression. “When I’m in the league,” he whispered, voice low and steady, a rough edge of desire underneath the promise, “You’re gonna sit in one of those every Sunday, watching me work, watching me dominate. Wearing my name, my number…wearing what’s underneath it. A lace set that makes you look even more beautiful than you already are, maybe my colors depending on where I go…maybe Carolina Blue, or Arizona Red, or even Cincinnati Orange if we’re trying to finish the story…just all for me. And after every win…,” his voice dropped, huskier now, sending a spark of electricity through your veins, “…It’s just you and me. Doing what we do best. Just like we do now. Nothing has to change, baby,”.
Your breath hitched as the images took hold, curling in your chest like fire and ice at once.
The thought of sitting in that private club suite, draped in lace and colors that belonged to him, the subtle teasing reminder of your connection hidden beneath the polished veneer of the stadium, sent a shiver spiraling down your spine. You could feel the vibration of the field below, the hum of a crowd so big even in imagination, and the weight of all those eyes—fans, teammates, maybe even his family—watching while you carried a secret just for him. And then there was the thought of continuing that…after the draft, when he’d be the center of attention, surrounded by every temptation imaginable. That clandestine ritual, the rush of post-game heat, the private, intimate ways you existed only for each other, knowing he could have anyone but still wanted you, made your stomach twist, your blood pressure spike, and your thoughts fray into delicious, reckless anticipation.
You’d get to see him before every game, pressed close enough to plant a quick, meaningful kiss on his lips, the kind that carried all the luck, all the adoration, all the fire you could muster. You’d watch him from down the field, catching his gaze as he scanned the crowd, searching for you, and feel that quiet thrill of knowing you were the only one he wanted to find. You’d cheer for him, loud and unabashed, showing your support and claiming your piece of him in front of everyone. You’d get to be with him through every first, every post-game dinner with family, every meaningful moment in his life. But behind closed doors, in the secrecy of the sanctuary he’d build for you, it would be a completely different kind of devotion. You’d be tangled together in crisp white sheets, his hands gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered, his hot breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “My girl…that’s my perfect fucking girl,” over and over. His lips would trail across your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone, every kiss deliberate, searing, leaving trails of fire in his wake as your bodies moved together, perfectly synchronized, lost in a world where no one existed but the two of you.
It all seemed so perfect…every fleeting touch, every whispered promise, every imagined future with him pressed close and alive.
It was everything you’d ever wanted, every fantasy you’d tucked into your chest, every longing you’d tried to ignore, finally taking shape. You just wanted him. That's it. Where he went, you went. And Joe knew that. Oh, he knew it with the same astute certainty he carried on the field, the same way he knew the exact weight of the ball in his hands or the perfect angle to throw a pass. He could give it all to you, this life, these nights, this kind of love and fire, with just a snap of his fingers. But that was the dark truth gnawing at the edges of your excitement. It could all vanish just as easily, disappear in an instant, because it wasn’t yours to command.
It belonged to him.
His choice, his power, and you…you were left waiting, hoping, wanting, and utterly at the mercy of a man who could build your world and destroy it in the same heartbeat.
But right now? You didn’t fucking care about any of that.
Why? Because he was really here. And he was saying it with so much certainty, so much trust you’d blindly believe everything he said as long as he made you feel this way.
You turned in his arms then, slow like gravity itself had tilted toward him, pulling you in against all sense. Your palms flattened against his chest, and the thin, worn cotton of his T-shirt was no barrier against the solid heat of him beneath. His body was warm, humming, every breath expanding under your touch. Without thinking, your fingertips traced soft, distracted patterns over his sternum, mapping him as though you could memorize the beat of his heart. That steady rhythm drummed into your skin, like it belonged to you and you alone. His hand came up to cover yours, broad and calloused, pressing it firmly against him, keeping you tied to that sound.
“You’re crazy, Burrow,” you whispered, breath hitching as the words broke against the closeness of his mouth. The protest was weak, shaky, a thin veil over the fact that your heart was racing wildly. Your lips curled almost involuntarily as you tried to sound unaffected, but his closeness broke that wall down extremely quickly. He blurred every careful edge you tried to maintain, left you suspended between fear and giddiness, between knowing what you should do and aching for what you wanted anyway.
His head dipped, the soft brush of his nose against yours making your chest seize, his breath mingling with yours in the charged stillness. His lips ghosted over your mouth in the faintest tease of contact—enough to set your knees trembling, to make the stadium’s floor feel unsteady beneath you. “Maybe,” he allowed, the word rumbling against your skin, his smirk deepening as if he had you cornered and he knew you’d never escape. His voice carried the softness of a secret, but his gaze burned with something searing, something that lodged itself deep in your chest and wouldn’t let go. “But you’re here with me right now, aren’t you? Means you trust my vision…my dreams,”. His gaze flicked from your lips to your eyes, “I’m gonna take you to the top, baby. Right to the top of the fucking mountain. Where I go, you go,” he whispered, and when he finally pressed his mouth to yours, it wasn’t a brief kiss meant to be stolen in passing. It was a claim, a promise. His lips were warm and insistent, moving with a heat that unraveled every coherent thought you’d ever had around him.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, urging you impossibly closer until the very air between you ceased to exist. Without hesitation, he shifted, slipping one strong arm beneath you and lifting you clean off your feet as though you weighed nothing, holding you to his chest like you belonged there. The sudden loss of the ground beneath you made your breath catch, but then you melted, trusting him instinctively, your fingers tangling in the back of his hair as his mouth consumed yours. Your legs wound around his waist, pulling him closer still, locking him against you in a way that said you’d never let go. “They’re gonna love m…us. They’re gonna love us,” he mumbled as he stumbled forward a step, steadying you both with an easy balance born from hours of drills and body control, and continued kissing you as if nothing else in the world mattered.
The stadium was silent except for your heated breaths, the sound of your mouths devouring each other like it was the last time, your laughter swallowed into his kisses as he swayed you around. And in that moment, standing in the middle of his empty kingdom, wrapped up in the arms of a boy who dreamed out loud, you just knew he was going to make it. You knew he would take everything he touched and turn it to gold. And you knew, without meaning to, that he had already started with you. Maybe it was reckless of you, maybe it was naïve, but you believed him when he said he’d take you to the top with him, closing your eyes as if you could already feel the gold confetti in your hair, already hear the crowd’s wild devotion, already see him standing at the center of it all with that fire in his eyes.
For a fleeting second, you let yourself believe those fiery eyes would be looking right back at you.
Just when you thought the world might tilt forever in that kiss, he pulled away suddenly. The absence was sharp, your lips chasing after his before you could stop yourself, but he only grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. The stadium lights caught the sheen of sweat on his cheekbones, the curve of his smirk cutting through the quiet like a spark. “Get on my back,” he said, breathless, still so close you could feel the ghost of his mouth brushing yours. You blinked, confused, a laugh catching in your throat as your hands slid against the front of his shirt. “What? Why do I need to get on your back?” you asked, disbelief curling in your voice, though your heart already thumped with the instinct to obey. His grin only widened, that cocky, boyish tilt you knew always meant trouble, the kind that would pull you apart unwillingly.
“Just get on. Trust me,” he murmured, the rasp of his voice signaling a dare.
You lingered on him for a heartbeat, as if the answer might be hidden in the quiet storm of his eyes; something unnamed, unformed, yet already pulling at you with invisible gravity. You couldn’t define it then, not in words, not even in thought, but it was somehow enough.
As you slid from his front to his back, every brush of contact made your stomach flip. Arms looped tight around his broad shoulders, your cheek pressing briefly to the damp warmth of his neck. His big hands reached down, fingers curling under your thighs, his grip firm, possessive, secure in a way that made your breath catch. Twisting his head just enough, he caught your eyes, and the wild, daring spark there left your knees weak even though they were no longer on the ground. “You ready?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in mischief.
“Yeah,” you breathed out, though it sounded softer, shakier than you intended. Butterflies thrashed in your stomach, your nerves tangled with exhilaration. You tightened your hold instinctively, nails biting lightly into his shoulders as if you were holding on for dear life.
And then…he was off. His legs exploded into motion, muscles coiled and uncoiled with each stride, sprinting from one end zone to the other like it was the last drive of his life. You squealed, the sound bubbling out of you somewhere between laughter and disbelief, holding on tighter as the blurred field streaked by beneath you. Your hair whipped back with the force of the wind, the rush of speed stealing the air from your lungs. “Oh my god, you’re fucking insane,” you shouted into his ear, your voice breaking with laughter. He only laughed with you, unrestrained, the sound ricocheting through the empty stadium as if it belonged to the two of you and no one else.
His feet pounded against the turf, long strides eating up the yard lines as if the whole field belonged to him. For a moment it was only the slap of his shoes on the turf, then his own booming call—half announcement, half victory cry—rolled across the empty stands.“And he’s in for the touchdown…number 9, Joe Burrow!” he announced it himself, grinning like a kid, the sound bouncing off the stands as he picked up speed toward the endzone.
“Joe, slow downnnn,” you giggled breathlessly, pressing your mouth against the crook of his neck as if to shield yourself from impending doom, but there was no real protest in your tone. You were enjoying this way too much, and the sight of that carefree, relaxed smile on his face just made this entire moment even better.
Your laughter spilled into the night, uncontained and golden, echoing through the hollow stands like a hymn written just for him. It wove through the metal bleachers, past the ghosts of a hundred games, catching in the cool air that always seemed to bend toward him, like even the wind had learned his name. Under the halo of the stadium lights, he looked almost unreal. Untouchable, radiant, a boy who had built an empire out of chalk lines and heartbeat and the blind faith of those who believed in him. And you…you were the one he’d let close enough to feel it, to touch the edge of that glory and call it something you still couldn’t say out loud..
You thought that meant something. You thought being let in was the same as being chosen.
But kingdoms have crowns, not equals—and some queens were only ever meant to be part of the story, not the ending.
You just didn’t know that yet.
End of Flashback
“Dude, holy fuck! Are you okay?”.
Jules’ frantic voice sliced through the fog of your thoughts, dragging you back from the vivid, intoxicating memory of the stadium and that night. Your hand went limp, the red solo cup slipping from your chilled, sticky fingers, tumbling to the floor with a wet smack. Cold, sugary liquid pooled around your feet, sticky tendrils clinging to the threads of your jeans. The football—his football—lay there, scuffed and now soaked, the leather darkened and slick, glinting under the harsh, buzzing lights above. It mocked you with its details, its familiarity, a cruel tether to both the past you couldn’t escape and the chaotic, fluorescent mess of this stupid fucking party.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine,” you croaked, your breath coming out a little too quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to your own ears.
You shoved past Jules, mumbling something about needing air, though the words barely reached her ears. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a steel band around it, squeezing with each heartbeat. The memory of that night—the stadium, his words, those promises he made, his laughter, the way his hands had held you—was too vivid, too raw, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Every step through the crowd felt like moving through thick molasses, bodies pressing past you, bass vibrating in your skull, the alcohol in your system causing everything around you to melt together into a purplish neon haze. Lyra caught sight of you from the beer pong table, concern etched across her face. “Y/N, are you okay?” she asked, voice soft but urgent, reaching out to steady you as you struggled forward. You barely gave her a glance, waving her off with a trembling hand, your mind already elsewhere. You stumbled, caught more by momentum than intent, and sank onto the leather couch, letting your body collapse into the cushions like they might somehow hold the weight of all your thoughts.
“What is wrong with m- me?” you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the loud chatter around you. Your voice cracked on the end, soft but sharp like a splinter under skin, as though saying it aloud might somehow release you from the trap of your own head. You squeezed your eyes shut, too hard, the way you used to as a kid when you thought darkness could erase nightmares. Maybe if you held them closed long enough, you could patch up whatever dam had just burst inside your brain, because it was flooding, pouring, drenching you in memories you’d spent months meticulously sealing away. Every laugh, every promise, every touch you told yourself you’d forgotten came roaring back, uninvited and unrelenting, until you felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore.
You thought you’d done so well. The entire summer had been one long act of pretending, and for the most part you’d convinced yourself it was working. You built walls with your silence, smoothed over cracks with excuses, filled the holes with distractions that felt just sturdy enough to keep the truth at bay. But tonight, your resolve collapsed like it had been made of paper.
Because apparently, all it took to undo you was a red plastic cup of jungle juice and the sight of his fuckass football at your feet. That stupid, scuffed, leather thing, the same one you knew had been in his hands a hundred times, the same one you’d tossed back and forth in the yard, the same one he’d pressed against your stomach with a laugh when he tackled you to the grass like he couldn’t keep himself from touching you even in play. The second your eyes landed on it, it was like a trapdoor opened beneath you, sending you spiraling back into those days you swore you’d buried.
Classic. Just classic.
Your laugh was bitter, broken in half before it even left your throat. Of course this is how it would happen. Not in some meaningful moment, not in some quiet midnight epiphany—but here, in a sweaty living room, drunk kids shouting around you, with the burn of cheap liquor still coating your tongue. You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, as if you could push the thoughts back in, force them into whatever dark corner they’d crawled out from. “I should stop drinking,” you muttered, your voice shaking more this time. “I think it’s making it worse,”. The admission felt pathetic on your tongue, and you hated yourself for it. You weren’t supposed to be weak like this. You weren’t supposed to let alcohol open old wounds that should’ve scarred by now. And yet, here you were, clutching a half-empty cup you didn’t even want anymore, hating how quickly your defenses fell apart the second the liquor hit your veins.
Your eyes darted around the room, desperate for something, anything, to anchor yourself to. A distraction. A lifeline. Maybe a water bottle lying abandoned on a counter, maybe a familiar face to drag you back into the present. Anything to dilute the effects, the feelings. But every corner you looked to only reminded you of him—his friends, his team colors, the sound of his name carried carelessly through the noise. And suddenly, the thought hit you like a cruel joke: no matter how much you drank, no matter how many times you swore you were over him, it was always going to come back to this.
Him.
Your eyes landed on a framed photo on the wall, another memory, one you hadn’t noticed in weeks because you’d been deliberately training yourself to look past it, to blur it into the background. Tonight, though, your gaze snagged on it like a fishhook. It was a photo from your 21st birthday—the night that had felt golden in every way possible, though now it burned like a wound that had never healed. You were smiling so wide your cheeks dimpled, eyes sparkling from laughter and champagne, a smudge of cake frosting still clinging to your fingers. Around your neck was the necklace Joe had given you, the delicate silver infinity symbol that had caught the light in every photo that night. He’d pressed it into your palm right before the celebrations began with an easy shrug, insisting it was “just a small thing,” a nothing gift, meant only to mark the night and mean nothing to anyone else. But you knew better. Even then, with the way his thumb had brushed the crook of your neck when he finished clasping it, with the glimmer in his eyes when he looked at you, you knew it meant more.
You remembered more than just the photograph could capture. The warmth of the candles burning on the red velvet cake, the way your parents had fussed over you before bed, the hum of voices dying down as the house settled into sleep. Then him, slipping quietly into your bedroom like a shadow. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, the mischievous curve of his mouth when he whispered, “We’re just friends, right?”, something he’d repeated multiple times to your family members that evening when they poked and prodded at what it meant for him to be here. That smirk was a lie, one that only the two of you shared, covering the truth of what had already passed and what was about to happen again.
You could see the words he’d scrawled in your birthday card, his loopy, boyish handwriting looping across the page with that familiar, careless charm, though his words never felt careless.
“Happy Birthday to the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. The one who makes every win worth it, every quiet night feel like home, every laugh and every look worth holding onto. You’ve seen me at my best, my worst, the parts of me I don’t show anyone else, and still, you stayed. I’ll throw every day I have at you, and somehow, even after all that, I’ll want more. You’re in my bones, my chest, my every thought. Never doubt that. I hope this year treats you half as sweet as you’ve treated me, though I don’t think the world’s got that kind of kindness in it.”
You could still feel it, the firm, possessive press of his hands against your waist, the way the floorboards groaned beneath him as he guided you back onto the bed, the look on his face still burned into your eyes. Your laughter had been caught, muffled against his mouth, the sound sliding between you like a secret, a pulse in the dark that belonged only to the two of you. The rest of the house slept on, oblivious, while you gave yourself to him with a reckless sort of surrender, like every stolen second throughout the night had been building to this. It was intoxicating, a thrill wrapped in warmth and shadow, a memory that could soothe your chest one moment and set it ablaze the next, lingering long after the world had reclaimed its quiet.
You lingered there for a long time, staring at that photo until your reflection blurred into his—until you couldn’t tell where the past ended and the present you were dreaming of began. It was cruel, how something so small could still break you. A fresh rub of salt on a wound you thought had been stitched shut a long time ago. You told yourself to look away, to stop giving it power. But your eyes stayed locked, like maybe if you stared long enough, you could step back into that night and warn yourself. Tell her not to let him in. Tell her that the necklace will start to feel like a shackle, that the warmth in his voice will one day sound like an echo in an empty room.
Finally, you turned, pulse hammering, but his voice lingered anyway—soft, teasing, echoing like a ghost.
We’re just friends, right?
You wanted to scream, to shatter something, to claw at the world for the cruelty of it. That was the first lie you ever told each other, and it had grown like poison, bleeding into every memory, every hope, every quiet second you thought you could forget. It left fingerprints on your bones, a pulse in your veins that no distraction could drown out, a hunger for something that was never truly yours to keep.
And in that suffocating, twisted memory, a cold truth pressed against you.
You weren’t just heartbroken. You were a question left unanswered, a story left unfinished, a door left open that might never close.
Would he come back? Or had he only ever loved the chase, leaving you stranded on the edge of a promise that would never be kept?
End of Part 1.
hope you enjoyed part 1! feedback is always welcome and highly appreciated because i love yapping. stay tuned for part 2!
Joe and songbird are def cuddling up on the couch right now running hands through each others hair and rubbing each others hands/arms/back
sweet nothings // joe burrow x reader
✰ description: the world is constantly pushing and shoving him, and sometimes he just needs her sweet nothings.
✰ universe: you are in love masterlist
✰ a/n: another fluff piece because we all need it. formatted like an actual fic because it's a favorite of mine :( my angels
warnings: none
wc: 1.6k
taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv
the house is wrapped in that rare kind of stillness, the kind that seems to settle over everything like a thick, wool blanket. the TV is on, playing some rerun of a space documentary they’d seen about 5 times already, its glow casting faint light across the living room, but neither of them is paying attention—the dialogue is just background noise to the quiet between them. joe is stretched out along the couch, his long body folded toward her, knees bent enough that his socked feet rest against the armrest.
he feels impossibly big like this, all warm muscle and quiet strength pressed against her. his head is tucked into the curve of her neck like it belongs there, curls brushing the soft skin just beneath her jaw, carrying the faintest smell of shampoo and salt from the dried sweat of practice. every time he exhales, it’s warm against her throat, his breath fanning over her skin in a rhythm that’s slowly, slowly evening out as she runs her fingers through his hair. she’s got one leg hooked around his hip, anchoring him, keeping him from floating too far away in his own thoughts.
his hand is splayed over her stomach, the rough pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes through the fabric of her shirt. he’s not even aware of it, just rubbing over the same spots again and again like the motion is keeping him grounded. his thumb strokes along her side every so often, brushing against the soft skin where her shirt has ridden up, and the contact makes her eyes water in that sweet, heavy way she feels when she knows he needs her. he isn’t gripping her like he does when he’s wound too tight, this touch is soft, almost absentminded, but it carries a weight all the same. she can feel how much he’s asking for comfort without saying a word, how much he needs her to be his still point tonight.
she felt it the second they’d gone upstairs, the quiet that wasn’t peaceful, the look in his eyes that said his brain was going too fast for him to sleep. so she’d coaxed him down here instead, guided him to the couch, climbed in beside him and let him curl himself around her until they fit like two puzzle pieces. now, she’s humming to him—soft, low, like the sound is meant only for him. he asked for it, and of course she said yes, because she knows what it does to him. so high school first, letting her voice lilt gently in his ear until she feels him start to ease. then call it what you want, quiet and sweet, making his breath catch before it evens out. and finally sweet nothing, her favorite to sing to him, because it makes him hold her tighter every time, like the words are stitched into his chest, they carry a special meaning.
her voice is quiet when she starts the song, almost a whisper, soft enough that it feels like a secret just for him. “they said the end is comin’, everyone’s up to somethin’…”.
the words fall gently into the quiet room, each one sinking into him like drops of warm rain. joe’s lashes flutter against her skin, and she feels his chest rise and fall with a deeper breath than he’s taken all night. she knows exactly why he asked for this one, why this is the song he always wants when the noise in his head is too loud. outside, the world always feels like it’s on fire—media talking, fans speculating, everyone pulling at him, expecting something. and yet here he is, tucked against her, her hand in his hair, breathing her in like she’s the only thing that exists.
“i find myself runnin’ home to your sweet nothings…”.
her voice hitches just slightly at this part, because it’s the truest thing she’s ever sung. joe hums softly against her neck, and she knows he feels it too—how they’ve made a home in each other, how this couch and this room and this exact moment are the safest places they’ve ever known. she presses a slow kiss into his curls, just above his temple, feeling him melt a little more, his hand sliding fully under her shirt now so his palm can rest warm and flat against her skin.
“outside, they’re push and shovin’, you’re in the kitchen hummin’…”.
he smiles at that line, she can feel it against her collarbone, the curve of his mouth soft and fond. they both know it’s true. how she hums when she cooks, when she’s getting ready, when she’s just existing in their house. how he always stops to watch her, just for a second, every single time. how that’s what he runs back to when the rest of the world feels impossible. not the trophies or the headlines, but her, barefoot in the kitchen, singing to herself.
“all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothin’…”.
that’s the part that gets him every single time. his fingers curl just slightly against her stomach, and she feels the tension bleed out of him completely. she knows he believes this line. knows it’s what makes him love her the way he does. because with her, he doesn’t have to perform, doesn’t have to lead a team or carry a city or have the right words ready for the press. he can just be joe. no expectations, no demands, no pressure. just the boy who wants to rest his head on his fiancée’s chest while she sings to him.
when she finishes, the silence that follows isn’t heavy, it’s so comfortable, relieving. joe presses the slowest kiss to her throat, right over her pulse, and murmurs, almost too quiet to hear, “that’s my favorite part,”. she smiles, her fingers still combing through his hair. “i know,” she whispers back, and she means more than just the song. she means i know you. i know what you need. i know how to bring you back when the world asks too much of you.
she can feel him settling as she goes, feel the tension melt from his body in slow waves. the ridges of muscle in his shoulders soften, and the furrow between his brows smooths until his face looks almost boyish again, vulnerable in a way he only lets her see. she presses a kiss to his hairline, tastes the faint salt on his skin, then another to his temple, one more to the corner of his eye. her free hand slides up and down his arm, palm against warm skin, feeling every shift and flex of him as he breathes deeper and deeper. sometimes she catches his hand in hers, intertwines their fingers, and gives him one slow squeeze before going back to tracing along his forearm.
“better?” she whispers, her lips brushing against his hair as she speaks, feeling the way a few of his curls stick to her mouth before they fall back against his forehead. she doesn’t ask because she needs to hear him say it, she asks because she loves the sound of his voice when it’s quiet like this, when the edges of the day have worn him down enough that he only has softness left for her.
“yeah,” joe breathes, and it’s so low, so rough, that she feels it more than hears it. it vibrates against her collarbone, rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest like the sound belongs entirely to her. he doesn’t lift his head, just tilts it slightly until his nose drags along the slope of her jaw, slow enough that it makes her shiver. he finds that tender spot just under her ear and lingers there, breathing her in before pressing the lightest kiss—so faint it’s barely there, just the brush of his lips.
“keep going,” he mumbles, softer now, like he’s half-afraid she’ll stop. there’s a little catch at the end, the smallest plea tucked inside the words, and it makes her heart twist in her chest. she feels him tighten his arm around her waist just a fraction, pulling her closer, his big palm spreading wide against her side like he’s trying to hold onto every inch of her.
she hums in answer, a soft sound that seems to soothe him immediately, and resumes stroking her fingers through his hair. her nails scratch lightly against his scalp the way she knows he likes, slow enough that his breathing begins to even out against her skin. she tilts her head to press a kiss to the crown of his head, then another, slower one, right where his curls are damp with sweat.
“okay, sweetheart,” she whispers into his hair. “i’ve got you,”.
so she keeps going. she keeps humming, her nails scratching gently over his scalp, keeps whispering little affirmations that only he will ever hear. that he’s okay, that he’s safe, that he doesn’t have to carry anything right now except her. joe breathes her in like he’s memorizing her. the smell of her rose petal lotion, the warmth of her skin against his lips, the steady beat of her heart where his cheek rests. he lets her make his world small again, just the two of them in this quiet living room, until the weight pressing against him feels lighter, until he can finally exhale.
by the time her voice trails off, joe is nearly asleep, lashes fluttering shut every few seconds as though he’s fighting it but losing. his hand under her shirt grows heavier, thumb still brushing back and forth like muscle memory. his grip at her waist slackens, his breathing falls into a slow, steady rhythm. she kisses his forehead one more time, lingers there just long enough to feel him smile faintly against her collarbone. and even when he’s fully asleep, she doesn’t stop running her fingers through his hair, doesn’t stop humming under her breath, because she knows that tonight, this is exactly what he needed—to feel small, to feel safe, to feel hers.
sometimes even joe burrow, the quarterback, the calm in her storm, needs to come undone somewhere. needs to lay down the weight of the playbook, the expectations, the millions of eyes watching his every move, and just be a boy again—her boy. sometimes he needs someone to smooth his hair back, to hush the noise in his head with a song, to remind him he’s more than the jersey and the stats. he needs her hands on him, steady and sure, reminding him that he is not just what he does. he is who he is, and that’s enough.
he needs to be held until his chest stops heaving, until his mind stops racing, until all that’s left is the sound of her heart under his ear. he needs to feel small in the best way, safe in the arms of the girl who knows him better than anyone, the girl who can make him breathe again. and she gives him that; gives him soft when the world is sharp, gives him quiet when everything else is loud, gives him a place to rest when his whole body feels like it’s burning. sometimes joe just needs to be taken care of.
and she holds him as if the world has fallen away, leaving only the soft cadence of his breathing against her chest, her hands sketching comfort into him like sunlight across still water, as if this, this closeness, this care, is the only reality that matters.
hey so this place isn’t meant for political discourse so please don’t come to my inbox about anything because i won’t be entertaining it. my stances are extremely clear and i don’t feel the need to debate or argue about it. and it’s not worth your time or my time <3
songbird being bratty or having an attitude with Joe? how would this play out iykyk
a/n: obsessed with the idea of getting him too riled up over trivial things ;)
warnings: smut, mdni.
she’d been building her at-home studio piece by piece all summer, every corner of the room slowly transforming from cozy spare bedroom to a space that looked more and more like the control rooms she’d spent her early career in. cables coiled neatly along the walls, soundproofing panels she’d measured and re-measured until they lined up just right, shelves filling with notebooks scrawled full of lyrics and half-finished melodies. it wasn’t just a project, it was her baby, her retreat, the place she’d been daydreaming about finally recording in come fall when the new music started pouring out.
and now, with the last few pieces of gear she’d saved up for, shiny, sleek upgrades she’d been obsessively tracking online, delayed another seven days thanks to storms across the country, she’d been stomping around the house like the universe had personally wronged her. muttering under her breath, pacing with enough drama to make the floorboards ache, rolling her shoulders like she was carrying the weight of every shipping company in america.
every little move dripped with that bratty edge joe knew too well. the cabinet doors slammed harder than necessary, drawers yanked open like they’d offended her, a sigh so theatrical he half-expected her to clutch her chest like she was in a soap opera. she’d flop dramatically onto the couch with a groan, only to sit right back up again to check her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes, as if refreshing the tracking page might magically make the storms clear. even when he offered the simplest suggestion—“just means you’ll have it by next week”—she shot back with an eye roll so exaggerated she could’ve won an oscar, tossing her hair like the martyr of delayed shipping.
her tone’s sharp, too quick when she answers him, and he can see her working herself up on purpose. joe doesn’t rise to it, he never does. instead, he plants himself against the counter, arms folded across his chest, gum chewing slow as ever. his jaw flexes, his gaze tracking her like a predator waiting for the right second. he doesn’t give her words when she’s like this; he just watches, patient but simmering, letting her dig herself deeper until she practically begs for what’s coming.
it’s that last straw, something snarky tossed over her shoulder, the edge in her voice just a little too sharp, that finally makes him move. in a blink, his hand is on her wrist, yanking her back into him so her chest collides with the solid wall of his body. she barely has time to gasp before his mouth is at her ear, voice low and dangerous in that way that makes her thighs clench. “you done,” he murmurs, breath hot, “or you need me to remind you how to act?” her lips curve into a smirk, because of course she pushes him.
that’s the whole point.
she whispers something biting, a teasing little jab she knows will get under his skin, “maybe you should read the browns defense as fast as you read me, superstar,” and the second it leaves her lips, he’s hoisting her over his shoulder, ignoring her kicking and half-hearted protests as he stalks toward the bedroom. she’s laughing between her fake complaints, pounding a fist against his back, but her pulse is already racing because she knows exactly what she’s asked for.
the second he drops her onto the mattress and looms over her, everything shifts. no more laughs, no more playful little whines—her breath hitches, eyes going wide as his weight settles over her, pinning her to the bed. the heat rolling off him is suffocating, his body crowding hers until she feels small, caged. joe doesn’t waste time being sweet when she’s bratty. his hand catches her jaw, thumb pressing into her cheek as he forces her to look at him, holding her still while his hips slam forward in one brutal stroke that has her crying out.
the shock of it rips through her, spine arching against the sheets, and he doesn’t give her a second to adjust. there’s no warm-up, no easing her in. he gives her everything, deep and hard from the start, splitting her open until her nails are clawing into his shoulders, dragging red down his skin. her smugness dissolves quick, broken into breathless moans as he sets a pace that rattles the bed frame. “that attitude still there?” he growls against her throat, the words vibrating against her pulse as his rhythm pounds into her.
she tries to bite back another smart remark, lips curling with the start of it, but the words fracture into a helpless gasp as his next thrust angles just right, battering her against the spot that makes her vision blur. every movement is deliberate, punishing, meant to make her feel every ounce of his frustration. his control is terrifying—hips driving with steady precision, dragging her closer and closer to the edge without mercy. her hands fist in the sheets, then his hair, then back to his shoulders, like she can’t decide if she wants to fight him or cling to him. he makes her beg without even realizing she’s doing it, her voice breaking on his name as her body writhes under him.
and he doesn’t let her off easy. every time she arches, trying to grind up against him to chase release, he pulls back just enough to make her whimper, thighs shaking as she chases what he won’t give. “joe...please, please, just—,” the plea cuts off in a strangled moan when he slams back into her, the sound tearing out of her throat without control. every time her lips form his name in a desperate chant—“joe, joe, oh god, joe”,—he pushes harder, deeper, grinding her into the mattress until her voice cracks into a sob. “fuck, i can’t, please, i need it, need you,” she gasps, the words shaking apart as her nails drag helplessly over his shoulders. her moans spill between each ragged breath, broken little cries that have no rhythm now, just need, raw and unfiltered, until she’s trembling so hard beneath him it’s a wonder she can still form words at all.
his mouth is hot against her ear, his breath ragged but his words sharp. “say you’re sorry,” he orders, his voice a low snarl that makes her whole body clench around him. she tries, god, she tries, but it comes out in stuttered, broken half-apologies tangled between moans. her attitude is gone, scattered under the weight of him until all that’s left is a trembling mess beneath him, legs locked around his waist, body surrendering as he drives her past the point of resistance.
when she finally shatters, it rips through her like a storm. her back bows off the mattress, a choked cry falling from her lips as her whole body gives out, trembling around him until she’s nothing but soft, pliant, ruined beneath his weight. and that’s when he shifts. the edge melts away, his thrusts slowing into something steady, grounding, as if he’s stitching her back together piece by piece. his mouth traces over her skin, her jaw, her cheek, the damp curve of her temple, pressing reverent kisses where moments ago he’d been biting and panting. his hands, still so big and strong, soften as they brush her hair back from her damp face, cradling her like she’s breakable.
“there’s my good girl,” he murmurs between ragged breaths, voice warm and tender now, “knew you’d get there.” the praise makes her chest ache, her eyes sting. her arms loop tight around his neck, clinging like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored, and maybe he is. because when he’s inside her, holding her, touching her like this, he always is. the brattiest attitude doesn't stand a chance against him.
you are in love: big reputations pt 2 // JOE BURROW
✰ description: covering the events of you are in love V pt 2
✰ universe: you are in love masterlist
✰ previous parts ➜ you are in love big reputations pt 1 ➜ you are in love V pt 2
✰ a/n: finally finished this up thank goddd. now onto the party 4 u fic ;) we all need some LSU joe in our lives again
there is NO face claim! i just use whatever i find on pinterest and envision for this series ;) you can tap on the photos to get closer look! especially the stories
taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv
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tagged: dior, versace
y/n_y/ln: did some cool things with @chanel + @versace the other week ;)
comments:
joeyb_9: fire flicks and fire caption 🙊
——— y/n_y/ln: i wonder who came up with this fire caption 🧐
y/bsf21: this caption is so joe coded...what has he done to you
——— joeyb_9: you say that like it's a bad thing
fan3939: GIVE US MORE MUSIC IM DYING OVER HERE GIRL
loverofbridges: this new aesthetic she has going on with reputation might just be her best yet
versace: 👑🖤✨
y/nfan282: release the ready for it MV from the vault girl PLS
sabrinacarpenter: the black wig?? we found your new hair color 😻
——— y/n_y/ln: ...should i?
fan3095: BLACK HAIR. WE NEED THE BLACK HAIR
jesshubbard: ok but the GLAM of it all??
——— y/n_y/ln: missing game deys with you right about now <3
bengalsfangirl09: our QB’s girlfriend AND a couture queen??? we won.
gracieabrams: you’re unreal.
fan392: waiting for that vogue editorial currently
——— popmusicrumors: 👀 she is rumored to be on the cover for the may edition
fan484: is she thrist trapping with that first one...holy hell 🤤
xp3_22L: my qb gettin that every night. that should be me bro
y/bsf2: drop the photo dump bae we’re starving
——— y/n_y/ln: need to have photos to dump first 😔
y/ncollective: bet you he was hovering behind the camera being all giggly telling you how pretty you look <3
y/n_y/ln: is this your hotgirl workout routine we're getting to see here
——— quinn_ski: take him to pilaties again i think he forgot what real burn feels like
—————— y/n_y/ln: unless you wanna see him show up to athens split in half...i think i'd rather not put him through that again
y/n_y/ln: hey you're pretty cute ☺️
——— joeyb_9: funny thing, my girlfriend says the same
—————— y/n_y/ln: she must be the luckiest woman alive 🤩
————————— y/n_y/ln: i am! thanks <3
fan284: y/n you speical fucking woman 😣
fan42: i need him so bad guys
bose: blue is our new favorite color 💙
cincybengals951: joe...we love you but let's get back to throwing the ball, enough with the photoshoots and trophy boyfriend antics
——— joeybfanIX: nah let him enjoy his offseason for once! he deserves it and actually has someone who truly understands him to spend it with
——— y/nlover: calling him a trophy boyfriend is unnecessary as fuck. leave them alone
——— fan2949: its okay to keep your wrong opinions to yourself sometimes! hope this helps <3
——— footballfanatic3: why r we worrying about him? he knows how to lock in when he needs to. let him live a little with someone he clearly likes to spend time with
lahjay10_: joey gainzzzzzzz
fan965: still obsessing over how great his hair looks
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tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9
gridback_news: Spotted: music’s reigning sweetheart and her soon to be MVP QB trading bright stage lights for golden sunsets on the bayou 🌅💫
Pop powerhouse Y/N Y/LN and NFL golden boy Joe Burrow were seen stepping off a private boat dock in New Orleans last night, still absolutely glowing after what insiders are calling a week-long lovefest in the Big Easy. Sources close to the pair say they’ve been soaking up every bit of downtime together—riding the high of her massive Grammy wins and his whirlwind press tour leading up to the NFL Honors this weekend.
This week has been nothing short of a dream for the couple. From hopping between hidden courtyard bars with local friends, sampling oysters and hush puppies, to slow-dancing to street jazz under twinkling French Quarter lights—every outing’s been a postcard. Fans even caught them sharing a powdered sugar-kissed kiss outside Café du Monde (yes, Joe had powdered sugar on his hoodie, yes, we are obsessed).
And it’s not just lazy strolls and late nights. Insiders say Y/N has been Joe’s quiet anchor through a maze of interviews, suit fittings, and event obligations. She’s been right by his side, hand on his back at crowded venues, or whispering something that makes him flash that grin we all know too well. Meanwhile, he’s been just as fiercely supportive, telling friends he’s “never seen her this inspired” and hinting that more new music from our songbird is coming way sooner than anyone thinks 🎶💗
As for that boat date? Eyewitnesses say they were all tangled up in each other—legs draped, heads tucked close—whispering and laughing like they forgot the world existed beyond the gentle slap of water against the hull. One bystander claims Y/N was seen trailing her fingers through Joe’s hair, and when he looked up at her, it was like watching two people fall in love for the first time all over again.
With the NFL Honors on the horizon, sources say both are excited—him for what could be another career-defining moment, her to cheer him on from the front row, the same way he did for her just days ago.
In short? The bayou’s never looked so sweet, and neither have they💘💘
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tagged: y/n_y/ln
gridback_news: Spotted: All eyes on her ✨
Pop phenomenon and newly crowned Grammy darling Y/N Y/LN sent cameras into a frenzy tonight at the 2025 NFL Honors, stepping out in a custom sheer black Amen Couture gown threaded with hand-stitched ruby crystal detailing—what insiders are already calling “a top-three red carpet moment of her career,”.
Styled by Maeve McCarthy, she paired the look with black satin Jimmy Choo stilettos, a deep berry lip, and a vintage Messika diamond choker once worn by a '90s Italian screen siren—rumor has it, Joe personally flew it in via private courier as a pre-Grammys gift. 🖤
And as for Joe? Sources say he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “He looked like he was watching the sun rise,” one onlooker noted. “She walks into the room, and it’s tunnel vision. Everyone else fades out,”. An industry stylist seated backstage told us, “She walked past and half the room went silent. The gown was art. But it’s the way he looks at her that made the moment,”.
Sources close to the couple say the two have been “stronger than ever” in recent months, navigating hectic careers and awards season together like “they’re building something long-term—quietly, intentionally, and totally in sync,”. Another insider adds, “They talk about the future like it’s already here. Where they want to put roots down, who they want to be 5 years from now…individually and as an established unit. She’s always been the kind of person who pours everything into what she loves, and he matches that. It’s a slow-burn fairytale. No big declarations, just real life and deep love,”.
While the pair remain famously private (and public at the same time), body language experts are having a field day with tonight’s footage, subtle glances, hand brushes, and Joe’s now-signature move—stepping back to make space for her in every photo, eyes on her like she hung the stars 🌟
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tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9
peoplemagazine: 🏆✨ MVP MODE: Joe Burrow just added another milestone to his stellar career—taking home MVP at the 2025 NFL Honors last night in New Orleans, and doing so in true QB1 style. The Bengals superstar made headlines not only for the win, but for a quiet, heart-melting tribute to girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N tucked right into his suit pocket. 👀
Styled by Alo, Joe wore a custom midnight black suit, paired with some of his personal favorite chains, and in true JB fashion, no shirt underneath—but what really caught fans’ attention was the jewel-studded solar system chain he carried with him throughout the night. The pocket chain featured a miniature galaxy of celestial stones and planets, with a single golden charm at the center: a star encrusted in citrine, etched with the letter of his songstress. Fans quickly dubbed it “his stargirl,” calling it a private universe dedicated to the love of his life. 🌌🪐✨
Y/N kept a low profile throughout the night, but she never left his side. She was spotted in the front row during his MVP acceptance speech, beaming with quiet pride, and throughout the evening, she stayed close, adjusting the hem of his jacket between awards, leaning in to murmur things that made him laugh softly under his breath, checking on him between flashes and questions on the carpet. When Joe took the stage to accept his award, he thanked his family, his teammates, and Y/N, by name, calling her “the one who turned the plane around,”. It was a rare moment of public vulnerability from the quarterback, who’s never been one to speak too candidly about his private life, but fans have noticed he’s been opening up more in the past year, especially when it comes to her. 🖤
Backstage, an NFL photographer caught one sweet moment where Y/N reached up to adjust his lapel, and Joe responded by brushing a kiss across her wrist—intimate, lowkey, and instantly iconic.
Tap the link in bio for the full article and a video of Joe’s speech, plus more exclusive behind-the-scenes moments from the couple’s unforgettable night. 🎥🖇️
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tagged: y/n_y/ln
gridback_news: Spotted: Y/N Y/LN turning the NFL Honors afterparty into her own personal runway last night 💫 The global pop icon was seen arriving at the event’s private celebration just past 10, dressed in a head-turning denim corset mini by EB denim that had fans, cameras (and Joe) doing double takes. The structured silhouette hugged her curves perfectly, with flawless denim stitching and a deep neckline that gave the look an effortless cool-girl edge. She paired the look with an Aquazzura bag and pair of matching heels, vintage jewelry from Joseph Saidian and Sons (including her special bracelet and necklace that SCREAMS Joe Burrow) with her usual stack of celestial charms, tousled bombshell waves, and a berry-stained lip.
Though she kept things lowkey earlier in the evening while supporting Joe at the ceremony, Y/N truly lit up the night at the afterparty—seen laughing warmly with NFL legends and her MVP beau’s teammates, effortlessly charming everyone around her. Sources close to the couple say she’s “beyond proud” of Joe’s special win and that “there’s no one else he wanted to celebrate with more,” 🏈💋💙 .
Fans and insiders alike are calling them the ultimate power couple, and honestly? It’s hard to disagree! 💫
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tagged: joeyb_9
y/n_y/ln: breaking my usual feed rhythm for this one…so bear with me. i promised myself i’d keep most of this just between us, but tonight’s too big to pretend like i’m not bursting with pride.
joey, watching you win MVP tonight was surreal. not because i didn’t think you’d do it—i did. i’ve always known you were capable of something like this. but knowing how hard you’ve worked for it...how much you’ve carried on and off the field this year, how much you've sacrificed, how deeply you care about your team, your city, your people…watching that all be recognized this way was something else entirely.
i’ve seen you at every stage of this journey over the past nine months i've been yours. i’ve seen the long nights, the quiet doubts, the pain you tried to hide from everyone else. i’ve also seen the joy, the resilience, the unbelievable discipline, the way you lead with intention and heart. no one wants this more than you do. no one gives more of themselves to something than you do. and you do it without ever losing your softness, your special spark that i fell in love with . you still hold doors open (literally and figuratively) even if you're having the worst day imaginable, still check in on everyone else first even if you aren't in the right headspace yourself, and still laugh like a kid when you win against me in supersmash bros every friday night. you’re the strongest man i’ve ever known, and somehow...also the gentlest.
this past week with you was magic, that's all i can say. but truthfully, you’re the most extraordinary thing i’ve ever known. award or no award. thank you for letting me walk beside you through it all. for letting me love you. for letting me be yours.
congratulations, my MVP. you are everything. i love you to the moon and to saturn.
liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12, y/bsf2, y/ncollective, peoplemagazine, taylorswift, lahjay_10, jjetas2, jesshubbard, madelyncline, and 5.3 million others
tagged: joeyb_9, LSU
y/n_y/ln: nola & baton rouge.
beignets, bayou sunsets, red carpet flicks, late nights, campus lights, and a whole lot of love. found my new favorite record shop, fell in love with the chicken & daiquiris combo everyone hypes up, and finally learned how to say “tchoupitoulas” without getting roasted by JB.
thank you to the cities that gave me the sweetest memories these past two weeks (and the sweetest boy a long time ago). forever mystified by how these cities screamed his name.
laissez les bons temps rouler ⚜️
comments:
joeyb_9: the best to do it all with 😮💨
——— y/n_y/ln: even the “chicken at 1am” stomach ache?
—————— joeyb_9: hell yeah. especially that. character building moment right there
————————— y/n_y/ln: i was character dissolving in the uber back to the hotel joseph.
————————————joeyb_9: worth it. 10/10. would daiquiri & suffer again.
——————————————— y/n_y/ln: you say that now but you made us stop for tums and ginger ale like a baby
——————————————————joeyb_9: a baby in love 🧸
fan392: omfg did he take her to his old LSU apartment complex😭
——— fan02499: that's the cutest thing ever hello-
rulethejungle5: the picture with him and the grandma is golden. thank you for your services y/n
y/bsf_21: tchoupitoulas gate will go down in history
——— y/n_y/ln: he wouldn't stop laughing at me 😒
LSU: geaux jeaux and y/n! had a blast having you here 💜💛
lahjay_10: not joe becoming your lil louisiana tour guide 😭😭
quinn_ski: ah man you shoulda been there back in 2019 during those tailgates. legendary shit
——— y/n_y/ln: pls don't give me more fomo than i already have 😪
—————— trevortherevver: you missed out on robin's goated pre-game speeches :(
————————— y/n_y/ln: did you not just see what i said about fomo trev...not helping man 🥲
fan39: you said culture, you said southern hospitality, you said “i’m the girlfriend of the south’s favorite son” and you were right
dualipa: 😍
fan29: the aesthetics of her photo dumps never fail to deliver
fan2029: she really learned how to say tchoupitoulas just to impress her man…true love fr
tatemcrae: gorgeous gorgeous girl <3
——— y/n_y/ln: love u xx
joe&y/nupdates: the little napkin note awww
fan9432: Y’ALL HELD HANDS OUTSIDE CHIMES I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES
✰ description: this upcoming week will be monumental for you and joe. both of you have a chance to get to the top of the mountain in your respective careers, and for the first time, you are by each other's side through it all, and the whole world is watching
✰ universe: you are in love masterlist
✰ previous parts ➜ you are in love V pt 1 ➜ you are in love: big reputations pt 1
✰ a/n: this took SO long but i really like how it turned out 🥹 i hope you enjoy it as much as i did :) as always ily all and thank you for being here
warnings: language, annoying paparazzi and people with big mouths, smut, MDNI. m. reciving oral, fem. recviving oral, unprotected p in v, a smidge of dom joe and sub reader, the usual...kind of ;)
wc: 39.9 k
music in no particular order: songbird - fleetwood mac (wink wink wink), cornelia street - taylor swift, earned it - the weeknd, never let me go - florence + the machine, dress - taylor swift, slow hands - niall horan, till forever falls apart - ashe, finneas, to love - suki waterhouse (this one!!!!), PDA - backstreet boys or the unreleased frank ocean version, can't take my eyes off you - frank valli
✰ taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv
The scent of freshly baked beignets drifted through the hotel suite, every corner holding space for the delectable aroma of the powdery southern delight you had been dreaming indulging in since you touched down in the big easy. The fragrance filled your nostrils, each inhale of the sugary treat allowing your body to ease up against the plush pillows you were sprawled out on, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, hoping that the clock would somehow magically skip to 6 p.m. To your left, the nightstand looked like a shrine to your night out. Perched on the edge were two empty daiquiri to-go vessels from Voodoo Chicken and Daiquiris—the place you and Joe had stumbled into late last night after the GQ fashion show. You opted for mardi gras mambo, a mix of fruity melons and tequila, whereas Joe’s droopy eyes were instantly caught by blue bayou—pineapple and coconut blended with vodka, gin, rum, and blue curacao.
God, you both got so unbelievably drunk last night. Which explained the silver and black masquerade mask tossed beside them, a last-minute buy from a corner souvenir shop you’d dragged him into with a pout and too much charm for him to resist. Purple and green beads you were handed by a laughing local on Bourbon Street sat tangled next to a half-eaten pack of Skittles—ones you told him not to get because he’d never finish them. A brand-new LSU hat (as if your closet wasn’t already flooded with them, not even counting Joe’s collection) lay half-crushed under the clutter. And, of course, his stash of fruity edible gummies, never too far from reach.
Then, somewhere on the plush floor of the suite lay your green dress from last night, Joe’s black jeans, and a lacy lilac lingerie set—carefully chosen, less carefully discarded.
Remnants of a night well spent.
You’d been counting down the minutes until the clock struck six, the golden hour when Joe would finally return to you, fresh from a whirlwind of press, interviews, and NFL Honors obligations. The whole week had been a blur of tailored outfits and flashing cameras, and while you loved seeing him in his element, today you’d opted for solitude. A self-care day, wrapped in soft robes and scented oils, letting the noise of the outside world melt away with each slow breath and every powdered beignet.
Earlier in the week, the two of you had managed to steal a few rare moments of one-on-one time from Joe’s packed schedule. Mornings were slow and quiet, starting with café au lait, and obviously, those powdered delights at Café du Monde, where you’d sit tucked into a corner table, the hum of jazz musicians drifting in from Jackson Square just a block away. The two of you people-watched as the French Quarter came alive, from street artists sketching portraits to local musicians playing old brass tunes that made you sway in your seat. You always teased him for how the powdered sugar clung to his nose and stubble like snow, and he’d pretend to pout until you leaned in and kissed it away. You snapped a picture of him once mid-bite, powdered sugar dusting his black hoodie and the sweetest, messiest grin on his face. It was one of your favorites.
The sidewalks shimmered just a little from the morning rain, horse-drawn carriages trotted past on Decatur Street, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang at the top of the hour, reminding you both that time was still passing even if it felt like the rest of the world had slowed just for you. You wandered through the Garden District in the afternoons, walking hand-in-hand beneath the canopy of moss-draped oaks and pointing out the pastel-painted houses you claimed you’d buy one day “just for the vibe,”. You dragged him into voodoo shops and vintage bookstores, lingering over handmade candles and old jazz records, buying a tiny ceramic gator just because it made you laugh. He pretended to complain but carried the bags without fussing, even as you insisted on posing next to every hand-painted mural or old street sign you passed.
Every time you walked past a shop or bar that had an old LSU poster plastered on the wall, a familiar one from his college glory days, you’d gasp like it was brand new. “Oh my god, wait…is that you?” you’d say, finger pointing toward a sun-faded photo of him mid-throw in his yellow & purple number nine jersey. Sometimes the shop owners would recognize him, give him a nod, or ask for a picture. But more often than not, you were the one making a scene, eyes wide with mock surprise.
“You’re not funny,” he’d mumble, cheeks pink with bashfulness as he tried to tug you along before he drew a crowd.
“You’re kind of a big deal around here, Joseph,” you’d tease, looping your arm through his. “I’m just proud of my Tiger,”.
You made a reservation at Commander’s Palace one night, where the two of you split turtle soup and sipped sazeracs under glowing chandeliers. Another evening, you sat along the banks of the Mississippi with your feet dangling off the edge of the Moonwalk, sharing bites of fried shrimp po’boys and feeding stray fries to the pigeons. He took a blurry disposable-camera photo of you there, wind in your hair, city behind you—one you swore you’d frame because of how it seemed to capture you in your most natural state, like you were just another girl in the crescent city.
And tonight? Tonight was another special night for you both. Just the two of you, slipping back into your bubble with a reservation at Lilette waiting—a quiet table, dim lights, your favorite black dress, and the man you’d been missing all afternoon. The thought alone made your stomach flutter. You could already see it, the way his hand was resting low on your back as you walked in, his body loosened by the end of dinner because of one too many glasses of wine, his eyes holding the kind of depth and glint that made you fall deeper in love with him.
You nearly dozed off waiting for him, the warmth of the suite and the break of the late afternoon casting a sleepy haze over your limbs. But instead of giving in, you fought to keep your blood moving, thumb lazily scrolling through Twitter for a little pick-me-up. You had made it a habit to not scroll on social media for too long, especially since you kept your distance from it for over 5 months for a reason, but you couldn’t help the nagging urge to check in with your fans, take a peek at what they were saying about you. Nobody was around to stop you either, and it didn’t take long before you were buried in it, knee deep in comment sections, since just a few days ago you’d dropped the kind of news that made the internet spiral like never before—no warning, no countdown clock, just a groundbreaking performance at the Grammys and a simple post announcing your most special project to date. And ever since that night, your mentions, your inboxes, your notifications…they had been a wild place. A collage of capital letters, snake emojis, and old lyrics quoted like scripture. Oh, and you couldn't forget the fan theories that made you laugh out loud because of their hilariously bad interpretations.
For example, ‘but daddy i love him’ is 1000% about her ex. you know, the one everyone warned her about? the one with the red flags she tried to bleach white? it’s giving ‘i can fix him’ energy…in minor key. she’s defending the indefensible, pleading her case like she’s on trial for loving him. it’s also a reference to the little mermaid, the scene where ariel says it to her father, after he forbids her from being with prince eric.
“They seriously think I’d write a song trying to justify the 4 years of hell I went through?” you questioned, brows furrowing at the mere thought of writing anything remotely pleasant about that loser. This theory couldn’t have been more far-fetched, and the only part that was surprisingly accurate, given how ridiculous it all sounded, was how it is a reference to that scene from The Little Mermaid, aka your favorite Disney movie. That was a well-known fact by your most devoted fans, especially since you went as Ariel for Billie Eilish’s Halloween party a few years ago when you lived in LA full-time.
They had it all wrong, this song wasn’t about your ex; it was about Joe.
It was about the quiet rebellion you were going through, an ode to your newfound confidence that allowed you to break free from the rusted shackles the industry—and some fans—had placed around your wrists. It was a candid response to the late-night phone calls from your management, the ones laced with caution and PR language.
“Think about your image. Think about the optics of dating a high-profile athlete. Don’t throw away your redemption arc for someone who won’t even slow down to make space for you privately, let alone publicly,”.
But they didn’t know Joe. No. Not like you did.
It was about the pin-drop silence from people you once trusted, friends who ghosted when you told them about Joe, who reappeared only to offer thinly veiled concern once it was clear this wasn’t just a fling. The kind of concern that sounded more like judgment. Like disappointment masked as care. It was about the eventual media frenzy that would follow when you went public, how you could already feel it coming, how it loomed like a storm cloud no matter how tightly you clung to the sunshine he gave you.
You couldn’t forget the eventual slut-shaming headlines either, misogyny dressed up as concern, written by men with fragile egos and louder keyboards than common sense. Men who had never known what it was like to have their every move dissected, who believed dragging your name through the mud somehow earned them credibility. The “she moved on too fast” narrative that would cling to you like smoke, impossible to shake, even though your ex had emotionally and physically checked out long before the relationship ended. But the truth never mattered as much as the spectacle. It was always easier, cleaner, simpler for the man.
You could hear the smug, pitying whispers—he’ll break her heart, just like the last one. Said with such certainty, like heartbreak was a script you were destined to repeat in every lifetime. And for a little bit, you feared they might be right. That maybe you were hard to love. Too complicated. Too visible.
But then…there was Joe.
Quiet, steady Joe, who never once made you question your worth or your place in his world. The only ones who made you question your worth were them; at this point, you’d had enough of it. You’d rather burn your whole life to the ground than sit through one more second of their relentless bitching and moaning. They always thought they knew better, like they owned you, like you owed it to them to live your life on their terms. But no. You never had, and you never would. Not for them. Not for all those vipers dressed in empath’s clothing.
It was about the dissection of your body language, your lyrics, and your tone of voice during interviews. About the persistent analysis of your facial expressions, as if joy, peace, and love couldn’t possibly be real on a woman like you, not after everything. It was about how they couldn’t stand to see you break free from the good girl image they’d boxed you into your entire career. The persona they’d built their expectations around. They didn’t like that you stepped out of the frame. That you’d found someone, really found someone, outside the fairytale nightmare they had written for you.
They didn’t like that you chose him.
Because choosing him meant choosing yourself. Your instincts. Your intuition. Your right to be happy in a way that made no sense to anyone else but you.
The song was a defense. Not of a mistake, but of a decision. A gut feeling. A man. It was about the sideways glances and complacent little warnings. “Are you sure? He has so much on his plate, he doesn’t give the vibe he’s looking for someone serious. These football players don’t have any part of themselves unoccupied to give to their partner. They always take from them, and when they’re bored, discard them like an old gum wrapper. They only care about themselves. Joe is probably no different,”.
But they couldn’t be more wrong about him. Joe, your Joe, didn’t deserve to be stereotyped like this. Not when his actions showed you he was more than the typical
He brought you soup when you were sick, still warm from the little spot all the way by the banks that you loved, because nothing else ever quite hit the same. He’d sit beside you with a spoon in one hand and a thermometer in the other, gently brushing your hair back like it was instinct, like he was made to take care of you. He watched Pride and Prejudice without a single eye-roll, eyes flicking over to you during your favorite parts just to watch you smile. He started quoting Darcy with that playful little smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your heart. He pressed kisses to your temple before meetings, before games, before you left for a trip, before you had to pull yourself out of the safe, sleepy cocoon of his arms. And whenever your anxiety started creeping in—when the noise in your head got a little too loud—he noticed. Always. Without you ever having to say a word. He’d pull you into his chest or lace your fingers with his, grounding you with the gentlest touch. He let you squeeze his hand tight, white-knuckle tight, when things got overwhelming. Never once flinched. Never told you to ease up. Never let go.
He carried your bags through airports when you were too tired to keep your head up. Left little notes in your luggage when you had to leave Cincinnati. He rubbed the knots from your shoulders after a long day, bought your favorite granola bars in bulk so you’d never run out, and stood in the bathroom holding your plush headband like a crown whenever it was face mask night. He learned your rhythms. He paid attention—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because loving you, in all your softness and strength, was the most natural thing in the world to him.
And that’s what the song was about.
Just love. The quiet kind. The kind that stays, because the right person always stays despite all the chaos and revelry. The kind of love you used to dream about as a little girl, when the world still felt wide and full of magic. Not the kind that roared or demanded attention, but the kind that unfolded slowly, like a favorite song or a sunrise. Reckless in its honesty, but in a way that made you feel safe. Weightless, like breathing fresh air after holding it for too long. Love that didn’t ask you to shrink or bend. Love that let you take up space. It was love that met you where you were. That knew the bruises you carried and didn’t flinch. The kind that held your hand in silence when the noise got too loud, that made the ordinary feel extraordinary—morning smoothie, a quiet drive, someone saving you the last bite. It was steady. warm. It didn’t chase validation, it just was.
And it was that kind of love that made you stand taller, steadier. That made you say, I know who I am, I know who he is. I’m not asking for your approval anymore. I just don’t care. Because with him, you didn’t need to care. And you, being you, felt it coming long before it ever arrived. The shift in public tone. The think pieces, the discourse, the warnings laced in mock concern. That’s why you wrote ‘but daddy i love him’. You weren’t naive, you were aware. You saw the curve in the road miles ahead and adjusted your grip on the wheel, swerving gently but intentionally, protecting the two of you from wrecking the car you’d spent so long building—bolt by bolt, mile by mile. You weren’t about to let anyone else take the wheel, let alone crash it for you.
As you continued scrolling, you saw screenshots of old headlines that made you flinch; some harsh, some haunting. There were grainy clips from your early tour days, footage of you spinning under stage lights with a fire in your eyes that had dimmed for a while but never fully gone out. Fans were posting slowed-down audio of songs you hadn’t touched in years, overlaying them with teary captions and edits stitched together like love letters. They were celebrating your comeback by reliving each moment from your past, showing you how far you’d come, how you had grown into yourself with each strum of your signature black guitar.
“Once, she was the girl who stood still, clutching the microphone with both hands because she was scared someone would take it from her. Now, she’s the woman who commands the stage with a fire in her eyes that only existed in myths, striding across the floor like she owns every inch…because she does.”
Everywhere you looked, people were piecing together the breadcrumbs, decoding every glance, every lyric snippet, every cryptic Instagram caption like it was part of some master map guiding them into your next era. They weren’t just listening; they were dissecting. Reading between the lines. Drawing red strings between song titles and moments you thought had gone unnoticed. Some were already applauding the direction you seemed to be taking with the new album, how it wasn’t just another breakup record or a tell-all, but something deeper. A reflection of how the past year had really felt. You were surprised by some of their theories, especially considering all they had to go on was a tracklist and a single poem. But that was the thing about your fans, they were frighteningly good at pulling truth from shadows, finding meaning in even the quietest gestures. Even when you didn’t mean to say much…they heard everything.
“She could’ve taken the full revenge route and made this album all about him, like her last one, but with more anger than poetry, make it about everything he did to her, about everything the world did to her. But she isn’t. Because she’s healing. She’s choosing to use this opportunity to show the world she’s not that girl anymore. She’s madly in love with someone who’s given her what she spent years chasing across so many different worlds, and now, she doesn’t even want to look back. Yeah, she’s calling them out. But more importantly…she’s letting go and appreciating what’s right in front of her.”
You lingered on that one; it sat with you in the deepest part of your heart. It felt true, truer than any of the dissertations or fan theories thrown around. This album hadn’t been forged in rage. It hadn’t clawed its way out of the ashes of revenge. Sure, there were shades of that, the bite in your lyrics, those edges sharpened by memory. The kind of lines that made people pause and wonder who exactly you were aiming at. But underneath it all, it wasn’t about settling scores.
It was silk after years of sandpaper, a little more velvet, a little less poison. And woven into every chorus, tucked inside each bridge, was something you’d spent so long believing you didn’t deserve—real, steady love, which Joe had inspired. Not just by showing up in the way you used to write about in your most hopeful verses, but by loving you without conditions, without expectations. Loving you when you were unsure, still falling apart at the seams. When your confidence was cracked and your spirit was still gluing itself back together. And somewhere along the way, you realized he wasn’t the exception.
He was the reward, and you were going to make sure everyone was aware of that.
You were still smiling, that fan comment replaying in your head like one of your melodies, when the lock to the hotel suite clicked open. Your eyes flicked to the time, “He’s early,” you murmured, surprise blooming into anticipation, your pulse jumping in your throat. The excitement spread through you like wildfire, hot, fast, and unstoppable.
Without thinking, you tossed your phone to the side, the tweet still glowing on the screen, and padded across the plush carpet. The door creaked just as you reached it, and then he was there. Slightly flushed from the New Orleans heat, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, giving that rushed kind of handsome he didn’t even try to be. His hair was a little damp at the temples, tousled in that way you loved, like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times thinking about you on the ride over.
“Hey, bab—,” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him in hard, kissing him like you’d been starving for it, and maybe you had. His breath hitched, arms coming around you in a flash, palms spreading across your back like he needed to feel every inch of you just to breathe right.
His hands moved lower, fingers curling beneath the hem of your shirt, then down until they were cupping your ass, squeezing gently, pushing you further into him. Your body molded to his like muscle memory, your kiss deepening with every passing second, all tongue and heat and unspoken sweet nothings. When you finally broke apart, it was only for air; your lips swollen, his chest rising fast beneath your hands. He chased your mouth instinctively, forehead dropping to yours once he realized he wasn’t getting any more, breath mingling in the tight space between you. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice having that adorable kind of softness that it always had when he spoke to you, the corners of his mouth tilted in a breathless smile.
You looked up at him, heart still hammering. “Can’t a girl smooch her boyfriend like it’s the last thing she’ll ever get to do? I missed my soon-to-be MVP,” you said, fingers brushing along his jawline, just beneath that familiar dimple. Joe let out a low laugh, forehead still pressed to yours, hands never leaving your body. “I missed you, too,” he murmured. “But damn…if that’s the welcome I get, I might start coming early every time,”.
You smirked, already leaning in again. “Yeah? Maybe you should,” you mumbled as you kissed him…slower this time. Deeper. Like you had time. Like the world could wait. Like he needed this, needed you, to quench something he hadn’t even realized had been building up in his chest all day. The kind of kiss that felt like the start of a storm and the calm that followed it. Your hands slid up, framing his face, your thumbs brushing the warm skin just beneath his cheekbones. You tilted his face up slightly and pulled back—not far, just enough to look at him, to breathe.
He didn’t let you go easily.
A soft groan escaped his throat, and he chased your mouth with his own again, eyes fluttering open in quiet protest, his hands still heavy on your hips. “Hey,” you whispered, your smile forming again, soft and teasing. “Dinner,” you reminded him, “You should shower,”.
Joe sighed like you’d just told him Christmas was canceled, but he pressed one last kiss to your lips before finally stepping back. “You’re lucky that I’m all sweaty because if I weren’t, I’d take you straight to bed and have you limping before dinner,” he muttered as he peeled off his emotional support satchel and slipped off his shoes.
You trailed him with your eyes, unable to help the way they wandered as your stomach fluttered at his words. The white shirt he was wearing was snug across his shoulders, his sleeves still rolled up just enough to show his forearms, the veins in his hands prominent as he worked the buttons of his jeans open. He looked good. A little sun-kissed from the NOLA sun, lips coated with your shimmery lip gloss, jaw sharp as ever, and brow still slightly furrowed from how much he hadn’t wanted to pull away from you. “How was everything today?” you asked, trying to sound casual even as your eyes undressed him in the most filthy way possible, piece by piece.
“Busy,” he said. “Back-to-back interviews. A lot of talk about the season. Offseason plans. Everyone wants to know how I’m feeling, what I’m doing, what I think about next year, some stuff about Ja’marr, Tee, Trey, and Mike’s contracts,”. You leaned against the arm of the couch, smiling at how he likely used these interviews as an opportunity to stick up for his guys and piss off the FO. “And? What’d you tell them? About your offseason plans?”.
“That I’m excited for the break. To train, reset. To spend time with you,” he smiled a little as he finally slipped his jeans off, his voice turning softer. “Told them I finally get a real off-season. Not just physically, free from injury rehab, but mentally too. It’s different when you’ve got something—someone—worth slowing down for. I won’t find myself thinking about ball, watching old tapes, or training more than I should this year because I have something else, something better to focus on,”.
Your chest tightened at that. You didn’t say anything, just gave him a look, one that said everything he already knew. “Someone worth slowing down for,” you repeated to yourself in your head.
They said he wouldn’t do it, that he was incapable of making space for you in his already large, chaotic life, which is why this relationship was a bad idea. They said that trying to make a home in his world would be like planting flowers in a storm—beautiful, but ultimately useless. They told you his life was already too big, too loud, too fast. A freight train with no brakes. A stadium always at full capacity. There wouldn’t be space for someone like you, someone who needed quiet corners and small moments. Someone who wanted more than highlight reels and halftime glances.
But they were wrong. Because he did. He slowed down.
Not all at once, not with a dramatic screech or fireworks, but gradually, intentionally. Like dusk creeping in over a city skyline. Like turning the volume down on the noise, just to hear your voice better. He carved out space for you in a life that wasn’t built for stillness, rearranged the furniture in his soul to make sure you had room to stay.
And that? That wasn’t a sacrifice. That was his love for you, elemental, bone-deep, and star-bound. The kind of devotion etched not in fleeting time but in the eternal, a sacred tether spun from quiet understanding and infinite heart.
He disappeared into the bathroom a second later, and the sound of the shower starting up echoed faintly through the suite. You weren’t planning to follow. Not at first. But you’d barely sat down before your mind started to wander, back to the way his hands had gripped your waist, the way his hot mouth had moved against yours, how easily he melted under your touch. You heard the glass door slide open, the sharp hiss of the water hitting the tile following suit.
That’s when your curiosity got the better of you.
You tiptoed toward the bathroom, the open door giving you a perfect view through the fogging glass. He stood under the spray, head tipped back beneath the water, steam curling off his shoulders. The muscles in his back flexed as he reached for the soap, every movement fluid and unhurried. He was relaxed in a way that made you ache—bare, beautiful, completely unaware of the way he was driving you insane. You bit your lip, watching his hands trail down his chest, over his abs, down….oh. Your breath hitched, and just like that, the heat in your core surged.
He’d been working so hard lately, the fruits of his labor visible in his protruding biceps and broad shoulders, a result of training sessions with barely a day off, even in the thick of your offseason ventures. He’d been in and out of planes, hopping time zones like they were practice drills, flying to the Grammys with you, and before that, you’d spent time in France, and still somehow he was managing to stay locked in with his routine without complaints or refusal. You watched him stretch himself thin trying to be everything, QB1, boyfriend, travel companion, your safe place. Always carrying the weight so effortlessly, even when you could see the strain tucked into the corners of his crinkling eyes, the tightness of his jaw, the quiet-tired way he moved when he thought you weren’t looking. And still, he made time for you. Made space. Leaned in when he could’ve leaned away. He never let the chaos swallow either of you whole.
“He does so much for me…for us. Maybe I should do a little something for him to show how much I appreciate it,” you murmured to yourself, a slow smile tugging at your lips, the thought blooming as naturally as the coffee he’d brought you that morning—just the way you liked it, still hot, with a sticky note on the lid that said don’t forget how loved you are.
You knew the smarter choice, the more logical one, was to wait until after dinner. To be patient. To let the night play out the way you’d planned: a slow meal, a glass of wine or two, laughter spilling between bites, both of you melting into that sweet, familiar rhythm you loved so much. No time constraints. No rush. Just you and him, lazy and tipsy and touching each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
But then he walked out of the shower like that, and suddenly, all your resolve crumbled.
He was fresh from the steam, skin warm and flushed from the hot water, a towel slung low on his hips like it was barely holding on. His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, but each drop of water that slid down the hard planes of his body felt like a dare. Your eyes followed the trail as it dipped into the deep V at his hips, and your mouth actually watered. His hair was damp, pushed back with nothing but his fingers, a few rogue strands falling loose in the kind of way that should’ve been illegal. He looked undone and effortless all at once, so painfully beautiful and so unaware of what he was doing to you just by existing.
You didn’t stand a chance. There was no way you’d be able to sit through dinner making polite conversation and pretending like you weren’t burning for him. Not when your thighs were already pressing together, not when your mind was clouded with one single thought. Your head twisted to look back at the digital clock perched on the TV table, a slight damper on your excitement when you realized there really wasn’t enough time for you to go all the way with him.
But that didn’t mean you couldn’t treat him…did it? Give him something that was just for him? Pleasure wrapped in reverence. The kind of touch that asked for nothing in return, that simply said thank you. Going down on him, letting him feel everything through you—your hands, your mouth, the way you looked up at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Watching him come undone beneath your heat, to remind him that he didn’t always have to hold it all together. “It’s been a minute since I did that,” you murmured to yourself, your gaze dragged over him slowly, greedily, taking in every inch of him. Fresh from the shower, steam still clinging to his skin, dripping and golden like some Roman God sculpted in candlelight.
You pushed off the door and moved toward him like it was instinct, each step leaving behind a trail of fire as your eyes locked on him, like a hunter circling her prey. You watched as he reached for his fresh shirt, but you were already there. You stopped him with a hand on his chest, “Don’t,” you said softly, eyes dropping from his eyes to his lips, then back to his blues. “You’ve been working all week. Interviews, appearances, media, honors prep. You’ve been so…on. And don’t even get me started on how you handled everything with the Grammys and the aftermath. All the interview requests, slightly annoying questions, comments, messages, and how you’ve made sure that I’ve been okay through all the chaos,”.
He smiled like he always did, but you could see a hint of drowsiness in his eyes, heard the sluggish drag in his voice when he said, “...It’s my job, princess,”.
You shook your head, “It’s more than that, Joe. You’ve been carrying everything, going far beyond your usual threshold,” your eyes flicked up to his, full of heat and something deeper—gratitude. “Hustling. Smiling when you’re drained. Talking about the offseason break and training when you haven’t even had a second to rest…to slow down,” your hand slid down the broad plane of his chest, fingers grazing the faint ridges of muscle. You traced a slow, teasing path, past the flutter of his stomach as he breathed, until you reached the edge of the towel sitting dangerously low around his hips. “You’ve been showing up for me in ways I didn’t even know I needed,” you whispered. “Keeping snacks in your little satchel because I forget to eat in the middle of zoom meetings and fittings,” you giggled, the mention of his emotional support bag making him crack a grin. “...Making sure I drink enough water so I don’t pass out from the heat or from overworking myself, sending me videos of people praising my performance last weekend every hour so I never forget the feeling because you knew how much I missed it,”.
He blinked, Adam’s apple bobbing in tandem, and you could see the emotion threatening to well up behind the lust in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to because he always knew how much you appreciated the little things he did for you, even if you didn’t constantly voice it. “So now,” you continued, voice velvet-soft as you leaned in, lips brushing against his skin, “It’s my turn to show up for you,”. You let the towel fall, his eyes widening as you whispered, “Let me take care of you, baby. You’ve earned it,”.
Joe hissed in a breath as you dropped to your knees, hands moving the towel aside to the space beside you in one smooth motion. He let out a sharp breath as his cock sprang free, already heavy, the sight of you kneeling in front of him enough to coax a low groan from deep in his chest. He was gorgeous like this—cock thick, flushed at the tip, veins tracing up the sides, already twitching with anticipation. He was already gone before you even touched him, the hazy, dark look in his eyes making you spiral. “You’ve been so good,” you said, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower. “So patient. So damn focused. Let me make you feel good,”.
You looked up at him with doe eyes, flashing him that innocent little grin as if you weren’t about to ruin him in the best way, and you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes actually darken, his jaw clench just a little more. You wrapped one hand around his base, stroking him once, twice, just to hear the way his breath hitched—before licking a long, slow stripe up the underside, tongue flattening as you reached the head. You gave the tip a teasing kiss, then took him into your mouth, slow and steady, moaning around him at the weight and taste of him.
His hand instinctively threaded into your hair, but he didn’t guide…he just held, fingers flexing every time you did something that made his hips jerk. You took him in, inch by inch, lips stretching around his girth until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged slightly, spit already pooling around your lips, but you didn’t stop. You eased back, sucked him in again, slow and filthy. “Fuck Y/N,” he groaned, voice breaking as you continued to work him in every way you knew he loved. You bobbed your head gradually, your tongue swirling around the head each time you came up, lips wet and slick from pre-cum and saliva. The mess made you ache. You wanted him to see it—how much you wanted him, how much you loved making him fall apart. “God, baby…,” he grunted, hips twitching as you took him deeper, throat relaxing as he slid in further, lips stretching wide around him. “You’re…shit…you’re gonna make me lose it,”.
You pulled off just long enough to pant against the base of him, your hand still working him in firm, wet strokes. “Good. That’s the point,” you laughed. At first you worked him slowly—unhurried, sensual, letting every suck and slurp echo in the quiet of the suite bathroom. But soon, the pace quickened. You were drooling now, spit trickling from your chin faster than before each time you pulled away, coating his cock in a glossy sheen as you sucked and licked and twisted your hand in rhythm with every moan and gasp he let out. You made it filthy, just the way you knew he liked it. The sounds, your wet mouth, the soft pop every time you came up for air, his ragged breathing, the choked curse when you swallowed him whole again, filled the room. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, trembling with restraint, like he was holding himself back from fucking into your mouth. You could feel him getting close, twitching in your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening.
But then you moaned around him—loudly, with need—and he bucked without meaning to, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You took it like a pro, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, spit pooling on your tits and the sight nearly made him pull you up and fuck you right then and there.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, head thrown back against the wall, his chest heaving as the pleasure coursed through his system. “You’re so fucking good at this, Y/N. You like it don’t you? Mouth full of my cock, makin’ me feel so good,”.
You hummed in agreement, the low vibration of it pulling a strangled curse from his lips. His fingers tightened in your hair, desperate now, hips bucking once, twice, until his whole body locked up, every muscle twisted tight as the pleasure surged through him in a wave he couldn’t hold back. His voice broke on a moan, deep and unguarded, his head tipping back hard against the wall again as you felt ropes of his release coat your throat. “That's it,” he whimpered. “That's my girl. So good for me, angel,” His words came out in pieces, like he was unraveling with each syllable, the praise falling out of him without a second thought—like he couldn’t not say it, like his body needed you to hear it just as much as he needed to say it.
You swallowed every drop, savoring the taste of him like the last bite of your favorite dessert. You only pulled back when you felt his muscles relax under your fingertips, and he let out a breathless, choked sound—his body slack from the rush, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. You licked him clean with one final drag of your tongue, as if you were sealing a promise between you. When you finally lifted your eyes, your lips were swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed from the slight ego boost you were getting by making him fall apart like this. Joe was staring down at you with wide, glassy eyes—like he couldn't believe you were real, like you’d just shifted the planets or something. “Baby, I…fuck. That was..,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with pleasure. His hand reached down to brush your cheek, tender in the aftermath of his orgasm.
You let out a quiet laugh, pushing yourself up to your feet, smoothing your palms down your thighs in one fluid motion. “You deserved it, Joey,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “I meant it,”.
He didn’t wait even a second to touch you again. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet. His lips ghosted over yours, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. “You sure we have to go to dinner?” he asked, words dragging out with each breath.
You smiled against his mouth, smug and breathless. “Reservations are in thirty. We both gotta freshen up a bit. Better hustle, future MVP,”.
He groaned in response, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder, his grip on your hips tightening for a beat like he was weighing whether to cancel it all just to take you back to bed like he wanted to all along. You playfully rolled your eyes, your fingers moving from his chest up to his damp hair. You threaded them through the strands and tugged gently, guiding his head to the side so you could press your lips just beneath his ear, “Be good at dinner,” you whispered, the promise laced in every breath, “And we’ll pick up right where we left off. Sound fair?”.
The way he sighed—deep, quiet, and desperate—told you he’d behave…but only barely. You’d been with him long enough to know that this man could never behave around you. Seriously, it was like a lightbulb turned on inside of him after the first time you had sex.
“...Deal,” he said reluctantly, brushing one last lingering kiss to your cheek before finally moving the two of you away from the wall. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together like he couldn’t stand to not be touching you for even a second. “But first—,” he said, tugging you gently toward the vanity with a knowing smirk, “Clean up. Can’t have my girlfriend walkin’ out there with smudged lipstick and…other evidence all over her chest. Wouldn’t wanna give anyone the wrong impression, right?” he smirked.
You let out a breathy laugh, heart still pounding from what just happened, “Oh, that we’re perpetually horny, like to fuck, and lack basic human decency? Nooo, totally don’t wanna give anyone that…obivous…er, impression,”.
He barked out a short, sharp laugh, the sound echoing brightly off the marble countertop. His cheeks even pinked slightly, like he wasn’t immune to your teasing even now. With a roll of his eyes, he grabbed a fresh towel off the counter and handed it to you, followed immediately by your favorite moisturizer—the one he pretended to complain about every time you traveled together, calling it “highway robbery in a bottle,” but still, somehow, always remembered to toss in your bag if you forgot. You took them both, fingers brushing his as you did, your throat tightening a little at the familiar, unspoken tenderness of it.
“He makes it so easy to love him,” you thought to yourself.
His gaze then dropped to your chest, still marked by the sheen of his pearly release. “God, you’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark and worshipful as they swept over you. And you knew exactly what he meant when he said that. It wasn’t the marks, it wasn’t the smeared lipstick or the chaos of your clothes barely hanging on your frame.
It was the way you looked at him.
Bare. Soft. Entirely his.
Something about that realization, how much of yourself you gave him without even meaning to, nearly knocked him flat.
You dabbed at your skin, glancing up at him in the mirror, catching the way he was watching you like he wanted to take you right back to the wall again. “You’re not making this very easy for yourself, are you?” you teased, smoothing the moisturizer across your collarbones. He grinned, a low, dangerous thing, and stepped in close behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, molding his chest to your back like he couldn’t stand the distance a second longer. His lips brushed your shoulder, feather-light, sending another shiver down your spine. “You’re the one who said I had to be good,” he murmured against your skin
You tilted your head slightly, giving him just a little more access, savoring the way his nose nuzzled into the curve of your neck like he couldn't help himself. You smirked, “But, you didn’t say I had to make it easy,”.
An hour later — Lilette
After freshening up, fixing your hair, reapplying lipstick, and coaxing Joe into putting on what you had picked out for him versus the boring green shirt and jeans he had orginally set out, you both slipped into the backseat of a sleek black Uber, the tinted windows casting a soft glow over your still-warm cheeks. The car floated through the dimly lit streets of New Orleans, finding its way back toward the Garden District, where your dinner reservation waited. The restaurant, a French gem hidden behind a towering oak, in pictures, looked more like a secret than a business—its flickering lanterns and cream colored walls whispering promises of quiet romance and good wine.
Somewhere on the drive to the restaurant, you felt yourself succumb to the growing silence around you, which normally you’d find comfort in since you were with Joe. That silence would be filled with soft touches, chaste kisses, and listening to the sound of each other’s heartbeats; a peaceful time for you two to decompress and seek comfort in just existing in the same space for a little bit. But this time, the silence wasn’t between the two of you…it was just, around you for some reason. And it was far from peaceful, it felt…chilling. Unsettling, even. “I hope nobody notices us,” you murmured without realizing, staring out of the car window as you passed houses and buildings that looked like they were still trapped in the 18th century.
Although you were comfortable being seen with Joe, hand in hand, camera flashes and all, that didn’t mean you always wanted to be noticed. Not like this, and especially not tonight. The past week had been an endless stream of small talk and smiling through growing exhaustion, of posed photos and forced energy. And even though you’d handled it all with grace, you could feel your social battery draining out faster than you’d expected. What you craved now wasn’t the spotlight. It was something simpler. A quiet table for two. Hands brushing beneath candlelight. A meal without interruption. A night where you didn’t have to be anyone but his. Where he didn’t have to be anyone but yours.
It wasn’t just the press, the constant performance, the smiles you had to flash at the right place and time. It was everything. The returning noise ever since the Grammys happened. The eyes—they were once again on you. On both of you, now. The expectations were high since you were back, with a new attitude, and a promising piece of work you were so confident about. It all made you feel tired in that quiet, bone-deep way that didn’t always show itself. The kind of tired that came from being everything to everyone, everywhere, all the time. You thought you’d broken free from that habit during your time away from the limelight, but deep down, you felt as if it was still there. Still managing to take over even if you did everything in your power to wash it away, and it sucked.
Joe saw the apprehension in your body—the way your arms were crossed at your chest as if you were trying to shield yourself from a chill only you could feel, how your head was titled towards him against the headrest but your eyes were looking away, as if you couldn’t let him see the feeling that was swirling through your irises. He could hear the heaviness in your voice; he could tell something had shifted, like a song changing keys mid-melody. And it made his jaw tighten. Because he didn’t like it when something pulled you away from him like this—when the light dimmed behind your eyes and he wasn’t sure what shadow had caused it.
You didn’t mean to shrink away from him, really. This wasn’t about him. But when you’d finally had space to breathe in the back of a car, no screens, no comments to read over, it hit you just how loud everything had been lately; how much you already missed the version of your life where it was just the two of you in your own bubble.
“Hey,” he said softly as his hand found your thigh, reminding you that he was right there. He scooted closer, knees crashing gently together, his presence trying to pull you back into the moment. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, concern already written across his brows.
You paused. Your lips parted, but no words came right away. You didn’t want to lie, not to him. So you turned your face back toward the window, watching the lights blur past. “I…I don’t know,” you whispered. “I think I’m just…tired. Not like sleepy-tired. Just...tired in my heart. It’s like I can feel the weight of everyone watching us. Waiting for something to go wrong. It’s only been a few days since everything but I just feel…nervous. I don’t know,”.
You reached out and traced a faint path on the glass, your breath fogging it up. “I keep thinking about how safe it felt when we were still just ours. When we could kiss without wondering who saw, laugh without worrying who’d twist it into something ugly. It was quieter then. We were quieter. And now—,” you turned back to him, your voice trembling. “I’m scared it’s all gonna get too loud. That the noise will get in and chip away at what we built. That we’ll start folding under the pressure without even realizing it. That we’ll wake up one day and not recognize this...us,”. Your voice cracked on that last word, because that fear was so real you couldn’t even verbalize it properly. And don’t get it twisted, he never made you doubt your relationship, your love, this partnership between you both. But you couldn’t help but feel guilty, feel scared to drag him into your side of the world after building and nurturing your relationship in the safety of his world.
Joe didn’t speak immediately, and part of you braced for empty comfort out of habit—reassurances without roots, because that’s how it went in your last relationship, since you had the same fear back then, too. But when he finally did, his voice was quiet, steady, and so full of love it made your throat tighten. “Then we shut the windows, baby,” he said, thumb brushing slow circles over your knee. “We don’t let the noise in. They can shout and post and whisper all they want. But they don’t know what we have. They only think they do,”.
He reached for your hand, entwining your fingers like it was second nature, like he couldn’t imagine a world where your hands weren’t meant to fit. “We built this thing slowly, knowing all the risks and bullshit that came along with it. We built it together, with real intentions, emotions, and love. And I know how precious it is, because I watched you open your heart to me piece by piece. And I’ll fight to protect that every day, to protect you every day. I swear to you, I won’t let them take away our quiet. I won’t let them twist what we have into something it’s not,” he paused, eyes soft and steadily looking into yours.
“My knight in shining armor, always,” you thought, physically holding yourself back from stuffing your face into his chest and crying from happiness because you knew he hated it when you cried. Especially over him. No, not because he, as a man, didn’t know how to deal with a woman’s plethora of overflowing emotions, but because he hated to see you in pain. He didn’t like to see you cry over him specifically, because according to Joe, “A woman should rather kill a man before she cries over one, and yeah. Even when the man is me. Never give a guy the satisfaction of seeing you at your most vulnerable state because you never know when they’ll use it against you,”.
You literally jumped his bones right then and there, because it was one of the most emotionally intelligent things a man had ever said to you (and the hottest thing he’s ever said…but that’s a thought for another day)—and he was right. Completely. But still, you’d never hide your tears from Joe. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because he had never, and would never, be one of those men. He’d never weaponize your softness. He’d catch your tears with the same care he caught your heart, with steady hands and unwavering admiration.
“Hey,” he said softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze to bring you back to him. “You don’t have to carry all this by yourself, okay? I’m here now. And I’m not just here when it’s easy or convenient. I’m here when it’s hard. When it’s heavy,” he leaned in a little, like he needed you to really hear him. “That’s what we are. We hold each other up. No matter what. Doesn’t matter how bad it gets, we don’t break,”. His voice stayed steady, but his eyes were full of that quiet intensity only he could manage. “I know it’s a lot right now, especially after things have been calm for a while. And everything he put you through publicly and privately still eats away at you absentmindedly, but you’re doing good. Better than you think,” he brushed his thumb over your wrist, his touch light but heavy enough for his words to sink into your bones. “I’m proud of you, baby. So proud,”.
Your throat closed, almost as if a sob were about to come out, but you didn’t cry. Not quite. Instead, you breathed in deep, letting the warmth of his words fill the hollow places inside you. You leaned into him, pressing your forehead to his soft cheek, letting your hand rest over his heart. “I just want to keep us safe,” you murmured, barely audible. “I don’t want to lose this, I don’t want it to ever end. I’d never walk down this road again if something happened,”.
Without wasting a single second, you heard him say, “You won’t,” as he tilted your chin until your eyes met. “You won’t. This is ours, and no one gets to take it unless we hand it to them, and I’m not handing over a damn thing. I can handle this, no matter what they say. You…you, the strongest woman I know, the most talented and charismatic person that’s ever walked into my life, and the easiest person to love, can handle this,”. He then smirked softly, the kind of smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth and made you want to melt into him. “We’re that couple, babe. Don’t forget. The hot one. The talented one. Everyone either wants to be us or be in this relationship with us…The sexiest, most talented, most enviable couple in the past decade,” he nudged your knee playfully with his. “They can take pictures, write whatever headline they want. Let ‘em. We look good from every angle,”.
You shot him a look, half flattered and half amused. “Oh, I didn’t realize we’d reached elite status. I thought you just said that just to say it a couple of days ago,”.
He grinned, “Babe, we’ve been at that status. You just haven’t been reading the press. I quoted them just now with the ‘sexiest, most talented, and most enviable’ line,”.
You rolled your eyes, but your growing smile gave away how he was slowly shifting your focus onto something more positive. “I try not to go too hard on it, especially not when they call me a fame-hungry distraction,”.
Aaaanddd, there it is. You couldn’t get that label out of your head no matter how hard you tried. Even Joe’s boyish charisma was no match for the monsters lurking in the deepest shadows of your mind.
Joe’s gaze softened, his expression flickering with that quiet, wise empathy he had only for you—the kind that said I see you, even when you try to hide. He heard the way you tried to gloss over the pain in your voice, the way you wrapped a raw insecurity in casualness, hoping it would pass and be overlooked. But nothing about you ever escaped him. He’d spent months—patient months—gently pulling you away from the wreckage left by the people who’d made you question your worth. He’d seen what that label had done to you. How it twisted its way into your reflection, into the way you talked about yourself, how it made you flinch from your own ambition. Like you were too much, too loud, too big, too bright for anyone to hold on to. And Joe hated that. Hated the way it made you feel small. Because all he saw when he looked at you was someone who carried galaxies in her heart. Someone who’d been forced to learn how to hold herself together with shaking hands, and still managed to shine.
He wanted to be the place where you didn’t have to do that anymore.
He leaned in, brushing his thumb gently across your cheek, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin beneath his touch. His voice dropped to an intimate whisper in the stillness between you. “You’re not a distraction,” he said, firm and unwavering. “You’re the reason I can focus. The reason I still love all of this. Football, the pressure, the spotlight. You know I hated this more than anything, all of the prying eyes and unwanted attention. But when you came around, you helped me find comfort in it, helped me put up that boundary so I could protect the things I loved, but also be the guy everyone needed me to be. And now it all means something because I get to come home to you at the end of it,” his hand slid behind your neck, cradling it like he was holding something fragile. “We get to come home to each other,”.
“You keep me stable,” he said softly, his hand still warm against your neck. “When everything feels like it’s spinning too fast, you’re the one thing that brings me back to center. You calm the chaos. You remind me who I am when the noise gets too loud. And when I start forgetting how far I’ve come, how much I’ve grown…you’re the one who celebrates me like I’ve already accomplished everything I needed to,”.
His thumb traced the edge of your jaw like it was instinct, like it soothed him just as much. His eyes stayed locked on yours, clear and steady, holding your attention like it was the most important thing in the world. “You’ve got the biggest heart I’ve ever known, Y/N. And anyone lucky enough to really see you? They don’t forget you. They can’t. You leave a mark on people—in the way you love, in the way you show up for everyone even when it’s hard,” he said, and you swallowed, blinking back those tears again, but he kept going. “You taught me how to balance all of this, how to hold on to what’s ours while the world watches my every move. Remember, I taught you how to stop giving a damn about what strangers think. How to do whatever makes you happy and know when and how to tell everyone else to fuck off. You don’t owe them anything. Not your peace, not your softness, not a single part of you. Not unless you want to,”.
His hand drifted to your chest, fingers resting lightly over your heart before they slid down to your hand again. “They don’t own you. They don’t get to own you. And they sure as hell can’t touch you, not when I’m standing right here,” he said, bringing it up at the end of his sentence to press a soft kiss to your knuckles.
You could’ve sworn your heart physically squeezed in your chest. It always did when he spoke to you like that, so soft and sure of everything, like every word he said was already stitched into your soul. It had been months of this exact magic; his quiet reassurances, his sweet talk that never felt rehearsed. His words were always carefully thought out, no matter who he spoke to, the media, his parents, or even his teammates. But with you, he just talked freely and never once had he ever slipped up or said something he wasn’t supposed to. And maybe that was because this was the most natural thing for him…you were the most natural thing for him.
Every time he reminded you of who you were—who he saw when he looked at you—it pieced you back together in ways you didn’t even realize.
You felt your shoulders begin to drop, your breath deepen, comfort sweeping over your body as it always did when you were in his arms. Your eyes burned, too, but in the best kind of way. “And if the cameras show up tonight…,” he said, his tone shifting, soft affection giving way to a teasing tone as he gave you a slow once-over, “They’ll just be lucky to get a shot of my girl lookin’ like that,” his hand skimmed down your arm, fingers brushing your wrist as he grinned. “Honestly? We should charge them for content. Give ‘em a little smolder, maybe a kiss on the cheek, hell, I’ll dip you if that’s what they want,”.
You laughed, the sound bubbling up from your chest like sunshine. “You’re ridiculous,”.
“I’m ridiculously in love with you,” he said without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek. “And I don’t care who sees it. Or who doesn’t see it,”.
Even as your smile widened, it was impossible to fight that feeling in your chest. It blossomed against your will, like a stubborn little sunbeam cracking through a cloudy day. The tension that had once curled tightly around your lungs was now slipping away, melting into the peaceful fervency that always came when he looked at you like that, like you were his favorite thing he’d ever seen. Joe leaned in, grin crooked and smug, breath fanning against your lips in the way only he could pull off without being annoying. “I love you, Stargirl,” he said, and finished it with a wink so perfectly timed you had to laugh through the kiss you pressed to his lips.
It was soft at first—thank you stitched into the shape of your mouth. You leaned in closer, fingers brushing the back of his neck where his hair curled slightly against your touch. He always smelled so good…so Joe, his scent calming you in ways you never thought were possible. Your nails scraped lightly against his skin, and you felt the subtle shift in his breath, the way his whole body leaned instinctively into your affection.
“Thank you for doing this,” you whispered, and it wasn’t just for this moment; it was for all of them. For every time he found you lost in the middle of a storm, only you could feel. For every time he carved out space for you to be vulnerable, never rushing you, never judging you. For all the ways he held you, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like loving you was as easy and important as breathing.
“Always and forever,” he murmured, and that felt more like a vow than just words because of the way he said it. Like something he’d already promised a hundred times and would keep a thousand more without question. “I’m in this for the long haul, princess. Nothing out there, none of the noise, the cameras, the speculation, none of it touches what we are. Not now, when they’re just barely seeing the edges of us. Not later, when I put a ring on your finger and give you my name, like I’ve known I would from the start. And not when we’re years in, worn-in and settled, when life gets real and hard and messy. I’ll still choose you every damn time,”.
He looked at you like there was no version of the future where he didn’t. Like this love wasn’t some fleeting thing, but a home he’d built in his chest just for you. He was reminding you that his love wasn’t conditional, not like the “love” you’d received in the past was. That no matter how loud the chaos got, out there in the world or in your own mind, he’d be there, shielding you from the worst of it without hesitation. Just like he always had.
Your forehead pressed gently to his, your breath catching as your lips brushed against his. He so casually had just touched on the topic of engagement and marriage, and although it wasn’t the first time it had come up in these 9 months, it still made your heart stop just like it did the first time. You didn’t say anything right away. You couldn’t. The moment was too tender, too full. But inside, you felt electric—like you could run laps around the city barefoot, just to burn off the joy buzzing under your skin at the idea of being his, completely his, till forever falls apart. “I love you too,” you breathed, the words slipping out like a truth too big to hold back.
He grinned against your mouth, his hands cradling your face, “That’s fantastic because for a second there, I was worried you were gonna give into the bullshit,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever. I’m not going to lose you…not when I’ve finally got you. You’re never going to have to walk down this road alone again,”.
And there it was.
Reassurance that the right person always stays.
He would always stay. No matter what curveball was thrown at you, what headline was written about your relationship, through all the extra chaos you brought to his quiet bubble. He’d always stand by your side, because he chose this.
He chose you.
Before you even realized it, the car turned onto Magazine Street, and the familiar stretch of colorful storefronts rolled past your window. Just ahead, snuggled behind the sweeping branches of that old oak tree, you spotted the soft glow of Lilette. The warm amber light spilled out onto the sidewalk, flickering across the bistro tables where a few people lingered with wine glasses in hand and soft laughter on their lips. As the car slowed, Joe’s eyes were already on you. He leaned in, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, certain, soothing. The kind of kiss that steadied you, that said “We’re okay. We’re solid,”. Then, without saying a word, he pulled away and stepped out into the soft New Orleans night.
You watched as he straightened up under the streetlight’s golden glow, the sharp line of his shoulders and jawline catching the light just right. Then he turned to you, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and extended his hand back toward you. “C’mon, pretty girl,” he said, that teasing grin still playing on his lips. “Let me take you to dinner,”.
You looked at him for a beat longer, at the way his hair curled at the ends, falling over his forehead and giving him that look that would make your knees buckle, at the warmth in his eyes, at the hand that had steadied you more times than you could count. And then you took it, stepping into the night with him.
Joe laced your fingers together immediately, pulling you close as you walked toward the front steps of the restaurant. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine and the faint kick of something buttery drifting from the kitchen. A breeze blew through your hair, but you hardly noticed—not with him beside you, not with the soft press of his thumb tracing soothing circles into the back of your hand. As you climbed the short set of stairs, you heard it. Faint gasps and whispered voices cutting through the stillness of the evening.
“Oh my god. Is that them? Joe and Y/N?”.
“Shhh, shh—don’t be weird!”.
“How fast do you think Gridback is going to show up?”.
“...She looks a little pale, don’t you think?”.
“Wait until I tell Janet about this,”.
“I wonder if something happened, she looks uncomfortable,”.
“Girl, please. She’s probably on cloud 9. Like literally. She’s had number 9 wrapped around her finger for god knows how long. I’m sure she’s fine,”.
“I heard that she cheated on her ex with Joe, which is why she went M.I.A. Can’t handle the heat, then don’t get in the kitchen. What a slut. All for her to eventually get cheated on again because well…she’s with a pro athlete and we all know how that story goes,”.
The whispers curled around you like smoke, impossible to ignore, but before you could comprehend the sinking feeling in your stomach, feel the poison seeping into your skin, Joe’s grip on your hand tightened. As much as he’d like to step back down the stairs and rip them a new one, he knew you didn’t need defending right now. You just needed quiet, you needed him. So, without breaking his stride, he moved his other hand to the small of your back, fingers grazing just below the hem of your dress. His palm landed low, dangerously close to your ass, and the unexpected boldness of it made you giggle.
It wasn’t loud, but it was real. The kind of laugh that slipped past your lips without warning, breathy, soft, cracked open at the edges by surprise and affection. The kind that only surfaced when the world tried to shake you, and he, just by placing his hand exactly where he knew it would, pulled you back, reminded you that you were still tethered. Still his. Still safe. It wasn’t just the touch, it was the intention behind it. The way his fingers pressed warm and steady against your spine, possessive, almost defiant. As if to say, Let them talk. You’re mine and I’m yours. Not in the loud, reckless way. In the quiet, certain way that meant more.
Your heart, which only seconds ago had curled in on itself from the sting of strangers’ scrutiny, now flourished like it recognized the warmth of sunlight again. “That was on purpose,” you whispered, breath catching with the smile playing at your lips as he held the door open for both of you.
He smirked, guiding you inside with a subtle nudge of his hand. “Yeah, well. You looked like you needed a little distraction,”.
You playfully rolled your eyes as the door shut behind you, firmly cutting off the crowd's chatter, “He reads me like his favorite book. He knows me too well,”.
The host greeted you with a polite smile and a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but Joe leaned in, murmuring your name for the reservation like this was any other night, avoiding any and all opportunities for more attention to be drawn to you. He was acting like you were just any other couple. Like you weren’t being watched. Like there weren’t eyes trailing the sweep of your dress and the curve of his hand.
To anyone watching, he looked like a man out to dinner with his girl. Nothing more. No flash, no spectacle. Just the brush of his hand against the small of your back and the gentle way he stood slightly in front of you, shielding, without making it obvious. That was Joe’s gift. He had this way of taking things that should’ve felt overwhelming—the scrutiny, the whispers, the anxiety of being seen—and shrinking them down until they were something soft and manageable. He made the extraordinary feel ordinary. Not in a dull or dismissive way, but in a reassuring one. Like this—you and him—was the most natural thing in the world.
As you followed the host past clinking glasses and candlelit tables, Joe leaned toward your ear and whispered lowly, “You know they saw us, right?”.
You drew in a long, steady breath, then tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” you murmured, the corners of your mouth curling into a slow smile, crimson lips soft and sure. “But a wise man once told me to do what makes me happy…and to tell everyone else to fuck off,”. Your voice was calm, even a little amused, as you gave a subtle nod, eyes flicking toward a nearby table where a few diners had clearly put the pieces together. They weren’t being discreet about it either, all wide eyes and hushed tones as they whispered behind wine glasses. But you held their gaze for a moment, then turned back to him with an unbothered shrug.
“So that’s what I’m doing,” you added, quieter now, but firmer somehow. “I simply don’t care,”.
And for once, you meant it. Completely.
His chest swelled with pride, knowing that he was the wise man you were referring to. He pulled your joined hands up, quickly kissing your knuckles so lightly while locking eyes with you, “Hm, damn right you don’t,” he smiled.
Dinner started off easy, like it always did when it was just the two of you. Joe looked unfairly good in a short-sleeved navy button-up, wrists adorned with his signature rubber bracelets, the reputation one standing out proudly amongst the rest, hair still slightly damp from earlier. The tension from the car ride had settled, but he kept checking in on you in subtle, quiet ways—his thumb brushing your hand, the occasional gentle nudge beneath the table, his gaze flicking to your face between sips of wine to catch any hint of tension.
He had taken a seat beside you because that had always been the unspoken rule. No sitting across from each other, no unnecessary distance. Sitting shoulder to shoulder allowed him to keep a hand on your knee, steal kisses between courses, and lean in close when the noise around you got too loud because Joe would rather die than miss a single thing you said to him. So, as always, he slid his chair right next to yours without hesitation, knees bumping, arm draped comfortably along the back of your seat. His fingers found their familiar rhythm, weaving gently through your hair as you scrolled through the menu, eyes scanning appetizers you probably weren’t going to order.
It wasn’t until you looked up, ready to ask if he wanted to split something, that you caught the way his brows were slightly furrowed, his head tilted just so. There was a curious little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just discovered something he wasn’t quite sure he should say out loud. “Your hair…it’s curling,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he wrapped one of the loose waves around his finger. “I didn’t realize you curled it today,”.
You blinked, caught off guard by his observation. “I didn’t do anything to it,” you said, head leaning back from confusion.
His brows crinkled again as he kept toying with the strand, his touch lingering. “So you’re telling me this is just…happening? I know your hair and it’s never this wavy on its own unless you used some products. It didn’t even rain today,”.
You shrugged, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you, heating under the way he was looking at you and the featherlight touch still toying with your hair. “I guess it’s just doing its thing,”.
His grin spread slowly, the kind that always came with an ulterior motive. You could see it in the way his eyes sparkled and his lips curved, like he was about to say something he absolutely shouldn’t, and was going to enjoy every second of it. That smirk alone made your stomach somersault, made your thighs press together instinctively—even though you were seated. He leaned in, closing the already small space between you, his tone of voice carrying a whiff of flirtatious energy. His gaze flicked from your lips to your eyes, then back again, lingering there with a look that made your skin prickle. “You know what they say about hair curling on its own, right?”.
You narrowed your eyes, trying to fight the smile already twitching at your lips. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to say something incredibly stupid,”. He didn’t flinch after you said that, didn’t even back down. Just inched closer until his knee pressed into yours, his thumb brushing soft circles over your thigh under the table. “It means you’re in love,” he whispered, lips grazing your cheek. “Like…really, deeply, madly in love,”.
You looked at him like he had two heads, a skeptical laugh escaping before you could stop it. Heat bloomed across your cheeks and spread all the way to your chest, but you tried to play it cool. Joe had come up with some pretty wild theories before—he was as much a dreamer as he was a football player, with his head sometimes halfway in space documentaries and black holes—but this? “This isn’t one of your little science facts, is it?” you teased, eyes narrowing playfully. “Because that’s not a real thing, Joe. I’m sure it must just be from when you were in the shower earlier and the steam made it frizz,”.
He pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck, his lips lingering against your perfumed skin just long enough for your breath to hitch. “Babe,” he murmured, voice full of mock offense, “It’s the curly hair theory. Duh...”.
You blinked, confused but already smiling as you tilted your head to glance at him. “The what now?”
Joe pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a playful scoff escaping his mouth as he gave you that look—the one that made it impossible to think straight. “As a certified lover girl, you should really know this,” he teased, his fingers still casually toying with the ends of your hair. “It’s a thing. When a girl’s really in love, like, secure, soft, safe kind of love, she starts embracing her natural hair around her man. It gets curlier too,”.
You tried to roll your eyes, tried to act like it was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard, but something about the way he said it…like it was a known fact, like it made perfect sense…like you were supposed to know this because even he knew this, made your heart ache in the softest way. You looked down for a second, trying to hide the giddy look in your eyes. “That’s not real,” you mumbled, lips twitching despite yourself.
Joe grinned triumphantly, “Tell that to the curls, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know that isn’t from me being all up on you after you gave me that five-star, gold-medal worthy head earlier,”.
Your jaw dropped. For a second, all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed in disbelief, cheeks flushing as you darted a glance around to make sure no one had actually heard that. He looked entirely unbothered—relaxed, cocky even—like he hadn’t just said something absolutely reckless in public.
You narrowed your eyes at him, voice low but loaded. “You’re on thin ice, Burrow,”.
And he only smirked deeper, like he lived for this game.
His brows lifted in confusion, “Me?” he asked, all innocently and as if he wasn’t the sole reason for causing the goosebumps to rise across your bare thigh.
“Mhm,” you said as you leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You promised you’d behave tonight…and that doesn’t sound like behaving to me. Remember, if you don’t, you’re not getting anything when we get back to the hotel,”.
Joe let out an amused hum, his hand tightening on your thigh as he leaned back to look at you, his expression shameless. He had that signature bedroom eyes look: half-lidded eyes, that lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind of look that could melt steel if it lingered too long. Ugh. Bedroom eyes, full force too. God help any poor girl who ever accidentally locked eyes with him like this—because one glance, and her panties would be on the floor.
“That’s a bold threat to make when you’ve been the one flirting with me ever since I came back,” he mumbled.
You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile, the kind that always drove him a little crazy, batting your lashes like you weren’t doing exactly what he was accusing you of. Those slow, smoldering glances you’d been tossing his way since the moment you stepped inside, the subtle drag of your fingertips across his thigh under the table, the way your teeth had just barely caught your glossed bottom lip more than once? Oh, you knew what you were doing. “Just trying to keep you focused and locked in,” you purred, your voice all sugar and silk as you leaned in slightly, eyes glinting with mischief.
He chuckled softly, his lips brushing gently against your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. Then, his voice dropped to a low, husky murmur, barely more than a breath against your skin. “Well, now all I’m thinking about is dessert. And I don’t mean the kind on the menu, princess,”.
Your eyes widened in surprise, and you playfully slapped his chest, half warning, half teasing. But instead of pulling away, he smiled wider, his hand sliding slowly up your thigh, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path that made every nerve in your body ignite with anticipation. “Better be good, 9,” you whispered, voice thick with both challenge and something more vulnerable beneath.
Joe leaned in closer, the subtle scrape of his jawline brushing your cheek as his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “I’ll be good, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with promise, low and slow like velvet sliding across skin. “Just…maybe not in the way you’re thinking,”.
His words settled in your stomach like heat, blooming out to every inch of your body as your thighs instinctively pressed together. Then he eased back, just far enough to meet your gaze with that infuriatingly calm, knowing expression, his eyes molten and heavy-lidded, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for his wine glass, fingers wrapping around the stem with casual grace. He lifted it slowly, as if he knew you were watching every movement. The rich, golden liquid shimmered as it tilted toward his lips, and he took a slow, languid sip, lips parting just enough to let a droplet escape.
It caught the light, sliding from the corner of his mouth to his jaw before disappearing beneath the curve of his throat. Your breath caught, sharp and audible, and your eyes snapped back up to meet his—only to find him already watching you, that damn smirk deepening. Your pulse roared in your ears. You couldn’t even pretend to hide the way your body reacted to him; you didn’t want to.
“I’m so fucked when we get back to the room,” you whispered, almost to yourself.
Joe’s smile turned positively sinful. “Yeah,” he said, voice a promise wrapped in smoke. “You are,”.
The minutes passed faster than you could imagine as conversation flowed between the two of you like second nature, each topic slipping easily into the next. Joe was lounging comfortably in his chair, that relaxed, easy posture he only really wore around you. One of his arms was still stretched along the back of yours, fingers absentmindedly playing with the delicate strap of your dress, just enough to make your skin hum with awareness. The other cradled his glass of Chardonnay mixed with Sprite—his signature, slightly offbeat favorite—his thumb tapping lightly against the stem in rhythm with his thoughts.
Something about the hand around your chair, fingers playing with your straps, felt possessive, and you couldn’t tell if that was just in your head or his true intention behind it. Since this was a public restaurant, you had many other diners walk past your booth, some whispering to each other as they pretended not to stare at you, some men looking at you a little too…closely with wide eyes and crooked grins, and some sweet fans saying things like “We’re rooting for you both!” as they walked past to definitely use the bathroom and not just to get a peek at America’s newest obsession. Sometimes you felt like a zoo animal on display for everyone to ogle at, but Joe…Joe always made you feel normal in those moments where you’d become self-conscious and overly aware of what was happening around you. Whether it was his touch speaking volumes for him, or sometimes his words when he felt like they’d make more of an impact, he just knew how to handle you without making it worse, making you feel like you weren’t the monster lurching towards everyone’s favorite city or some shiny trophy caught under a spotlight.
Just a few minutes ago, while you were talking about your summer plans—a week-long Florida stay, the Hamptons during July 4th for your album release party & the anniversary of the day you met a year ago, and some trips across Europe, your ears had caught wind of conversation these two women were having in the diagonal from you
“Joe could do so much better than her. I mean, why would he go for someone like her when he could easily pull a supermodel with bigger boobs and a smaller ego,” the red-lipped brunette purred to her blonde friend, twirling her straw in her drink like she was stirring up something sweet.
“Your guess is just as good as mine,” the blonde giggled, her laugh high and hollow as she flipped her hair off her shoulder. “Y/N is so full of herself. She always thinks everything’s about her, like she’s the only girl in America to have been cheated on, the only girl with a difficult past and tough shit to work through,”.
“And her music?” the brunette sneered, her ruby lips pulling into a mocking grin. “Cringe. Joe probably blasts Gunna right after listening to the sad girl shit she calls art—just to make sure his ears don’t start bleeding,”.
“I can’t even blame her ex for cheating on her,” the blonde tittered, pressing her fingers to her lips like she was sharing something scandalous. “I mean…look at her. She’s so bland and forgettable. Who really gave a fuck when she went M.I.A. for those few months? The world kept spinning,”.
“Ha, exactly,” the brunette agreed with a sharp laugh. She reached for her drink, eyes glittering with petty delight. “It’s only a matter of time before she finds Joe nose deep in some Instagram bitch. And only a matter of time before she writes another trashy song about it and makes it her entire personality for a year. Someone please tell her that the only reason she’s still relevant is because she fucked, dated, and was cheated on by the son of the CEO of her former record label and is currently Joe Burrow’s flavor of the year,”.
You felt your skin crawl with a cold, prickling unease that started at the base of your neck and spilled all the way down your arms. It was the kind of feeling that made you want to tug your dress tighter around you, to sink back into the booth cushions until you disappeared completely. Their words slid over you like oil, slick and sour, clinging in places you wished they wouldn’t. Your stomach twisted, hot and embarrassed, even though you’d done nothing but exist—sit here, plan summer trips with the man you loved, dream out loud about anniversaries and albums. Now all of it felt tainted by the ugliness of their laughter, by the smug, conspiratorial way they leaned in close to share their cruelty, like it was a secret too delicious to keep.
Joe overheard every word; there was no missing it. His jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly, the muscle there ticking with the kind of silent fury that would’ve scared anyone else if they’d bothered to look his way. But he didn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting, didn’t so much as flick a glance toward their table. Instead, he focused all of it, his anger, his protectiveness, his stubborn, tender heart, on you.
“LSU feels like a lifetime ago,” he murmured, eyes lifted toward the ornate ceiling above you, unfocused, like he was reading memories written there only he could see. A small, almost boyish smile curved his lips, wistful and so achingly sweet it cut through the bitterness in your chest. “But sometimes…I swear I can still smell the turf when I’m back in Louisiana. That thick, sticky air, the sound of the crowd, that weird pregame mix of nerves and calm…it all comes rushing back,”.
You watched him quietly, his voice reaching you like a lifeline tossed across deep water, steady and warm, pulling you out of the cold swirl of thoughts that had been dragging you under since that overheard conversation. Your own drink sat forgotten in your hand as you focused on him, struck by the way he held onto those memories—not just the big, obvious ones, but the textures, the scents, the heartbeat of it all. He didn’t talk about the glory or the spotlight. He talked about how it felt. How it lived in him still. And maybe that’s why you loved him so much—because nothing was ever surface-level with Joe. Not the way he played, not the way he remembered, and definitely not the way he loved.
You knew exactly what he was doing, too. How his voice dipped into old stories, how his thumb kept circling that soft patch of skin on your wrist, he was pulling you out of your own head with gentle hands, leading you somewhere safer without ever pointing out you needed saving. It was seamless with him, instinctive, like breathing.
“He must’ve seen the LSU flag hanging outside the house across the street. Great way for him to pivot since he obviously picked up on what was bothering me,” you smiled to yourself before you looked up at him from behind your wine glass, eyes shining with quiet curiosity. “What was it really like?” you asked, pausing to tilt your head, searching his face for any reaction to your question. “Not the cameras, media attention, or hype video packages, just...the real stuff. What it felt like to be you back then,”. You’d heard the stories, read the headlines, seen the viral clips of him in purple and gold lighting up the field, but you hadn’t been there. You didn’t know what the weight of it all felt like on his shoulders, what the quiet in the locker room was like before a game, or how it felt to be twenty-something and carrying an entire city’s hopes on his back.
And he knew that’s what you were really asking. Not about stats or trophies, or the adrenaline that’d course through his veins when he stepped into Death Valley, but about what lived behind his eyes during those years. The wood creaked just faintly beneath him as he shifted in his chair, but his gaze had drifted past the flickering candle on the table, past the soft clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation in the restaurant, to the window behind you. His eyes weren’t really looking outside at the flag. They were somewhere else entirely, glossy and faraway, like he could see the past playing out in high definition on the darkened street. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite into a smile, and his fingers—those long, calloused ones that had thrown a thousand perfect spirals—absently traced small, slow circles against your wrist. Keeping himself in the present, not allowing his mind to wander back into the past too much.
“It was…,” he started, voice dipping into something low and rough, like gravel under tires. “A lot,”. Your eyes stayed on him, lips parting, your whole body leaning forward almost without realizing it, like you didn’t want to miss a single word.
“I mean, I loved it. I really did,” he let out a breath of a laugh, not quite amused. “I was living for it, the noise, the lights, the way Tiger Stadium felt like it was alive, had its own pulse and heartbeat every time I ran out of the tunnel. Like it breathed with us, win after win. There’s nothing like it. You can feel it in your chest. It made everything else disappear,” he paused for a moment, his jaw tightening as his eyes dropped to the table. He shook his head slightly, like trying to sift through memories that were heavier than he wanted to admit. “But the pressure…,” his voice thinned. “God, the pressure. It was like carrying the weight of a whole state, a whole legacy, and barely being old enough to rent a car. You start to feel like your whole existence is measured in completions and fourth-quarter comebacks. And no matter how good you are…there’s always the fear. That it’s not gonna be enough. That one bad game, one injury, one wrong step, and everything disappears. And then…who are you?”.
You blinked, the emotion in his words crashing into you like a wave, filling your chest with something tight and aching. He’d never opened up like this before about his past, not like this. And it hurt in the most beautiful way, to see the pieces he usually kept tucked behind calm smiles and stoic post-game interviews.
“I remember this one night,” he continued, quieter now. “We’d just won big against Auburn. Everyone was out drinking, partying, living it up. And I couldn’t sleep. It was like all that energy, all that adrenaline, it didn’t know where to go. So I grabbed my helmet and went back to the practice field. Sat on the turf by myself. No lights. Just me and the silence. That was the only silence that I thought I could get,”.
His hand stilled on your wrist as he looked at you again, really looked at you. “I was sitting there with my shoes unlaced and my helmet in my lap, just…staring. Wondering how long it would last. If I could really keep it all together. If all of it would actually pay off, and I’d get to live out my dreams. If I’d ever feel peace again, like real peace. If I had something more than football to look forward to. Or if I was just gonna keep chasing wins until it all caught up to me,”.
Your throat tightened as you tried to swallow around the lump forming there, but you couldn’t look away. You could practically see him there—young, alone, scared, even if he didn’t look it. Just a boy with the hunger for greatness pressing down on him. You honestly could relate to him, because you’d felt the same way when you were first trying to gain your footing in the industry years ago. You had nobody to lean on, nobody to confide in about your fears and dreams; all that was there was the curious eyes of the fans and people waiting to see you fall flat on your face. The only thought in your mind at the time was whether this was all worth it in the end, would you get everything you wanted? Would you find something to hold on to? Would you find something that was completely yours? Would you find…love? Was there someone in this world who’d be able to love you and see past the baggage you carried?
Would you achieve…greatness?
“It didn’t really get quiet until I met you,” he said, snapping you out of your thoughts. His voice was soft. Matter-of-fact. Like it was the most obvious truth he could offer.
Your breath caught mid-inhale, frozen by the significance of those words. Your chest ached as the emotion crashed in strong waves you could barely keep at bay. “I mean it,” he said, his thumb resuming its gentle motion on your skin. “I spent years thinking I had to be that version of me all the time. The guy with answers. With presence. The one who could walk into any room and command it without blinking. I had to be ‘Joe Burrow’ every second of every single day because if I wasn’t, then everyone crumbled. But, what if I needed to crumble? Nobody thinks about what it’s like to be at the top, nobody ever thinks about how it feels to be the one under that constant spotlight, whether it’s your professional life or private life. But then you showed up, and then suddenly I didn’t have to be all that. I could just…be Joe. I could be soft. Messy. Tired. I could breathe again. I could dodge the spotlight just a little bit and run away with you,”
Wait.
“Nobody really heard from me those few months during the end of last off-season, and I was doing better than I ever was. Because of you,”.
Oh my god.
“Using my own lyrics…the ones I wrote about him…on me? Jesus take the wheel, he literally can’t get any more perfect,” you smiled as the back of your eyes burned with emotion. You reached for his hand in his lap, threading your fingers through his like muscle memory. The same way he’d always held you when you felt overwhelmed. Now you were doing it for him, comforting him just like he’d done a hundred times before. “And I think if I had you back then…,” he trailed off, voice turning quiet, almost boyish in its vulnerability. “Everything would’ve felt easier. Lighter. Like I could’ve enjoyed everything just a little more, and so when I came into the league, I wouldn’t feel the need to be on lockdown all the time with everything. So you wouldn’t have had to put in overtime the last 9 months to get me to loosen up like I used to,”.
You held his hand tighter, wanting to say something back to him, but your voice barely came out because you didn’t know if it would be a sob or a normal sentence, but when it did, it was wrapped in warmth and pride. “...I- I think you had to go through all of that to get here. To be the version of you I get now. If I had you back then, we both would be different. Sometimes you need to go through the tough shit, the things that make you want to give it all up, feel the feelings that keep you up till 3 a.m, just so that you can be who you are now. Besides, you know I am extremely down bad for your LSU era, but he’s not the man I fell for. You are. In all your hermit crab, anti-social, glory,”.
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as you saw the gears behind his eyes turn like he was processing what you were saying. “Then I’m glad I made it through,” he confessed, and when he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand like a soft thank you, you didn’t stop the tears that pooled at the corners of your eyes. Because you were proud of him. And you were so, so in love with the man who had walked through fire and still had enough tenderness left to love you like this.
He glanced back out the window again, and a little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We should go back sometime, to Baton Rouge,”.
Your brows lifted in surprise, your heart fluttering at the idea of visiting his alma mater with him for the first time. You’d never been to LSU or Baton Rouge before, and the idea of your first time being with Joe? That sends flutters all throughout your body. “That would be so fun. I’d love that,” you glanced down for a second, lips quirking into an excited grin, but then falling once you felt a gust of reality wash over you. “But we don’t have time, Joe. Not this week. The Honors are tomorrow. We fly out the morning after so we can make it back in time for your Body Armor shoot. And, I don’t know if we can just…drop in like that,”.
He leaned in, still grinning like he was already ten steps ahead of you. “Baby, I’m Joe Burrow,” he winked, tongue poking out slightly between his teeth. “They love me down there and always have time for me. I’ve been meaning to go back anyway, I just never knew when the right time was. And don’t worry about Body Armor, I can get that moved too,”.
You laughed, shaking your head at how he’d thought of everything…like he’d been thinking about this the entire time you were here. “You are so full of it, Joe. You sound like such a Hollywood diva right now. Next thing you know, you’ll start carrying 3 different phones and having a butler travel everywhere with us,” you rolled your eyes, a soft chuckle coming from him in return.
“Let me take you, Y/N. After the Honors, we’ll sneak down there. Just you and me. We won’t tell any friends or family, won’t make a big deal out of it. We’ll just…slow down and be normal people like we were when it was just us in Cincy. I want to show you everything, baby. The fields, the locker rooms, where I used to eat after practice, all the shitty college bars, my old apartment, and obviously Mike…,”.
Your ears perked up at the mention of LSU’s beloved mascot, “Oh my god, do you think can we break him out for a day? Let him get some fresh air outside of the habitat. Poor baby probably needs some reconnecting with real nature time,” you cooed, imagining how awful it would be to be trapped in that space for the rest of your life.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek before continuing. “But also, I want you to see where I used to sit and think about what my life would be like if I chose Cincinnati instead of LSU or just stayed with Ohio State. I want you to see all the pieces that made me. Because you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I’m more than just all that,”.
Your eyes went wide with emotion, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. You knew you didn’t have the time. You knew it was last-minute. But suddenly… none of that mattered. What mattered was you and him, together in the Louisiana heat, driving slow with the windows down, the thick, humid air curling through your fingers as you reached for him. What mattered was you passing Tiger Stadium—Death Valley—its towering shadow stretching over the street like a monument to every Saturday night that had changed his life. What mattered was him pointing out where the student section used to roar his name, where he’d once sprinted out of the tunnel with everything to prove.
You could already feel it, what it would mean to walk those grounds beside him, to see where he trained, where he bled and grew and dreamed. You wanted to see it all, not just for him, but for you. For the boy he had been. For the man you loved now.
You blinked at him, your heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears, louder than the clatter of dishes or the low hum of conversations around you. The golden light from the candles on the table flickered across his face, catching in the edges of his smile, highlighting the soft crinkles that framed his sea glass blue eyes, and gentling the sharp line of his jaw. It made him look almost unreal, like something out of a sun-drenched memory you’d dreamed up just to keep yourself afloat. You could feel the emotion rising in your chest, warm and thick like honey, filling every hollow place inside you until it was nearly impossible to hold back. It pressed at your throat, curled around your ribs, made your breath catch in a way that was somehow both fragile and full.
“Okay,” you breathed, the word slipping out on a trembling exhale, delicate and yet heavy with everything you couldn’t quite say. “Let’s go,”.
He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, eyes locked on yours like he was still trying to absorb what you’d just said. Like the significance of it—what it meant, what it changed—was still sinking in. His brows lifted slightly, his lips parting just barely, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You were just about to ask if he was alright when he finally leaned in, hands reaching for your face with a kind of ease that made your breath catch.
His fingers curled gently around your jaw, his thumbs brushing the edge of your cheekbone. You could feel how warm his hands were, how stable, like they were made to hold you. When his mouth met yours, it wasn’t rushed or hungry. It was slow, so, so soft, full of emotion, too heavy for words. His lips moved with aching tenderness, molding to yours in a kiss that felt like both a question and a promise. His breath hitched softly when you kissed him back, your hands tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened gradually, not out of desperation but intimacy, each movement drawn from the months you'd spent building trust, connection, and home. There was something almost worshipful in the way he held you, like you were more valuable than every championship or achievement to his name, utterly irreplaceable.
His mouth slanted over yours again, slower this time, savoring, like he was kissing not just the version of you in front of him, but every version he’d loved over the last nine months. The one who made pancakes in his kitchen in nothing but his old t-shirt. The one who sang to him with a soft rasp in her voice when she thought he was asleep. The one who held his hand in crowded airports and quiet hotel rooms alike.
All of you.
Maybe that’s why it hit so deep, why it made your eyes sting behind closed lids—because just minutes ago, there were strangers in a booth nearby tearing you apart with careless laughter, reducing you to your scars, your heartbreak, your supposed shortcomings. Questioning how someone like him could ever want someone like you. But here he was, holding you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered, kissing you like he was trying to memorize your very soul. With every slow brush of his lips, he wordlessly answered them, proved them wrong without even knowing it. And deep down, in that molten space where your love for him lived, you knew that was all you’d ever need.
And as his kiss softened into something gentler, just a whisper of lips now, barely there, Joe rested his forehead against yours. His breath mingled with yours in the stillness between you, and you could feel it, as clear as if he’d shouted it from the rooftops; the intensity of everything he felt for you. The care. The devotion. The vow was stitched into every lingering touch of his hands on your skin. “I love you,” he whispered, so quietly it felt like a prayer. Like he was giving the words to you and only you, tucking them into your chest where no one else could touch them.
A soft smile lifted your lips as you leaned into him. “I know,” you whispered. “I love you, too,”.
His nose brushed against yours, and for a second, he just held you there, like he couldn’t stand to let the moment pass. Then, his voice found its way back to you. “Let’s keep doing this forever, yeah?”.
Your breath caught, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. Because he wasn’t just talking about this one moment. He was talking about the whole of it. Everything that made your love what it was.
This meant quiet dinners in your favorite hidden places, just the two of you curled into a booth in the corner, the candlelight flickering between you. It meant half-finished glasses of wine and soft laughter, the kind that made you ache with how safe it felt. It meant his hand resting on your knee beneath the table, your fingers trailing lazy shapes over his as you talked about nothing and everything. It meant brushing your lips over his between courses, trading kisses like secrets, like something holy.
It meant continuing to be exactly who you were, two people who had built something fragile and strong all at once, something no one else could understand because it didn’t belong to anyone else. It meant choosing each other every single day, even when the noise outside was too loud, even when the headlines turned cruel. It meant refusing to let the world twist what you had into anything less than what it was.
It meant protecting your love, not by hiding it, but by honoring it. Making time for it. Holding on to the quiet parts, the soft parts, the parts that only made sense when it was just you and him. The sleepy mornings, the hand squeezes from across the room, the way he always looked at you like you were still the only thing he could see—even after nine months, even after all the chaos.
“Forever,” you whispered, the word catching in your throat as you glanced down at your wrist.
The bracelet he gave you in Cannes a few months ago still shimmered there, warm against your skin, the gold infinity symbol nestled between your initials. A tiny thing. But it meant everything. A promise made, a promise kept. A future you’d build together, no matter what came next.
By the time dessert arrived, an impossibly rich chocolate ganache tart topped with a perfect swirl of Chantilly cream, you were already giggling like you’d never giggled before in your life, that bright, breathless kind of laughter that bubbled up from somewhere deep, chasing away every heavy thing that had tried to settle on your shoulders tonight. The blonde and brunette from earlier are not even a ghost in your mind. Your fork paused midair as you tried not to choke on laughter as the mood between you had shifted into something golden and glowy, the last of the candlelight flickering lazily across the white linen tablecloth. It felt like you were wrapped in a memory you’d revisit over and over again. It was soft and sweet, as unforgettable as the taste of the tart on your tongue.
You were retelling the oyster incident from earlier that week, your voice breathless with amusement. Joe had been so confident, absurdly so, convinced he could out-shuck the old man at the French Market oyster stall. “It’s all about grip and leverage,” he’d declared like he was lining up for fourth-and-goal, rolling his sleeves up with all the bravado of someone who’d clearly never held an oyster knife in his life. You’d stood beside him with your arms crossed, watching the trainwreck unfold with barely concealed glee.
Naturally, within seconds, he’d fumbled the knife, nearly sliced his thumb, and sent an uncracked oyster sailing straight into his lap. The vendor had howled with laughter, slapping Joe on the back like a grandson who’d just made his first pot of piping gumbo. “Stick to football, son,” he’d said between chuckles, “Or at least wear a glove next time. Those hands are money,”.
Now, seated beside him, you could barely get through the story without falling into more giggles, nearly choking on a bite of tart as you dabbed at your lips with a napkin. “You were so overconfident,” you teased, eyes shining, your skin warm from laughter—and maybe from the second…or third glass of wine, too.
Joe grinned, tipping his head back in surrender. “I had the technique,” he said, still attempting to defend himself. “The oysters just didn’t respect me,”.
You snorted, “They saw right through you. Just like the beignet guy did when he told you powdered sugar wasn’t a seasoning,”.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll never live that down, will I?”.
“Not a chance,” you said, your laughter tapering off slowly. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet clink of glasses, the faint murmur of the remaining diners, and the heat spreading through his eyes. Outside, the buzz of the Garden District faded into the background, muffled by thick windows and the intimate hush of the restaurant’s corner booth. You glanced down at your joined hands, his thumb moving in a slow, reassuring arc over your knuckles. It was one of those moments that stretched out timelessly, suspended in quiet knowing. A kind of stillness you’d only ever found with him, where nothing needed to be said because everything already had been. His presence was its own kind of safety net, a reminder that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
You knew you couldn’t stay in the bubble forever. The real world was always going to find a way in, crack through the silence that even special memories and wine couldn’t prevent. But Joe…Joe was already two steps ahead of you. He always was. He knew how your mind worked, how the edges of your peace frayed in public spaces, how the anxiety of being seen pressed down on you like the Louisiana humidity. That was why he kept tracing those soft circles into your hand. That was why he held the silence instead of filling it. Because he knew. Because he was steadying you before you even realized you needed it.
But as you both stood to leave, smoothing your clothes and thanking the server with a practiced nod and smile, the moment shattered.
It started with one flash.
Then another.
Bright, sudden bursts of light through the restaurant’s front window, stark against the warm amber tones of the interior. Camera shutters clicking like distant thunder. Someone outside called his name, followed by the telltale scramble of feet and the metallic rustle of equipment.
Your hand tensed in his.
Joe didn’t flinch—he never did—but his jaw tightened almost unnoticeably. The familiar itch of being watched, recorded, and followed settled over you both like a wet coat. Heavy and cold. And just like that, the quiet magic of the evening dissolved into something else entirely.
By the time you stepped out of the gated patio, there were nearly a dozen paparazzi waiting along the sidewalk, some perched behind hedges, others lining the curb, cameras aimed and already clicking furiously. The bursts of light were disorienting, strobing in your viewpoint like fireworks. Someone yelled your name. Then Joe’s again. Then together. Another voice cut through the chaos,
“Are you two engaged?!”.
You flinched. Where did that come from? You don’t have any rings on.
“Joe, what about the trade rumors, are they real?”.
It was a bad season…Joe doesn’t give up like that. What are they talking about?
“Is it true she’s pregnant?”.
Your eyes widened. What the fuck?
“Look over here! Just one smile, come on!”.
You’d rather step in front of a moving train.
“How long have you two been together…really? Clear up the timeline”.
Not your business.
“Is it true you’ve been living together in secret? Pretty fast for a new couple? Unless there was overlap with your ex!”.
You barely caught the words because they were muffled beneath the racket, but they hit you harder than anything else. “W…what?” you mumbled, voice cracking under your breath. That question wasn’t just invasive, it was a knife twisting in a wound you thought had started to heal. Overlap? Seriously? After everything…the heartbreak you bled into every lyric of that album, the nights spent raw and sleepless replaying every betrayal, every lie told like it was second nature, the manipulation and gaslighting that left you questioning your own reality. Was that not enough to convince them you were the one who got blindsided? The doubt, the cruelty you thought they’d forgotten, it stung worse than the flashing cameras and shouting voices combined.
You could feel your skin crawling with heat…and not the good kind. The crowd was too close. The sidewalk felt narrow, the space tightening with every step. It almost felt like you couldn’t breathe for a second, like with each flash their grip on your throat became tighter…and tighter…and tighter, until…
“Eyes on me,” he murmured, ducking his head down so his lips were at your ear, like it was just the two of you inside the restaurant again.
You blinked up at him, heart hammering in your chest, blood rushing in your ears.
Joe moved without hesitation, every instinct sharp and protective. His hand came down firmly on the small of your back, guiding you forward with steady pressure, as if to remind you silently that he was there, a shield against the storm. He angled his body deliberately, creating a barrier between you and the flashing cameras, his presence like a wall you could lean into. His other hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with quiet assurance, keeping you tethered to him even as the world spun wildly out of control. You felt the heat of his palm against your skin, the subtle pulse of his heartbeat, the silent promise that no matter how loud the chaos, you weren’t facing it alone.
“They’re not getting you like this,” he shook his head, eyes flicking over the swarm ahead, calculating—the left side was more crowded, right had a clearer path to the car. “Just keep walking. I’ve got you,”.
When someone lunged forward to snap a closer photo, Joe stepped in front of you completely, moving with intuition and precision. His entire frame squared off like a wall, broad shoulders and calm fury cutting between you and the flashing chaos. “...Back…the hell…up,” he said, each word laced with unshakable intensity, carrying that unmistakable edge, the one you’d only heard on game days.
His football voice.
Your heart skipped a beat. That voice—his football voice—cut through the noise like a sharp blade. It was commanding and cold, the kind of voice that made people stop in their tracks and reevaluate every decision they’d ever made. You’d heard it on the field, in tense moments when the game was on the line, but rarely outside that world. And never directed at strangers. Joe wasn’t the type to lose his cool or be disrespectful, even under pressure. But this wasn’t just frustration. This was something deeper, protective, primal. He wasn’t lashing out. He was drawing a line in the sand.
And part of you, even in the middle of the chaos, felt a rush of something hot in your chest. He wasn’t just defending you, he was claiming you. Shielding you. Fulfilling that unspoken promise he’d made so many times before, no one touches what’s his. It wasn’t about the paparazzi. It was about you. And in that moment, even through the adrenaline and tension, you knew. He would always put himself between you and the world.
Without thinking, your fingers clutched his tighter, a quiet plea beneath the surface. But he didn’t flinch. He just gave your hand a firm squeeze in return, steady and a failed attempt to calm you, and kept his eyes locked on the man with the camera like he was daring him to breathe wrong. You weren’t sure why part of you thought the contact would soften him. You knew better. Joe didn’t play when it came to you.
And that look in his eyes? It was lethal. Cold steel wrapped in fire. His jaw was set, his expression carved from silent rage, but it was his eyes that did the talking, those usually soft, sea-glass irises now intense and unreadable, glittering with a kind of dangerous calm. It wasn’t rage, not exactly. It was control. Calculated. Unforgiving. The look of someone who would burn the whole world down without raising his voice if it meant keeping you safe.
There was no bluff in him. No room for doubt. The line had been crossed, and Joe was the wall they’d slammed into.
He wasn’t fucking around.
And God help anyone who forgot that.
A dozen cameras fired in continuous rapid bursts, shutters clicking like machine guns, hungry to capture the tension in Joe’s jaw, the way his body shifted ever so slightly in front of yours.. Someone in the crowd called out, loud and baiting for a reaction, “Come on, Joe! Thought you used to be cool with the media. What’s the big deal now? You hiding something?”.
You almost laughed at that. Cool with the media? In what universe had Joe Burrow ever been cool with the media? He didn’t even flinch at that comment. Didn’t look their way. Didn’t give them a single word. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said because, at that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was you, not whatever narrative they were going to spin from this stupid situation tonight.
Joe opened the car door with one arm, holding it firmly while the other stayed wrapped around your waist, guiding you in. His hand curled protectively at your hip, blocking every camera angle that might catch your face. He didn’t rush you, didn’t snap at you to move faster. Just made sure you were in safely and completely before closing the door behind you with quiet finality. The moment it shut, it was like the world went quiet again—like someone threw a thick wool blanket over the chaos outside. A thick wool blanket you so desperately needed. The shrieking voices, the flashes, the clatter of footsteps and shutters, it all dulled, distant now behind the tinted glass.
Through the window, you watched Joe move with that same stoic assertiveness he had on display earlier before the whole football voice debacle. He didn’t sprint, didn’t even look flustered. Just moved around the car in calm, calculated steps, all control and subtle force. A man on a mission. Joe Cool. His jaw was tight, clenched in a way that made your heart squeeze. You could see it then, beneath the calm, he was angry. Not just annoyed or bothered. Angry. Because they’d come too close. Because they’d made you flinch. Because protecting you wasn’t a choice—it was the most important thing to him and this was the first time he’d witnessed them physically cross the line with you.
It wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with paparazzi like this. The flashes, the shouting, the way they pressed in, hungry for a reaction, for something to catch that could be turned into a headline. You’d been through it before, way too many times to count on two hands. But back then, it was different. When you were with your ex, you learned to carry the weight, the fear of being pushed into the deep in with no flotation device, alone. He never stepped up to protect you when you were visibly uncomfortable with the attention. Never reached out to shield you from the storm, never even bothered to hold your hand, which was the bare minimum in these situations. You remembered the cold ache in your chest as you fended off their invasive lenses with nothing but your own strength, swallowing the panic that threatened to rise, pretending you were okay when inside you felt like you were breaking.
But tonight with Joe, everything felt different. His hand gripped yours with a newfound intensity, like he was the only steady thing in the whirlwind, and he was determined not to let you drift. His body was close, all around you, behind you as you stepped through the crush of flashing cameras, beside you in the car now, a quiet wall of warmth and strength that seemed to shield you without even trying. You could feel the protectiveness radiating off of him, not just in the way he touched you, but in every subtle shift of his body, every careful glance. And his voice—god, his voice—it wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. There was a weight behind every word, something grounded and unshakable. Each syllable landed with purpose, sinking deep into your chest like ballast, pressing back against the storm in your head. There was no uncertainty in him. No trace of hesitation. Just a fierce, unflinching conviction that calmed your nerves before they could spiral. It made the world feel quieter. Safer. Like maybe, for once, you didn’t have to face it all alone.
You didn’t have to face it alone, but it came at the cost of his comfort. And that was what killed you.
Because you knew how much Joe hated that kind of attention, too. You’d seen the way his shoulders tensed when lights burst too close, the way his breath shortened just slightly, like he was bracing for something. He never said a word about it, always tried to mask it with calm, practiced indifference—but you knew him. You knew the signs. You felt it in the way his hand gripped yours more tightly, in the way his body went still like he was drawing an invisible line around you both.
And yet, he’d stepped into the chaos without blinking. Put himself between you and the noise, the heat, the vultures. Not for show. Not for the cameras. Just for you. Because some part of him—some deep, unshakable part—couldn’t not.
That hit you hard. A direct blow to the chest. Because it wasn’t just protective, it was visceral. Like he was always meant to do this, born to do this, to be this man for you. He didn’t do it out of obligation. He did it because keeping you safe was his safe. Because shielding you made him feel at peace.
And that...that was something you weren’t used to.
Not with men. Not with the press. Not when the worst of it came barrelling toward you, all teeth and spotlight and twisting headlines. You’d gotten used to fending for yourself. Bracing alone. Smiling through the sting.
Lights, camera, bitch, smile, even when you wanna die. That was your motto.
And when it happened before—when the noise came and your ex stood beside you—you’d been left to weather it alone, shrinking behind dark sunglasses while he walked a step ahead, pretending it wasn’t happening.
But this was different.
The heat of Joe’s hands on your skin, the steady pressure of his thumb brushing over your knuckles, it all pulled you back from the edge. Back from that old fear you’d carried like armor. You let yourself lean into him, just a little, let the rigidity in your spine soften as his warmth settled into your skin.
Because this was new. This was safe. He made you feel so safe.
This man—this quiet, guarded, soft-spoken man—was stepping into the fire not only to shield you, but because in some strange, unexpected way, you made it feel survivable for him too. So you let your body ease up against the seat cushion a little more, heart slowing its beating, and in that stillness—the space between what the world thought they knew and what only the two of you did—you let yourself believe something you hadn’t dared to before.
Maybe you didn’t have to be strong alone anymore.
Maybe neither of you did.
The sound of the door slamming shut again snapped you out of your thoughts. You tilted your head towards the noise and watched as his large frame slid into the seat beside you. Before even glancing at the road ahead, he turned toward you. “You okay?” he asked, the heavy tone he used just mere seconds ago completely gone. Now, it was back to the way it always was with you, pillowy softness, true sincerity, like he was scanning for the smallest signs of hurt. It wasn’t just the words either, he was asking with his eyes, his touch, the way his hand reached for yours like he needed to feel if you were truly alright.
You took a slow, steadying breath before nodding, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’m okay…I think. Thanks for that. I know…,” your eyes flicked to his, “...I know dealing with cameras and strangers prying into your life like that goes against everything you try to avoid. Guess I’m still a magnet for them,” you tried to laugh, but it got caught in your throat, weighed down by something heavier than embarrassment. The guilt was a quiet, persistent thrum beneath your skin. It crept in like fog, blurring the edges of your gratitude with something colder. You hadn’t meant to drag him into this part of your world. The truth was, he wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if it weren’t for you. Joe Burrow going out to dinner alone in New Orleans? Maybe a few fans asking for a picture. Maybe a blurry phone photo from across the room.
That was it.
But with you on his arm, the narrative changed. Suddenly, there were headlines and flashes, questions shouted over one another, people reaching, grabbing, speculating.
“This is because of me,” you said, the words falling before you could stop them. “If I wasn’t- if we weren’t…together, you wouldn’t be dealing with any of this. I hate that I’m the reason they’re all in your face like that. Especially this week, when it’s all supposed to be about y- you,” your voice faltered at the end, quiet and uneven, thick with guilt. “Fuck, am I making this about me again? Were those girls right?” you thought as you stared down at your lap, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, twisting it mindlessly as the ache behind your ribs swelled. The dress still smelled faintly like the restaurant—like wine and candle wax and early summer air—but even that familiar comfort couldn’t anchor you now.
His soft voice cut through the sinking feeling in your chest, “You come first,”.
You looked up.
“Always,” he said, his tone unwavering. “I don’t give a damn what they say or how they twist it. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em turn it into whatever the hell they want. I can take it. No big deal,”. His jaw was still tight, locked with restraint, but his eyes—his sweet ocean blue eyes—held none of the same hardness. They stayed soft on you, melting some of that internal ice inch by inch. “I just needed them to know,” he went on. “They don’t get to come near you like that. Ever. Not when I’m here,”.
The car hummed beneath you as it pulled from the curb, the driver silent behind the wheel, giving you space like he understood the tension in the cabin. Outside, camera flashes still bloomed like artificial lightning, burning white in the dark, but each one faded more quickly than the last, swallowed by the city lights and distance. You let out another slow breath, this one a little shaky, voice brittle. “I- I didn’t expect it to hit me like that. I thought I was used to it,” you said, eyes unfocused as you stared down at your lap, where your fingers lay still. “I mean…I’ve lived with this kind of attention for years. I know the drill. Cameras. Speculation. People thinking they’re entitled to your whole life just because they recognize your face,” you shook your head slightly, as if trying to shake off the memory, the way their voices had risen in a messy chorus outside the restaurant, overlapping with flashes and footsteps and the loud thrum of your own heartbeat.
“But something about tonight…,” your voice cracked just slightly, but you kept going, your words soft but razor-sharp where they pressed into old wounds. “The way they shouted at us—like I was something to be exposed, not someone real to be known—it got under my skin again. Like I was doing something wrong just by being next to you,”.
You swallowed hard, the heat of embarrassment and anger curling in your belly like smoke from a fire you thought you’d already put out. “And the things they were saying? An engagement? A baby? Trade rumors? Overlap? Where the hell did that even come from?” you gave a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “It was like they weren’t even looking at us…just baiting us, throwing shit at the wall to see what would stick. They could’ve asked about my album, or the Grammys last week, or hell, even focused on you and the honors tomorrow night. But no. Let’s scream ‘Baby Burrow!’ outside a restaurant like that’s going to get them a Pulitzer,”.
There was a beat of quiet, and then Joe let out a breath through his nose, part disbelief, part amusement. His lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “Baby Burrow and trade rumors in the same sentence,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear that combo screamed at me over the sound of camera shutters. That’s a new one,”.
You snorted, “It’s giving ‘late-night conspiracy theory documentary,’ you know? Completely bizarre with no links whatsoever. Next thing they’ll be yelling is that we faked a breakup to boost album sales and secretly bought a castle in the Swiss Alps to raise a baby goat commune,”.
Joe bit back a grin, eyes twinkling as he fought the laugh building in his throat. “Goat commune?” he echoed.
You nodded solemnly. “Goat commune. With matching linen robes. You wear a flower crown. I churn butter,”.
He leaned closer, “You’re actually terrifying,”.
“I try,” you winked. “And just wait until they say that we’re alien royalty who got married on the moon,”.
His smile twitched for a second at the mention of his favorite subject, aliens and space, and he leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a warm tease. “If we ever do get married on the moon, I’m wearing one of those full Buzz Lightyear suits. I expect you to coordinate,”.
“Matching helmets, or it’s off,” you shot back, your voice lighter now, a wry smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, but that playful glint softened as his gaze settled back on you, serious now. His hand slid back into yours without hesitation, his thumb running slow circles over the back like he was trying to ease the ache out of your bones. “They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said, “They just shout what they think’ll get a reaction. It’s noise. It’s all just…noise. But you? You’re not noise. You’re not something to be exposed, Y/N. You’re someone to be loved. Millions and millions of people love you. They’ve loved you through it all, through all the shit you never thought you’d come back from. Through the moments you were sure would make people turn away. But they didn’t. They don’t. They see you. I see you,”.
Your breath caught, throat tightening as his eyes searched yours. “There’s always gonna be someone out there spewing bullshit,” he continued, jaw clenching faintly. “For clicks, for attention, for the hell of it. Some asshole behind a camera or a keyboard just waiting to twist whatever they can into a headline. But they don’t matter. Not when the people who actually see you have already made up their minds. Not when I know exactly who you are,”.
You blinked against the sudden sting behind your eyes, breath catching as his words threaded their way into those raw, weathered places inside you—the ones worn down by years of scrutiny and shouted questions and flashing lights. The ones that still tensed at the idea of being seen too clearly, too much, too wrong. You’d built armor over the years, learned how to smile without flinching, how to deflect, how to hold yourself together under the lens. But Joe’s words, his presence, peeled all of that back so gently it didn’t even hurt, just left you exposed in a way that felt safe instead of scary. Like you weren’t being studied, or judged, or cornered. Like you were simply being held.
And as he angled his body closer, everything outside the car seemed to blur and fade. The flashbulbs. The yelling. The noise. All of it dissolved into nothing more than a memory already retreating into the rearview mirror. Here, inside this quiet moment with him, you weren’t some story to be written. You weren’t a headline, a scandal, or a symbol. You were just…you.
In his arms, with his voice steady in your ear and his fingers anchored around yours, you didn’t feel like a spectacle.
You felt at home.
“Yeah,” you say, not quite a whisper, not quite a breath—just a quiet truth loosed from the cage of your ribs. It slips out as your head folds into the space between his shoulder and his neck, where it’s warm and dim and safe. Where you can hear his pulse like a metronome, steady and permanent, like it’s always known you.
His arm tightens around you just slightly, fingers find their way around your hip, like this is the only place they’ve ever belonged. You don’t look at him when you speak again, you don’t have to.
“You do. You always know who I am,”.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s not something that’ll go viral tomorrow.
The elevator ride up to your suite was quiet, not awkward, not tense, but dense with a comfortable kind of peace that blocked out anything bitter. It pressed in around you, filled with everything left unsaid, his unwavering protectiveness, the adrenaline still humming in your blood, the sheer disbelief that any of it had just happened. The doors slid shut with a soft mechanical sigh, cocooning you in low gold light and polished silence. You didn’t speak, nor did he. But his presence behind you was loud in its own way; solid, anchoring, a furnace of heat radiating off his body in steady waves that curled against your back and shoulders, holding you together when your mind started to drift too far. You could feel the fire beneath his skin, the fury he rarely let anyone see. It only ever surfaced during high-energy moments on the field or when something threatened someone he loved. And tonight, that someone was you. He didn’t have to say a word. You knew. You felt it.
You also knew your phone was probably buzzing relentlessly in your clutch by now, Jen’s name lighting up the screen over and over. Which was exactly why you’d flipped on Do Not Disturb the second the car door shut behind you. You couldn’t handle the frenzy just yet, the photos, the warped headlines, the speculation they’d spin from a single freeze-frame. Not when your skin still felt tight and overstimulated from the flashing lights. Not when your heart hadn’t quite settled in your chest.
His fingers never left yours. Every few seconds, he gave a subtle squeeze, like he needed the reassurance that you were there. That nothing had taken you from him or this beautiful night you were having before shit went sideways outside the resteraunt. When the elevator doors finally opened, Joe's head turned sharply, scanning the hallway with a predator's awareness. Jaw tense, eyes scanning hard as he made sure nobody was around to disrupt the peace. Then, he slid a hand to your lower back, not just guiding you but shielding you, keeping your body close to his as he walked you to the suite. You leaned into him automatically, drawing strength from the tension in his frame, from the way he stayed coiled around you like a barrier.
Once the door shut behind you, the silence felt deafening. No chaos. No shouts. No camera flashes. Just the distant echo of jazz from the streetcar tracks two blocks down, the low buzz of the HVAC, and your heartbeats.
“Sit,” he said lowly, breaking the silence and motioning to the chair next to the coffee table. The word threaded through the quiet like a steel cable, gentle but immovable. There was no opening for argument, not after everything that had just happened. Not when you were still shaking, even if you were trying to hide it. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there. He watched the slight quiver of your bottom lip, the one you thought you’d gotten under control. But of course, he noticed. Of course, he saw right through it, just like he always did. You’d made it through the car ride, made it through the storm of cameras and shouting, but under it all, you were still rattled. Still fragile in a way that made his whole body go cold again, even now.
“I’m okay, Joe…,” you tried to say, the words barely scraping their way past your lips. It was more reflex than honesty; you were so used to hiding your pain from everyone. Your hand moved on instinct, threading through tangled strands of your hair, snagging in knots you hadn't even registered until now. The motion was shaky, betraying the truth you hadn’t admitted yet. Your voice was too soft, too weak, like you were trying to convince both of you.
Joe didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. Two quiet strides and he was there, standing directly in front of you, a calm presence wrapped around something burning. “I know you want me to believe that,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “But I need to see it. For myself,”.
Before you could answer, his hands were already on your face, cool against the feverish warmth blooming across your skin. His touch was sure, familiar in a way that quickly calmed you, but tender enough to unravel every defense you still had left. His thumbs traced softly beneath your eyes—not because you were crying, but because he was checking for the tears that hadn’t yet spilled. The way he held your jaw, cupping it with such aching gentleness, made your breath hitch. It was like he thought you might break if he wasn’t careful. “You held it together out there, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice roughened by restraint, every syllable dragging with quiet urgency. “You did everything right. But your hands? They were shaking the whole time. I felt it. And I know that look you had, you go quiet when you’re on the verge of falling apart,”.
Your gaze dropped to the floor as shame crept into your mind despite the tenderness in his voice. Maybe because you felt exposed. Maybe because he saw the things you tried to hide. Your mouth parted, but your throat tightened around every word, leaving you silent. When you did finally speak, your voice barely existed. “I just…I know everything you said in the car was right, but…I froze, Joe. I didn’t know what to do. It felt like they were everywhere. Like they were on top of me. I thought things would be different, that I would be different…I wasn’t scared, not really, I just—,”.
“You didn’t know where to put it,” he said, gently finishing the thought for you. “That panic. That pressure. That helplessness. I know exactly what that feels like,”.
Of course, he knew.
Joe knew that feeling better than almost anyone. He’d lived it—played through it. That gnawing weight in your chest, the breath that caught before a snap, the way the world narrowed, and the noise around you swelled until it all felt like too much. He first felt it in 2020, when his rookie season came to a screeching halt against Washington. One moment he was standing tall in the pocket, the next he was on the turf; his ACL torn, the future he’d worked so hard for suddenly up in the air. That was his first taste of helplessness. Of being benched by something beyond his control.
Then came Super Bowl LVI, standing under those lights in front of millions, watching seconds tick off the clock in disbelief as the Rams sealed the game. The loss didn’t hit like a punch; it hit like a slow, sharp bleed. That ache didn’t go away when the confetti fell, not even when it wasn’t their colors.
And lately? He’d learned to live with that pressure. It came with the territory—prime-time games, fourth-quarter comebacks, showdowns with the Ravens, the Chiefs, whoever had their shot that week. He carried it all, the importance of their expectations, the city’s hope, the responsibility of leading an entire franchise. He carried it so well, you’d never know the panic still sometimes tried to claw its way in.
But he never let it take over. He never let it win.
There was no self-pity in his voice, not even a hint of dramatics. Just shared understanding. A recognition forged from experience, the way soldiers recognize each other after battle. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore,” he continued, his tone softening with every syllable. “Let me carry it with you. All of it. Please. Can you do that for me?”.
Then he kissed your forehead, and not a light, passing press of lips, but something more deliberate. Like he was pressing every ounce of his love for you into your skin. “You don’t always have to know what to do,” he said as he pulled away. “You just have to let me take care of it. That’s my job now, yours is to be safe, to let yourself be taken care of. To not have to deal with it all alone, like he made you, like they all made you. I promise you that I can handle it, and I know I’ve said that like a dozen times today, but I mean it. Just be mine,”.
The last three words landed like a benediction, whispered against the tender air between you. Like a promise he had no intention of ever breaking.
Your breath hitched, and for once, you had nothing to say back to him. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t trust your voice not to crack open. So you nodded and hoped he understood all the things you couldn’t say.
You saw it happen in real time, the tension in his brow eased, his jaw unclenched, and something unspoken passed over his face, like a wave pulling him under. He tilted his head, slowly and with practiced ease, and your spine lit up in quiet anticipation, heat blooming in your lower belly. It was a look you knew too well, the kind of look that came with no warning but always meant gravity.
Your breath caught as your lashes lowered. Not out of performance, not out of habit, but because somewhere deep in your chest, something softened too.
Then…he kissed you.
Not like a man trying to be seen. Not for the audience, or the cameras, or whatever headline was already being drafted in the chaos outside. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him to that moment. Like if he kissed you just right, he could erase the tremor in your hands, the fatigue behind your eyes, the way your smile hadn’t quite reached your soul lately. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t polished. It was raw, and open, and full of all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.
It felt like shelter. Like a hand over your heart saying, I’ve got you. I’ve. Got. You. I’m not letting go.
His lips were soft, but purposeful. Coaxing and reassuring you like he wasn’t in a rush to prove anything except that he wasn’t going anywhere. His tongue traced along yours with calculated ease, as if reacquainting itself with something sacred. One hand moved to the back of your neck, softly holding you there. The other slid down the slope of your shoulder, brushed across your collarbone, and settled at your waist, twisting gently. The tension in your body melted, little by little. You felt it uncoil in your shoulders, your spine, your clenched hands. All the places you hadn’t realized were locked down with fear and fatigue. Before you met Joe, you had been holding yourself together for so long that you were beginning to forget what it felt like to let someone else hold you. But over these past few months, Joe, piece by piece, day by day, was teaching you it all over again. What it felt like to be seen, heard, and loved in even the most minuscule ways.
He didn’t stutter, didn’t jump even when he felt the walls cave in just a smidge. When your arms wound around him and your breath hitched, he pulled you in tighter, kissed you deeper. Like he was building something around you. A fortress of touch. A haven of presence. And in that moment, in the silence between your panic and his promise, there were no flashing lights. No distant shouting. No threats waiting beyond the hotel walls.
There was only the truth he kept trying to show you, in every kiss, every word, every steady touch. You weren’t alone. Not anymore. Not with him. And maybe, for the first time in a very long time, you believed it. Really believed it. The thought slipped in quietly and slowly, like warmth beneath your ribs. So gently, you didn’t even notice at first that your hands had stopped trembling. That your breathing had evened out. That, for a moment, everything outside of this room ceased to exist.
“How did I ever function without this?” the thought came unbidden, tender and awestruck. “How did I ever survive before him?”.
Something about the way he handled you just now made you ache in a different way. Not from fear, not from panic. From want. From the heat curling in your stomach again like earlier, soft yet insistent. From the way he looked at you, like you were a blessing. He hadn’t even touched you like that again yet, not since before you left for dinner. But still, your thighs shifted together, pressing tight. Because the way he showed up for you, not just during intimate moments, but in moments like this, turned you on more than anything else ever had.
When he finally pulled back, the world didn’t crash in. It just narrowed to him, and the way he was looking at you now. When he noticed your gaze, when his lips tugged into the ghost of a smile and he whispered, “What’re you thinking about, pretty girl?” you knew he could feel it too. His eyes roamed lower, dropping to the delicate straps of your dress where they kissed your shoulders, the fabric slightly askew from the rush of earlier. Something in his expression shifted—still soft, but edged with something darker. Hungrier. “You wore this for me?” he asked, voice gone hoarse, laced with something unspoken as he eyed the lace black straps underneath the dress straps.
You felt the air leave your lungs in a shaky breath, your chest rising against the sudden heat winding through you. You nodded slowly, eyes lowering as you remembered you’d slipped this on before you left earlier. “I told you if you behaved tonight…,”.
The corner of his mouth twitched first, then that soft, husky chuckle rolled out of him. The kind of laugh that made your stomach do a backflip. “Baby,” he said, his voice a rasp that set your skin ablaze, “I tried so fucking hard. You looked so goddamn stunning tonight, and I swear…every time I looked at you, I was five seconds away from losing it,”. He leaned in then, his breath warm against your cheek, lips brushing just beside your ear. “You…you have no idea what you do to me, princess,”.
“Yeah. I’m fucked,” you instantly thought to yourself, a cheeky smile rising on your face. Maybe it was the adrenaline still fading from your veins, or the way he’d stood so unflinching in front of the chaos, shielding you with everything he had. Or maybe it was just him, in this light, in this moment, looking at you like that. Like this was what he’d fought through it all for. Either way, the shift in the air was undeniable. He was still your safe place, but now the way he watched you made it clear. You were his weakness. And right now, you were the only thing he wanted.
“Was I good, Y/N?” he smirked, his heated gaze sweeping up and down your body. He knew what he was doing, saying it like that, looking at you like that. Like he’d already cracked you open from the moment you batted your eyelashes at him earlier at dinner, but was making you say it out loud for the world to hear.
You grabbed his wrist, fingers splaying across the back of his hand, pulling it to your lip so you could drop a soft kiss to his knuckles. “You were so good, Joey,” you mumbled, “So strong,” a kiss placed on his knuckles again before you let go and wrapped your arms around his neck, “So protective,” a kiss placed on the sweet spot, his hands sliding from your hips down to your ass, “So intimidating,” a kiss placed on his jawline. At the same time, he sucked in a breath, hands tightening their hold on your flesh, “So sexy,” and a final kiss placed on his ear after you whispered that.
“Baby, please,” he breathed, voice frayed and slowly becoming softer, his forehead dropping to your shoulder like the weight of all his restraint had finally collapsed. You felt him tremble, every muscle drawn tight, every breath a struggle not to lose control.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, tender but purposeful, tugging at the ends to bring his face back up to yours. His eyes found yours—stormy, wrecked, needing—and you didn’t flinch. You held him there. You let him see you. Then you leaned in, your lips brushing his in a kiss that lingered like a promise. “Take it,” you whispered against his mouth. “Whatever you need, Joe. Have all of me. I’m yours…completely,”.
And that did it.
He didn’t respond with words, just a sharp breath through his nose, a muttered curse against your cheek, and then he pulled back enough to shrug his shirt over his head. The fabric dragged across his skin in one clean sweep, baring the lines of his shoulders and the ripple of his chest and abs beneath the warm glow of the room. His hands went to his belt next, and when the leather slid free with that low, biting snap, something inside you tightened and flipped. You bit your lip as the heat blooming in your stomach started to spread throughout every inch of your body. God, he looked unreal like this. Eyes dark with lust, cheeks flushed from the kiss, and panting, fully panting because he needed to feel you again; all lean muscle and want and yours. Every inch of skin he revealed made you forget how to breathe.
And he saw it…how your breath hitched, how your fingers shifted slightly to grip your hip to make sure you didn’t fall over from seeing him like this. His lips curved into something between a smirk and a growl, that deep, knowing sound he only made when he knew exactly how worked up you were. “You like watching me lose control, don’t you?” he murmured, voice thick with heat as he stepped closer, belt still hanging loose from one hand before he dropped it. “Gets you off knowing I’d rip the world apart for you,”.
He wasn’t wrong, and he could see it written all over your face.
He didn’t rush this, not even a little. His fingers easily found the zipper at the small of your back, reaching for the tiny metal tag like instinct, almost as instinctual as his fingers finding a football. He dragged it down at an agonizing pace, his knuckles grazing your spine. The anticipation tightened around you like a wire. The dress slipped from your shoulders, sliding to your waist, before you let it fall completely, pooling at your feet with a soft rustle. Cool air kissed your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his gaze. His breath hitched sharply when he took in the black lace hugging your curves—sheer, barely-there fabric clinging to your body like a lover’s hands.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the words barely audible, like they’d clawed their way out of his throat. “You’re fucking unreal,”.
His hands found your hips and gripped, hard enough to make your breath hitch, like he needed something to hold onto or he’d completely come undone right then and there. His fingers splayed over your skin, possessive and burning hot through the thin fabric of your black set. Each step he took toward the bed was unhurried, intentional, twisted with restraint that was quickly fading at the edges. Every inch of his body thrummed with tension, the kind that made your pulse race with anticipation.
Your knees hit the mattress, and you went willingly, letting him guide you back as the air crackled around you. His mouth crashed into yours again—urgent, greedy, dragging a moan from deep in your chest. His teeth caught your bottom lip just hard enough to sting before he soothed it with his tongue, then his kisses trailed lower. Down your jaw. Your neck. Across the delicate lines of your collarbone, each one wetter, hungrier than the last. He couldn’t seem to get close enough, “Lie back,” he rasped, his voice dense and commanding. You didn’t even think, just obeyed. Your head hit the pillow with a soft rustle, silk sheets cool against your flushed skin, and fuck, you were already soaked. A hot throb between your thighs pulsed with need, desperate for more of him—his mouth, his hands, him. All of him.
He knelt between your legs and just looked at you, that heavy-lidded gaze drinking you in like he’d never seen anything so decadent. His hands started at your ankles, rough palms trailing up the curve of your calves with excruciating slowness. His thumbs dragged along the inside of your knees, and when he reached your thighs, his grip tightened. Wide, steady, spreading you open like a gift he was about to unwrap. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered, voice tight, nearly guttural as his thumbs hooked into your panties and dragged them down your legs inch by inch. “Look at you. Already dripping for me,”.
The moment they were off, he tossed them carelessly aside, then leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. His tongue flicked, teased, sucked until your back arched and your breath broke in a gasp. “Joe…please…,”.
“Patience,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and dark and far too calm for the way you were trembling. “I want to taste every fucking second of this,”.
A second later, a thick, calculated lick from your entrance to your clit had your body jerking off the bed. You cried out, one hand flying to the sheets, the other to his hair, fingers sinking in as you tried to ground yourself. His groan rumbled against you like thunder—fuck, he was loud when he got needy—and the sound shot straight through you. He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, firm and rhythmic, tongue flicking just enough to drive you insane. “Oh, fuck…Joe,” you moaned, already a withering mess underneath his touch.
He didn’t let up as his grip on your hips tightened, burying his face between your thighs, tongue moving in filthy, endless strokes. He licked, sucked, devoured you like it was his life’s purpose. Like he’d crawl inside you if you let him. “Stay still,” he smirked, pulling back just far enough to speak, his lips slick and glistening. “Let me have you. Just like this. Let me feel how much you need me,”.
You tried, you tried, but your hips kept chasing him, seeking the friction, the fullness, the overwhelming pressure that only he could give. He rewarded your lack of control with a low, wrecked moan and shoved his tongue deep, fucking into you with long, steady strokes that had you clenching around him. Both hands grabbed for his hair, attaching themselves to the only solid thing in the world—him—as your climax began to build, rising fast and brutal and dizzying. The sounds in the room were obscene; the wet, greedy noises of him eating you out, the hitch in your breath, the raw sound of his name breaking on your lips.
“I can’t…I’m gonna– Joe!”.
He latched onto your clit again, sucking hard, tongue circling just right, and your orgasm shattered through you. It was white-hot and endless, your body spasming as your thighs clamped around his head and your voice broke on a scream. You came undone for him, shaking, twitching, unraveling under his addictive touch.
But he didn’t stop. He kept going, licking you through every aftershock, tongue slow and soft now, as if he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you. His stubble scraped softly against your oversensitive skin, and you whimpered, half-delirious, hips twitching. “Ah, Joe…you’re so– ,”.
When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Hair wild, face soaked with your sweet arousal, lips swollen and gleaming. His pupils were blown wide, his breath ragged, and his expression… fuck, it was pure possession. “You’re such a fucking mess for me,” he rasped, leaning forward to kiss the inside of your thigh again, slow and soft. “Look at you. Just from my mouth,”.
His thumb stroked your still-quivering leg, but his eyes stayed dark, hungry. Because this was only the beginning. You reached for him, desperate, every nerve ending strung tight and aching. “Need you,” you gasped, voice wrecked and pleading. “Please, Joe. I need you inside me. I need to feel you in me. I need it so bad,”.
He kissed his way up your body, belly trembling under his mouth, your breasts arching into his touch as he paused to suck one nipple deep into his mouth, then the other, tonguing and teasing until you were moaning, fingers threading through his messy hair. By the time he reached your lips, you were already shaking again. He kissed you with the same hunger he’d devoured you with—deep, messy, tongue thrusting into your mouth so you could taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp and unmistakably yours.
“Baby,” he rasped against your lips, voice thick and wrecked with want. “You taste so good, so fucking sweet. I could spend the rest of my life right here, tasting you, making you cum over and over,”.
Your head fell back against the pillow, a breathless, broken laugh spilling from your throat. “God, Joey…you drive me insane,” you whispered, hips rolling up into his, searching for anything to soothe the growing ache between your thighs. “Feels so good when you touch me like that,”.
He grinned as his cock was heavy and hard against your thigh, flushed a deep shade of red and glistening at the tip with pre-cum. It twitched sharply when you whimpered into his mouth, the sound alone enough to make him throb against your skin. You could feel the heat of it radiating into your thigh, an impossible promise you ached to take. Your breath caught at the sheer weight of him, the way the silky skin stretched over steel, the pulsing ridge of veins that made your stomach flutter in anticipation.
One of his hands slid between your bodies, calloused fingers dragging a line down your waist, your hip, until they wrapped possessively around the base of his cock. He stroked himself once, slow, purposeful, letting you feel the movement of it against your leg. You looked down and watched, transfixed, as his hand glided up the length, thumb swiping through the bead of pre-cum before dragging it down again, slicking himself with it.
Then he guided the thick head to your entrance, the blunt tip nudging through your folds, already drenched. He pressed forward just enough to catch, to part you slightly, then slid back, dragging up and down until he bumped your clit and made your hips jerk.
He teased you mercilessly, dragging the flushed head through your slickness, back and forth, coating himself in your arousal. Every now and then, he pressed in shallowly, no more than an inch, before pulling out again with a wet sound that made your breath hitch and your core clench hard. The head of his cock dragged over your entrance again, slipping lower, tapping against your pooling arousal, then up. The tension wound tighter and tighter inside you, your body aching with every pass, desperate for the stretch you knew was coming. The sound of it—the wet glide of cock on cunt, your shaky breathing, his heavy groans—made the moment unbearably erotic.
“Beg,” he rasped, voice thick with lust, breath hot at your ear. He held himself steady, barely moving, the tip of his cock resting right at your entrance like a threat. “You want it so bad, baby…fucking beg for it. Tell me how much you need my cock,”.
Oh?
So he was in that mood tonight?
“Please,” you breathed, hands fisting in the sheets, whole body arching with the desire for him to touch you. “Please, Joe. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me so deep I feel you in my stomach. Please, baby…I need it. I need you to ruin me. Make me yours. Make me feel good,”.
“I need to cleanse my mouth with bleach,” you thought to yourself in that moment.
With a smirk, he lined himself up and drove into you, inch by punishing inch, slow but unstoppable, “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. You felt every thick ridge of him drag along your walls, the stretch so intense it made you sob. Your body resisted at first, tight and trembling, but then gave way, yielding to him, wrapping around him like it was meant to. The burn was sharp, electric, searing you open in the most delicious way. “Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked, guttural and dark. “You’re so tight. Jesus, baby...you feel like fucking heaven. Like this pussy was made for me,”. He didn’t stop until he bottomed out, hips snug against yours, cock buried to the hilt. The sensation hit you all at once, full, stuffed so deep you could barely breathe. Your nails dug into his muscular shoulders, and he held himself still, letting you adjust, feeling every twitch of your cunt squeeze around him. Then he pulled back and slammed forward, hard.
The sound was obscene, sharp slaps of skin on skin, wet and feral, a rhythm that echoed off the walls like a filthy song only the two of you knew. Better than any song you could’ve ever written, to be honest. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back, and your head snapped back against the pillows as he started to pound into you. Not just hard, but deep—each measured thrust expertly angled, perfectly brutal, sending electric shocks of pleasure ricocheting up your spine.
The bed rocked faintly beneath you with every punishing thrust, the headboard banging a frantic rhythm against the wall that threatened to become its own heartbeat. Each slam of his hips jolted the mattress, sending ripples up through your spine, your body arching helplessly under the force of it. You could hear the sheets twisting, the springs protesting, the whole frame groaning in time with your desperate cries. His cock drove so deep, so unrelentingly thick inside you, it felt like he was splitting you open, every inch dragging against your slick, swollen walls, making your vision blur with stars.
“Joey,” you sobbed his name, voice breaking around the syllables, legs twitching where they clutched around his waist. The bed rocked harder, shoving you up toward the headboard with every powerful drive of his hips, the wood creaking beneath you like it might snap under the strain.
Still, he didn’t stop, didn’t even think of stopping. He just wrapped a hand around your thigh, holding you open, holding you there, like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. And you took it all, your body clenching and singing his name, trembling to pieces under the man who owned your heart and was determined to leave his mark on your body just as deeply.
He was utterly dazed, could barely even breathe, caught in the staggering sight of you spread out beneath him. The way your body twisted and shook for him, soft curves trembling with each desperate thrust, the perfect bounce of your tits every time he drove in deep, the slick heat of you gripping him like you never wanted to let go—it was enough to tear the air right from his lungs. His eyes roamed greedily over every inch of you, drinking in the flushed glow of your skin, the delicate lines of your throat when you threw your head back, the pretty little belly he loved to kiss and press his hand against when he fucked you slow. He’d never craved anyone like this. Never wanted anyone else, not when you existed like this, so stunning, so wholly his. Watching you come undone under him, knowing he was the only one who could pull those sounds from your throat, who could make you fall apart this way, it made his cock throb inside you, made his chest ache with a possessive, helpless love. There was no one else. There would never be anyone else. Just you, his beautiful girl, forever.
“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he groaned, fucking into you with possesive heat. “So beautiful… so fuckin’ perfect for me. This pussy’s fucking mine. You hear me?”.
“Yours,” you gasped, desperate, locking eyes with him, your mind fully clouded by lust but still present enough to be surprised at how he was going about this tonight. “I’m yours, Joe. No one else. Just you. Always…you,”.
He sat back on his knees and dragged your hips with him, the new angle devastating. Every thrust now slammed into the spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You looked down and cried out, “Oh fuck,”. There, in your lower belly, you could see him. The outline of his cock bulging beneath your skin, pressing up from inside with every deep thrust. “Look at that,” he hissed, palm flattening over your stomach, pressing down just enough to feel the shape of himself. “That’s me. Deep inside you. You feel that, baby? That’s how far I am, you like that?”.
Your body convulsed, your cunt clenching so tight around him he hissed through his teeth. “You’re perfect,” you choked out. “So fucking big. So perfect. You fill me up so good, Joe. No one’s ever…ever made me feel like this, baby,”.
He rushed forward and kissed you, soft and messy, tongue claiming your mouth as his thrusts grew wild, relentless. “Say it again,” he mumbled into your lips, needing to hear that praise over and over until he couldn’t fucking think anymore. There was nothing better than hearing you fall apart because of him, seeing his beautiful, strong, sexy girl lose her mind over his cock.
“Only you,” you sobbed. “Only you, Joe,”.
Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders as you fell back into the pillows, hips chasing every desperate push of his. The pressure was a white-hot coil inside you, wound so tight it felt like it might snap at any second. “Joe…fuck. I’m so close, please…I need to cum,” you whimpered, your voice breaking into a pleading gasp as his hand slid down to grip your thigh, hauling you impossibly closer.
“Yeah?” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek.. His hips ground into you, deeper now, slower for just a torturous moment as if he wanted to carve every inch of himself into your body, to memorize how you felt wrapped so tight around him. His hand slipped beneath your knee, pushing your leg up higher against your chest so he could sink even deeper, the new angle making your vision spark white at the edges. “Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he murmured, the words ragged as he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes locked on the way yours fluttered and threatened to roll back. “Gonna let go? Let me feel how much you fuckin’ need me?”.
His thumb traced down to your throat, applying the gentlest pressure that had you keening beneath him, your hips jerking up to meet every demanding thrust. The filthy squelch of your bodies filled the dim, heated room, punctuated by your whimpers and his rough groans. You could only nod, broken and breathless, every inch of you coiled tight, ready to snap for him—and only him.
A few seconds later, your head fell to the side, a soft whimper slipping out as your eyes fluttered shut, your body completely at his mercy now, “Yes, yes. Joe…please,”.
His thumb found your clit, circling fast and rough, the pressure calibrated to your edge, and your whole body seized up as the orgasm burst inside you. “Fuck, yeah…that’s it, Y/N. Cum for me, angel,” he groaned as it hit like a shockwave, raw, electric, earth-shattering. You screamed faintly, voice cracking with the force of it, eyes clenched tight as every muscle locked, then trembled violently. Your pussy clamped down around his cock like a vice, milking him with greedy, pulsing pressure that had him grunting deep, low in his chest like it was being ripped from his soul. “Oh my god…Joe- Joe!” you sobbed, your voice breaking on his name like it was the only word you still knew.
“Fuck…baby, fuck,” he moaned, barely holding on, hips jolting forward in one last brutal thrust before he came undone. He whimpered through gritted teeth, his whole body going taut above you as thick, hot ropes of cum surged into you. It poured from him in heavy pulses, coating your walls, spilling deep and hot until it couldn’t hold anymore—until it leaked out around the thick base of his cock, even as he kept fucking into you, grinding in tight circles like he could press it deeper. Bury it inside you. Brand you from the inside out. You could feel it, every throb, every sticky rush. The way your walls clung to him, refusing to let go. The heat of it, the waves of pleasure crashing over your limp body, the mess. It was so much, obscene and overwhelming and perfect. You whimpered, nails raking down his back as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, holding him there, holding him in. Because it still wasn’t enough. Not even close.
He stayed buried deep, chest pressed to yours, arms crushing you to him. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispered, breath ragged. “Fucking unbelievable, Y/N,”.
Your fingers slid between your thighs, gathering the slick mess starting to leak out of you. You brought it up and showed him, your voice trembling. “Clean up on aisle 9,” you chuckled. “Made a bit of a mess, don’t you think?”.
His gaze dropped to your fingers, and something in him twitched. Pride, lust, love, all tangled into one sweet thing in his chest. A slow grin spread across his face as he leaned down and kissed your jaw, then lower, letting his lips trail softly over the curve of your throat. “Good,” he rasped. “That’s exactly what I meant to do,”. Then his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs sweeping tenderly beneath your eyes, tracing over the delicate curve of your cheekbones like he needed to memorize the way your skin warmed under his touch.
His palms held you with a gentleness that made your chest ache, like you were something precious, fragile in the best way, worthy of being handled with infinite care. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead first, a touch so gentle it felt almost like a sigh against your skin. Then the tip of your nose, a playful graze that still somehow left your heart stumbling. Next came your temples, each side kissed with a reverence that made your lashes flutter, followed by your cheeks, where his lips lingered in tender pauses that seemed to pour all his quiet devotion straight into you.
They were feather-light kisses, but they landed heavy with meaning, more worship than routine, each one a vow unspoken. His mouth moved with such soft, deliberate care, it was clear this had nothing to do with the heat you’d shared moments before. This was about love, about intention, about showing you exactly where you belonged. And in that peace, with his breath mingling with yours and his hands holding you so sweetly, it felt beautifully, impossibly easy to believe that belonging was right here, nestled safely in the curve of his hands and the tender press of his lips. “You did so good for me,” he whispered, the words pressing against your skin with every kiss. “So sweet. So beautiful. You were perfect, angel,”.
You melted under him, overwhelmed by the affection of it all. “You always take care of me,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his damp hair, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Joey,”.
Whether it was shielding you from the blinding glare of paparazzi flashbulbs as you slipped out the back of a venue or cradling you in the aftermath of a night that left you trembling and thoroughly undone, marked in ways only the two of you would ever truly comprehend, he was always watching over you. Not out of obligation or habit, but out of something deeper, something respectful and instinctual that felt like devotion etched into his very bones.
It wasn’t a loud, boastful kind of protection but a quiet, special one, threaded through every small but significant gesture, the way he’d subtly place himself between you and a crowd without thinking, the way his body curled around yours in sleep as though even unconscious he couldn’t bear the thought of you unguarded, the way his voice softened when your mind began to drift toward chaos.
In every moment that left you feeling exposed, whether raw with emotion, bruised by the world, or blissed-out and boneless from the weight of his love, he showed you without fail, without pause, that you were safe in his presence, because protecting you wasn’t just something he did; it was who he became when he loved you, and he loved you so completely that choosing you never felt like a decision but a certainty he carried in every breath.
His mouth found the corner of yours in a soft press, “I love you, beautiful,” he said. “You’ve spent enough time cleaning up your wounds by yourself, stitching your scars back up in secret. But I’m here for you now. And I’m never letting anything near you that doesn’t treat you like the way I treat you,”.
The way he treats you.
Like you weren’t something shameful to be exposed, but someone to be loved.
“Joe! Joe! Over here!”.
The shouts cut through the thick New Orleans air like sirens, loud and relentless.
Flash.
“Here we go again,” you murmured under your breath, barely audible over the rising swell of voices. Your eyes scanned the crowd outside The Saenger Theater, every corner lit up by camera strobes, reporters jockeying for position like sharks scenting blood.
“Can I get an autograph, Joe?!”.
He didn’t flinch, just tightened his grip on your hand, steady and firm, the silent reassurance of a man who wasn’t letting go. With his other hand, he offered a polite wave to the fans crowding behind the barricade, but his body stayed angled toward yours like he was shielding you from the noise.
“Y/N! You look gorgeous!”.
The compliment made your cheeks flush, but it was drowned out almost instantly by more shouts, more lights, more chaos. Still, it lingered with you, warm and fizzy in your chest.
You knew exactly what you looked like tonight, precisely the effect you’d crafted when you slipped into this dress. The black sheer panels clung like a second skin, delicate but daring, kissed all over with red and silver sequins that caught the light in glittering cascades every time you moved. It was the kind of gown that seemed to breathe with you, sparkling with each subtle shift of your hips, every breath expanding the fine fabric across your ribs. Your strappy heels clicked smartly against the pavement, a crisp, confident music that trailed behind you, echoing off the stone walls and mingling with the hum of traffic. Even the night air seemed to pay attention, cool and fragrant, slipping beneath the slit of your dress to brush against your thighs, making your skin pebble and your heartbeat trip.
Joe hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you since the moment you came out of the car. His gaze had traveled over you in long, unhurried sweeps, dark lashes hooded, lips parted like he might say something but forgot the words. It was more than hunger—it was awe, thick and sweet, etched into the lines of his face. And you couldn’t keep your eyes off him either, not for a second.
He looked devastatingly handsome tonight. Midnight-black tailored suit, sharp lapels hugging his broad shoulders, and the best part? He was shirtless underneath. The only things adorning his body were his two diamond chains, both of which had dangled in your face quite a few times, which is why you were nearly frozen for a solid minute when you saw him come out of the closet.
So. Many. Flashbacks.
And then there was that chain. Not the one around his neck…but the one in his pocket.
The chain nestled in his left pocket wasn’t just jewelry. It was colorful and delicate, each charm a miniature planet in a perfect little orbit—Mercury, Venus, Earth...the whole solar system, and right in the middle, between Mars and Jupiter, was something unmistakable to the human eye. A tiny gold star etched with a singular letter. Your initial. A single, shimmering charm that didn’t belong in any solar system but his. It really was impossible to miss if you looked closely enough, and Joe wanted you to look. He didn’t bother tucking it away or muting the shine. No, he wore it boldly, letting the chain dangle with each stride, catching the light in rhythmic glints as if begging every camera lens to zoom in. This wasn’t just a detail in his outfit—it was a declaration. The whole world had its eyes on him tonight, and he made sure they knew exactly who resided at the heart of his solar system.
You remembered the exact moment you saw it, hours earlier, the two of you tucked into the quiet before the storm, the car idling at the curb while he adjusted the fall of his jacket. A shimmer caught your eye, delicate and deliberate, and then you saw it. Your breath hitched.
“Wait…is that–?” your voice faltered as your eyes landed on the small golden charm nestled between miniature planets.
Joe shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his ears turned pink told you otherwise. “Figured every universe should have a star named after you,” he said with a half-smile, that boyish smile that made you spiral. “Mine already does,”.
He said it so plainly, so offhanded, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing anyone had ever done. Like he wasn’t standing there on one of the most public nights of his career with a piece of you swinging against his thigh, daring the world to notice. Like he hadn’t quite literally turned his love for you into something cosmic.
And it mirrored your own devotion too perfectly to be a coincidence. Just last week, you’d stepped onto the Grammy carpet wearing a thigh chain so subtle, barley hidden, it had only flashed once though—a brief glint through the slit of your gown. That gold and black J engraved just for him, seen by most, was a whisper of a promise only Joe was meant to catch. And now here he was, answering you with his own, louder, prouder, publicly claimed.
You hadn’t even known he’d thought about it, much less had it made so quickly. But that was the magic of Joe. It wasn’t about grand reveals, it was about meaning, about sincerity, about appreciating the most intimate parts of your love in places only you two would understand.
Tonight, he wore you like a fixed star. Not a footnote in the story of his life. Not an accessory. But the axis. The chain swayed with a soft rhythm as he walked beside you, glinting under the street lights. And when he looked your way, eyes full of quiet devotion, the kind that calmed every nerve in your body, you felt it again. That tether. That undeniable pull. You were his center, just as surely as he’d always been yours. And in that moment, you weren’t just proud to orbit a man like him—you were honored to be the galaxy he chose to build around.
His knuckles brushed your bare back now as he helped you up the steps, fingers grazing the fabric of your dress, his touch sending shivers down your spine even in this moment where you both were just trying to thug it out and make it into the venue. His gaze dipped lower for a moment, drinking you in. And then it came back to your face with that look, the one that always made you weak. But this wasn’t about you. Not tonight.
You tried to keep your face composed, your posture graceful beneath the blinding onslaught of flashes and Joe’s poorly timed bedroom eyes, but you felt the shift before you even looked at him. Joe’s grip had tightened again, not in reassurance this time, but in tension. His jaw was locked, his eyes darting too quickly, glancing at the eager smiles of fans, the flashing lights of their cameras, and how they were slowly pushing up against the barricades. He even became hyperaware of how his suit was clinging to his skin, making him itchy in places where he shouldn’t be itchy, wanting nothing more than to claw it off his body in that moment.
He was spiraling.
And no one else would know. Not the fans screaming his name, not the cameras capturing his every movement, not the handlers waving him down the carpet like this was just another Sunday on the field. But you knew. You always knew. You stepped in closer, your shoulder brushing against his chest, calming him with your presence, the way he’d done for you just the night before. This wasn’t a stadium, this wasn’t a locker room, this most definitely wasn’t a football game. This was a pressure he couldn’t control, and it gnawed at him.
“Smile!” someone yelled.
He didn’t. Not fully. Not like he usually did.
So you leaned up, lips ghosting against the edge of his jaw, and whispered softly, “You’re okay, J. I’m right here,”.
He turned to you like he was a compass needle and you were true north, a magnetic force tugging on his body as soon as he heard your sweet voice, eyes briefly flicking down to your face. His fingers curled more firmly around yours as you reached your free hand to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket—half fix, half comfort. “This is your night,” you told him quietly. “You earned this, baby. Just take a deep breath and let them see you,”.
You weren’t letting go of him for anything, your grip shrinking around him as the sounds of the crowd around you only became louder. You couldn’t let go of him, not now. Not when you were the only one here for him. Robin and Jimmy were supposed to be right behind you, had planned to fly in from Athens early this morning. But a last-minute issue with his cousin’s baby had derailed the whole thing. One missed connection turned into two, and now they were stuck overnight in Atlanta. Joe had nodded stoically when he got the call, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable, shoulders set in that too-still way that meant he was trying not to let it get to him. Said it was fine. Said he’d see them back in Ohio.
But it wasn’t fine. Not really.
He tried everything. Within minutes of hanging up, he was already on the phone trying to charter them a jet. You’d overheard him pacing the suite, voice clipped and low, rattling off numbers and weather reports like he was running a two-minute drill. But even that didn’t work. A massive storm system had grounded everything in the region; private, commercial, it didn’t matter. No one was getting out.
When he came back into the room, he didn’t say a word. Just sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could will it to change.
You’d crossed the room without a sound, slipping between his knees and cupping his face in your hands until he finally looked up at you. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fake a smile or play it off, and you could tell he was upset by the way his eyes were drooping. He just rested his forehead against your sternum, breathing you in like you were the only thing about this week that he felt comfortable with, the only thing that didn’t make him feel the overwhelming urge to stick his head in the dirt. Because tonight, they wouldn’t be there, and no matter how many reporters shouted his name, no matter how many lights flashed when he stepped into that theater, part of him would still be that little kid from Athens, wanting his Mom and Dad in the front row to see him win big.
He had a strong chance of winning MVP this year, despite the poor season the Bengals had. His personal accomplishments this past season, spirit as a locker room leader, and impact on and off the field had garnered enough attention for him to be a serious candidate, and if he really did win, he wanted them to be there. They had always been there. For every one of his biggest moments, from Little League Football awards to The Heisman Ceremony, all the way to Super Bowl LVI (regardless of the bitter outcome). They had never not been there, and that tugged at his heart a little, and you knew that. So you stayed. Close. Solid. Present. The one thing tonight he didn’t have to worry about losing, because in the back of his mind, Joe was certain that he was going home empty-handed tonight, he never ever expected to win in these situations. But he had made peace with that a long time ago, knew that he wouldn’t ever be taken seriously in these situations unless the Bengals had a phenomenal season as a whole, even if he had a season for the history books. However, since you walked into this life, he realized he didn’t need these trophies to remind him of his worth. Not when you already did without any conditions, every minute of every day you spent together. Somehow, that mattered more than he could admit.
You leaned in again, “You look amazing, tonight. Very put together and handsome,” you murmured just loud enough for him to hear, hoping to lighten the energy around him.
His mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t lift from the steps, making sure your heel didn’t get caught in a ridge, “You think so?”.
“I know so,” you said, threading your fingers through his where they hung between you. “And they’d be so proud if they were here. And I know it’s not the same, but I’m here. You’re not alone in this,”.
After that sentence, he looked at you, really looked. His pupils wide under the sharp gleam of the flashing lights, his gaze searching your face like he needed to memorize it. Then he nodded, subtle but sure, and squared his shoulders as the entrance to the Saenger came into view, “Thank you…for being here. For doing this with me,” he said, smiling faintly. You could feel the shift in him, and although the nerves didn’t disappear, they folded around the quiet certainty of your presence. Just like they had the night before, when it had been your heart unraveling, your voice breaking, your hands shaking. And Joe had held you through it. Wordlessly. Fiercely.
Now it was your turn to hold him through the noise. Which you would, every step of the way.
You turned to him, manicured fingertips brushing over the curve of his wrist, and said softly, “I’d do this with you in every lifetime,”. Your gaze dropped to the star charm resting against his thigh along with the other planets in the Solar System, and something in you shifted—a realization that felt both ancient, like you’d felt this for him before in another lifetime, and entirely new, like you were learning it all over again. Your eyes found his again, steady and shining as bright as that charm. “In every universe,” you whispered, and he smiled, the kind of smile he gave only to you, the one that said he believed it too.
The flashes of the cameras were relentless inside, exploding in rapid succession, strobing across the velvet carpet like a storm of artificial stars. It felt like stepping into a tidal wave of light and sound, voices crashing over each other as dozens of photographers yelled your names from every angle, their cameras capturing every flicker of a smile, every brush of contact.
“Fantastic!”
“Look this way!”
“Power couple of the year!”
But none of it seemed to register beyond the hum in your ears. Joe’s hand had found you the moment you stepped into the spotlight, and it hadn’t left since. It slid with deliberate ease from the curve of your hip, trailing the seam of your dress with the barest pressure, and settled firmly at the small of your back before dipping lower. His palm landed on the swell of your ass, a particuly risque move by the former Mr. No PDA, but it was possessive and warm, keeping him from panicking because of the chaos around you. It was a touch that said more than words ever could, even through the layers of sheer and beading, you could feel the heat of his skin seeping into yours. There was a solemnity in the way he held you, an unspoken promise wrapped in the press of his body and the quiet ferocity of his touch. The crowd could roar, the cameras could flash, but Joe’s hand never wavered, and you never once let each other feel alone.
You looked around as the carpet pulsed with a kind of cinematic energy—electric, anticipatory, shimmering with stars and polished shoes. It felt like stepping into a dreamscape made of velvet ropes and polished decor. Familiar faces flitted by in quick succession, Jayden Daniels, all charisma and ease, flashing a megawatt smile as he posed; Ja’marr in a sharp black suit, laughing easily with his girlfriend who looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion editorial; Josh Allen and Hailee Steinfeld, tucked into each other in the soft glow near the ropes, sharing quiet laughter and looking as adorable as ever. The camaraderie hummed around you like a soundtrack, easy, elevated, uniquely theirs and yet somehow yours too, despite this being Joe’s world.
He guided you forward with the same effortless poise he carried on the field, hand steady at your waist like he held a football, body angled like he was sculpted to fit and protect yours, just like he would when protecting the ball from gigantic defensive players driven by adrenaline. When the first camera flash burst, he pulled you in like a reflex, slotting you against him like a puzzle piece sliding into place. His scent—Cypryss, Grapevine, and Amber, a fragrant mix from the Cologne you’d gifted him, and something warm and clean that you could only describe as Joe—rose up between you, an intoxicating spell numbing your senses and making you more feral for him than usual.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear with a teasing murmur, something about the shouting being more intense than a fourth-quarter blitz. His voice was warm honey over gravel, and it curled through you. Despite the sizzling energy between you both, you didn’t miss a beat. Your smile stayed poised for the cameras, but your words were designed to make him squirm, because if he was going to make you like this with just his touch and scent, you could play that game too. “Touch me like that again and we’re finding the nearest storage closet. I don’t care who’s watching,”.
Joe’s laugh escaped before he could swallow it, quiet and ragged, like you’d punched the air out of him. That smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and dimpled his cheek, lit his whole face. He dipped his head, brushing his nose along your cheekbone, his lips grazing your skin with a touch so natural it made your knees soften.
“You’re gonna get us arrested,” he muttered, voice raspy with amusement and something else that simmered just below his skin. “Don’t think the league or Jen is too fond of public indecency charges, baby,”.
You turned your head just enough for your lips to barely graze the corner of his jaw, the movement so small and subtle that the cameras likely didn’t catch it, but the effect on him was instant. You felt the inhale he dragged in, sharp and shaky, as if he needed to cool himself down before he melted right there under the glare of red carpet lights and the hum of flashing bulbs.
“Then stop touching me like you want to get dragged into that kind of headline,” you murmured sweetly, your voice pure sugar with an edge of heat. Your smile never faltered, still picture-perfect for the cameras, and your hands stayed demurely placed, still and elegant. But your words? They made Joe shift beside you, made his grip on your waist tighten like a reflex he couldn’t fight off. His eyes flicked to yours, wild for just a second, like he was imagining it—what it would be like to slip away, get caught up in a moment, lipstick all over his face, to press you up against a backstage wall until you were whimpering out his name and falling apart under his touch, to forget for a moment that anyone else existed.
But then he blinked, and just like that, the smirk was back, laced with all the mischief and all the restraint you knew it cost him. “You’re evil,” he whispered, but the way his thumb brushed against your hip gave him away completely. He leaned in again, lips barely grazing your temple, “But if I so much as kiss your neck right now, we’re making headlines in five different outlets about how I can’t keep my hands off you,”.
“Good,” you whispered back. “Let them see how loved I am,”.
And he laughed again, the kind of laugh that made photographers stop mid-shout just to snap the moment. The kind that didn’t need posing. The kind that drove fangirls mad because he just looked so cute. The kind that made everyone watching fall a little in love with you both. You tilted your head, letting the motion pass for a casual pose, but your mouth found the shell of his ear again, softer this time. “That solar system chain you’re wearing tonight? Still thinking about it. You made me the center of your universe, Burrow. That’s not something I forget,”.
Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of breath that carried both tension and release, like he was forcing the world to fall away for just a second. The paparazzi loved it, of course, they always did. The way your bodies fit like a whispered secret, the curve of your smile caught mid-laugh against the solemn set of his jaw. You leaned into him like instinct, and he answered in style, dipping his head to ghost a kiss along the top of your shoulder, then the delicate line of your jaw. It was fleeting, so intimate and definitely caught on camera. And he didn’t give a damn.
Not tonight.
No reporters were hurling questions about injuries or rehab windows, no pundits dissecting completion percentages or looming contracts. Tonight, they were shouting his name for something softer, something simpler, because he looked incandescent. Because he looked at peace in the best way.
Because he looked in love.
Not guarded. Not composed for the cameras. But utterly, irrevocably gone, his whole face unspooling with affection every time he glanced your way. Joe Burrow looked so head over heels in a way that made even the most seasoned photographers fumble for focus. It was all anyone could buzz about, all anyone could feel humming through the ropes and polished floors, not the games, not the stats—but the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. And the woman on his arm? The one smiling up at him like she knew exactly what he was worth and cherished every piece of him? She wore the same glow. She moved like his mirror, reflecting all that love and light right back. Like they were tuned to the same frequency. And maybe they were. Because the two of you weren’t just walking the carpet. You were floating. Together.
The world didn’t know the private moments, the ones untouched by camera flashes or filtered captions. They didn’t see the way he carved out time—no matter how packed his schedule—to sit in your studio and just listen, really listen, while you sang like you were born for it. How he’d close his eyes and lean back, letting your voice wash over him like a balm. They didn’t hear the way you soothed him when his mind got loud, how your words found him in the dark and brought him home to himself, every time.
But maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe it was enough that they could see it now. That the love you built behind closed doors lived out loud anyway. Maybe it was enough that the truth slipped through in the smallest glance, in the softest smile, in the shine of his eyes when they landed on you. A love so rooted, so steady, it couldn’t help but be seen. Maybe it was enough for everyone to see that this was serious for both of you, and how different this was from both of your previous relationships.
“You’re doing great, you know?” he mumbled to you, snapping you free from the daze you’d been in for the last minute. “Last week was a trial run, for sure,” he added, his hand moving further up your side as he spoke, “But here? They love you,”.
He wasn’t wrong; the Grammy’s red carpet was the trial run. Your first major carpet after you’d come back into the spotlight, and though it didn’t all go to plan, it prepared you for this moment. For his night. “You’re doing great too, Joey,” you whispered, “Can’t even tell that you’re the same man who skipped the honors last year because you just didn’t want to do the carpet. Paris Fashion Week really turned you into a whole new person, didn’t it?” you laughed lightly.
“Mm, Fashion Week just made me realize that people really like to stare at my bare back. This…,” he said, motioning to the carpet and cameras with his free hand, “...This is all your doing. You made me into a whole new person. I’d still be hiding in the locker room if it weren’t for you,”.
Your head snapped over to look at him, and for a second there, you were at a loss for words. Your mouth opened only slightly before you were interrupted by the voices around you, calling out as their excitement swirled through the air.
“Y/N! Who are you wearing?”.
“You two look incredible!” another shouted, and the flash of cameras was relentless, strobe lights bursting like tiny fireworks, capturing every moment, every subtle movement between you two.
“Y/N, can we get a solo-shot of him, really quickly? It’s for the NFL style page!” another asked, kindly, and not to exclude you from his moment, but just to get a simple snap of the NFL’s newest fashionista—even though his fashion taste could use a bit more work.
You exhaled slowly, letting yourself ease into the moment and giving Joe a quiet nudge forward, a second to bask in the attention, to claim his place in the spotlight. He stepped ahead just enough for the cameras to catch him clearly, his posture straight and confident. But even then, his body remained angled toward you, drawn to you by something invisible but strong. Only a few heartbeats passed before he reached for you again, as if the distance was already too much. His hand slid naturally to your waist, fingers curling possessively around your hip with an instinctual ease. Then, in a fluid motion, he drew you back into him. Closer than before. His chest to your back, his chin nearly brushing your temple, as if to say, “This isn’t just my moment, it’s ours,”.
It wasn’t subtle, not at all. It was the kind of affection that made it impossible to ignore the way he adored you. The intimacy was palpable, not performative, woven into every brush of his hand, every tilt of his head. People on the outside could feel it. They murmured to one another, camera shutters firing wildly, drawn to the undeniable pull between you.
The flashes continued, and a few photographers kept shouting for him to turn slightly—just him, just a clean shot. But Joe wasn’t having it. “Put both of us on that page,” he called out, flashing that dimpled smile, still holding you against him, one hand placed on your hip and the other holding your hand at your side, “She looks better than me anyway,”. A few reporters laughed, others cheered, but none objected. The cameras doubled down, shutters clicking faster, wider angles being called for. You glanced up at him, heart warm and eyes soft.
“Joey,” you whispered, touched by his refusal to do any of it without you. He looked down at you like this was more your night than his.
“I just…I hate when you’re not next to me. Doesn’t feel right anymore,” he softly confessed. He really couldn’t stand the idea of you being left out of any part of it, not the photos, not the press, not the moment. You were his, and more than that, you were part of his story now. Just as he was part of yours. The crowd was loving every second of it, the way he looked at you like you were his home, the way he stood firm in the spotlight but kept his hand on you to make sure everyone took the hint. Because Joe Burrow didn’t just want to be seen tonight.
He wanted you to be seen right beside him.
After a few more minutes of posing for cameras and mingling with peers and legends alike, you both made your way inside the hall where the main show was taking place.
Before the MVP announcement, the most coveted award of the night, the Honors ceremony was buzzing with its signature blend of pageantry, celebration, and a splash of good-natured chaos, all steered by this year’s host, Snoop Dogg himself. You and Joe were seated right in front of the stage, dressed to the nines and catching the eye of every attendee in the room because of how your presence seemed to complement each other without even trying. The cameras couldn’t seem to get enough of you both, either, especially when Joe leaned over to whisper something in your ear that made your head tip back in laughter and a lively smile form that reached your eyes. On the other side of Joe sat Ja'marr and his girlfriend, full of mischief and domestic warmth, poking fun at Joe every time the screen landed on his face too long, calling him “Hollywood” under their breath. He was still the same shit-talker he’d always been on the field, still had that edge—but the woman beside him brought out something lighter in him, something steadier.
You’d said as much to him a few days ago over lunch at Antoine’s, the four of you packed into a corner booth with chipped plates and too many appetizers, warmth curling through the air like the scent of fresh beignets. Ja’marr and his girlfriend, Deja, had been bickering playfully over oysters—her threatening to flick hot sauce at him if he didn’t stop calling them “ocean eyeballs,” while he insisted he was the one showing culinary bravery, and he was doing a god-awful job of pretending not to be completely, hopelessly in love.
You’d leaned in, grinning as you sipped from your glass of champagne and caught his gaze over the chaos. “You both are so good together,” you said, sincere and a little soft. “She brings out something real in you. Like…peace. Like you sleep more than four hours now because she pulls the plug on Call of Duty before you can throw the controller at the screen,”.
Ja’marr had squinted at you, all mock offense and lemon juice glinting off his fingers as he flung a citrus wedge onto your plate with dramatic flair. “Don’t go soft on me now,” he huffed, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him—half flattered, half scheming. “You only sayin’ that ‘cause I ain’t the only one simpin’ in the group anymore,”.
Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Joe and jabbed two fingers square into his chest, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “At least I didn’t turn into a red carpet trophy husband like sheisty over here,”.
Joe raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the silly comment but amused at his best friend’s audacity. “You’re one to talk. You let her pick out your shoes this morning. You never let anyone give you fashion advice,”.
“Aye, they were designer!” Ja’marr fired back, pointing between the two of you like he was building a case. “It don’t matter. I might be in love, but you? You are full-on domesticated. Homie got that Stanley Cup and a ten-step skincare routine. He’s got a robe now. A robe. With a fuckin’ monogram,”.
Joe didn’t even flinch, just glanced at you with an infuriatingly smug little grin, leaned a fraction closer like the two of you were co-conspirators in some luxury domestic cult, and said, “Yeah. And I’m glowing. Thanks for noticing, buddy,”.
You and Deja burst out laughing at the same time, and somewhere in the middle of all that teasing and toast clinking and side-eye over fried green tomatoes, you thought—this, right here, was the good stuff. The real stuff. Not the red carpets or the flashing cameras. Just this, laughter, love, and two men who were once all edge and armor, now softened by women who knew how to hold them.
They were good together, Ja’marr and Deja, and tonight, their presence helped ease the ache of the empty seats next to Joe, ones that would’ve been filled by his parents. Their absence hadn’t been discussed aloud since you made it inside, but you’d seen the change in his body language when he spotted the gap. Just a small stiffening in his shoulders, a breath caught too long in his chest. But when he sat down beside you, he took your hand in his and didn’t let go.
Snoop, true to form, came out swinging with the jokes once the show went on air. Within minutes of taking the stage, he locked onto Joe with a grin sharp enough to cut through steel. “Smokey Joe Burrow in the house!” he hollered, pointing his mic like a spotlight. “Ayy, Joe. For real, you gon’ keep frontin’ or you finally gon’ let me smoke a cigar with you? Been waitin’ on that LSU invite for years now, man,”.
Laughter cracked across the room like lightning at the joke as photos of Joe lighting up his signature cigars filled the screens on stage. Joe leaned in close to you, brushing your ear with his nose. “Guess I gotta start carrying extras,” he said under his breath, his smile tugging crooked at the corners.
But the next bit on the screen had the entire venue holding their stomachs from laughter. A massive photo of Joe’s Batmobile filled the monitors, sleek, matte-black, armored like it had rolled straight off a Nolan set. Snoop pointed at it, mock-serious. “Now somebody please explain why this man dropped damn near $3 million on a whole-ass Batmobile. Grappling hooks? Smoke bombs? Missile deterrents?” He turned back to the audience with perfect timing, “I guess…I guess he wanted one thing in life to have a good defense,”.
The room exploded with chuckles at the jab, and Joe laughed too, but it came out a little strained, a little too quick. His smile faltered at the edges as the punchline echoed, not quite able to shake the sting underneath the humor. He reached up, rubbed the back of his neck in a kind of way he always did when he was uncomfortable, trying to mask it as casual. But you felt it, the way his heart dropped, the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly. That laugh had died in his throat a beat too early, like something in the joke had hit closer than anyone realized.
Because the truth was, it hadn’t just been a jab about the car. It was a dig dressed up in humor, aimed right where it still stung. The Bengals’ defense had been a nightmare this season, porous and inconsistent, riddled with missed tackles and blown coverages. For every brilliant drive Joe orchestrated, it felt like the other side of the ball unraveled it seconds later. And it wasn’t new. The franchise had long carried the burden of a defense that cracked under pressure; this season just made it louder. Louder for the press, louder for the fans, louder because of the fact he was doing the Quarterback show this year and everyone would see it play out in 4k all over again, and louder in moments like this, where even a joke about a Batmobile landed with the weight of a stat sheet.
You were worried that the joke would leave a bitter taste in his mouth for the rest of the night, and as you were just about to open your mouth and ask him if he was okay, Snoop’s eyes flicked to you, and that wide, knowing grin deepened. “And don’t think I ain’t see his queen right there either. Miss Songbird herself. Y’all know she dropped a bomb at the Grammys last week?” the crowd whooped, the spotlight shifting slightly to include you. “New album comin’ out July 4th. Title? Reputation. Yeah, that’s right. Badass title. She out here settin’ off fireworks before the barbecues even start,”.
The applause grew louder, whistles echoing as a few excited gasps rose from the audience. “And lemme tell you somethin’, she took Mr. Ice-in-his-veins over here,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward Joe, “And turned him into a Grade-A, love-sick, hallmark-quote-knowin’ simp. Look at this man!”. The camera zoomed in just in time to catch Joe flashing a boyish grin, one hand tugging self-consciously at his collar as the other refused to leave yours. You were laughing now, head tipped back slightly, your eyes glowing under the lights. Snoop kept going, “This man used to be the internet’s boyfriend. Now he’s off the market and out here lookin’ like he writes her love letters during halftime. Y’all know if he got her lyrics tattooed on his ribs yet? Somebody check,”.
Joe playfully shook his head, a laugh slipping from his lips. He looked dazzling under the soft gold lights of the NFL Honors stage, all sharp lines and silk-clad calm, but there was a pink flush climbing his neck, betraying the quiet chaos inside, and everyone could see it. “I’m never living this shit down,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as the crowd’s laughter lingered like static in the air.
You leaned in, the sequins of your gown brushing against the soft fabric of his lapel, lips near his ear as Snoop shifted attention to Josh and Hailee. The room moved on, but for a beat, the spotlight drifted off of you both, letting you breathe in a quieter light. “You’re the one who said you liked being my muse,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of applause and orchestra swells.
Joe groaned softly, the sound half a chuckle, half surrender, as he turned his head to nuzzle the crown of yours. “Yeah, but I didn’t think it meant being the poster boy for domestic bliss on national TV,” he said, though there was no real protest in his voice. If anything, he sounded dazed by it—bemused and oddly proud.
You smiled, eyes flicking up to meet his, catching the flicker of starlight in his chain, the pink flush still warming his ears. “You’re glowing, baby. Just soak it in, bask in the glory,” you murmured, your thumb tracing soft circles over his thigh through his suit, each movement slow and soothing.
He bent close again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “Snoop’s exposing me,”.
“Let him,” you murmured back, a smile tugging at your lips as you turned and pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw, soft as moonlight. “You look good like this,”.
He paused, gaze dropping to where your fingers rested gently on his leg, as if your touch alone could make everything around him disappear in a flash. “Truth is…,” he murmured, voice a touch rough, a little hoarse, “I like it more than I probably should. Being your muse, I mean. If I’m gonna be the poster boy for anything, let it be for domestic bliss, hair-tie-on-my-wrist, coffee-in-bed, you-writing-me-into-songs kind of bliss,”. His lips tilted into the barest smile, vulnerable and honest in a way he rarely showed outside your orbit, “If the world’s gonna be watching, I’d rather them see this part. The real part. The part that’s yours,”.
You blinked slowly, warmth rising in your throat as your heart fluttered at the constant certainty in his voice. Not a flicker of performance, no, just truth. He didn’t care how it looked; he only cared that you understood.
And you did. Ugh, you really did.
The rest of the night came in bursts of color and sound, vivid snapshots you knew you’d carry with you like stills from a dream. The echo of applause rolled through the balconies like thunder, the murmur of voices rising and falling around you with each new award announcement. Somewhere, a trumpet from the house band let out a playful riff that made Joe’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. Between heartfelt speeches and roaring ovations, you leaned close, whispering jokes into Joe’s ear about someone’s tragically oversized velvet bow tie, or the way the camera had panned to a rookie half-asleep in the front row. Joe stifled a grin, his hand slipping down to squeeze your knee in silent appreciation, that private language of touch you two had long since perfected.
Every so often, the giant monitors would flash clips of season highlights, slow-motion spirals, brutal sacks, impossible toe-tap catches, and you’d catch the way Joe’s posture straightened, his gaze sharpening for a breath before he relaxed again, thumb tracing absent circles over your leg. You became more immersed in his world than ever before. Watching legendary names float past your seats, seeing the proud glint in a veteran’s eye as they accepted an award, hearing the muffled jokes players lobbed at each other between commercial breaks—it all drew you deeper into the fabric of the game that had shaped so much of Joe’s life.
Sometimes between awards, you noticed his leg bouncing subtly, a small, familiar jitter that betrayed the nerves humming under his carefully composed exterior. Without a word, you reached over and rested your hand on his knee, your thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes through the fine weave of his suit pants. His breath hitched ever so slightly, and after a beat, he slid his hand over yours, threading your fingers together with a quiet squeeze that said more than any thank you ever could. As the night wore on and the ceremony continued, you traced idle shapes over the fabric of his sleeve, following the strong line of his arm through his jacket with gentle, absent affection. When a loud laugh from a nearby table startled him just enough to make his shoulders flinch, you didn’t hesitate. You leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing warm against his skin until you felt the tight line of his body loosen again. This wasn’t something he was used to, no doubt about that, but your presence was making it easier for him with every kiss and silent touch.
The entire room glittered with a kind of luxury and feeling that would normally captivate you, but your entire world stayed wrapped around Joe. You made sure his glass was always topped off, making sure he had something else in his system to take some edge off, tugged him back when he shifted too far forward in his seat, giggled at his whispered commentary during everyone’s speeches. Each time you looked at him like he was the only one here, he seemed to sit up a little straighter, shoulders rolling back, chest lifting as if he could breathe just a little deeper.
But there were soft, sparkling moments tucked between the formality of it all—Deja slipping you a mini lip gloss with a conspiratorial grin, almost like she was saying make sure your lips look good for after the show because she knew Joe would be in that kind of mood regardless of if he won or not, Joe bending down to adjust the delicate strap on your heel when you winced because it dug into your ankle, his big hands steady and careful. Later, just before the final stretch of the show, the two of you swayed together in the private dining area at the back of the venue to a slow, honeyed R&B ballad, no cameras pointed your way, no stage lights seeking you out, just his cheek pressed to your temple, his breath threading tender promises into your hair.
Joe wasn’t just enduring the night. He was thriving in it—radiant in his own quiet, steadfast way. Not because the cameras demanded it, but because he was truly, deeply happy. Folding you into his world piece by piece made him happier than any shiny trophy could ever do, and getting to live this life with someone who truly understood it was worth more than anyone could possibly imagine. And even more importantly, he was loved. And every piece of him, every shy grin, every self-critical laugh, every luminous, almost boyish pride shining in his eyes, belonged to you. He truly came alive in those quiet, hidden moments, when it was just the two of you, far from the blinding lights and expectant eyes, when the weight of what he was here to be could finally slip from his shoulders. When he could just be Joey and not Joe Burrow. That’s when he thrived most, when the hush of your shared world outshone all the glitter and spectacle of the night.
So when the final award of the night began, your heart tripped over itself, your fingers tightening around his just enough to remind him that it was still just the two of you, to steady him. That he was still Joey, and could be like that in front of everyone. “I’m right here,” you whispered, your breath catching on the edges of the words, soft enough to be swallowed by the applause as the presenter took the stage.
He didn’t have to look to believe it. But he did, and when he met your eyes, everything else fell gloriously away.
“I know,” he murmured, his tone tender in the way it always was when he let the world slip away for you. Then he leaned in and caught your mouth in a kiss, gentle but so sure, tasting faintly of champagne and the sweetness of everything he felt for you.
You both floated in your quiet bubble, detached from the swirling energy around you as the presenter methodically introduced each nominated player by highlighting their accomplishments over the past season. There were about 5 people on stage introducing each nominee, and before you knew it, a voice boomed through the hall, bright and electric with showman polish, “In a season filled with adversity, one man kept fighting and led the league in passing yards and touchdowns. Louisiana, how do you feel about LSU’s own Joe Burrow!”.
The crowd erupted, applause swelling like a living thing, whistles and cheers echoing off the gilded walls. The presenter laughed into the mic, eyes crinkling, “As a football fan and lover of quarterbacks, I feel the same way,” but you barely registered any of it. The words seemed to spin around you, muffled and distant, as if you had earplugs in. Instead, your gaze was locked on Joe, his breath catching in his chest, his shoulders stiff beneath the fine cut of his suit, that hopeful yet terrified look in his eyes. And suddenly you thought, this must be exactly how he felt when it was your name waiting in the Grammy’s envelope last weekend.
When the world paused, the air turned thick, and your whole future hung on a single breath.
That night had been the culmination of years of tears and public scrutiny, of heartbreak and healing, of hours upon hours behind studio doors, chasing something that made your soul feel seen. This night? Joe’s night. It was the culmination of months, even years, spent grinding through setbacks, fighting through injuries, of locker room speeches and film nights stretched out too long, and his voice rough at 2 in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and needed to whisper his hopes into your shoulder.
“Please,” you pleaded in your thoughts, silent tears brimming in your eyes as you looked back up at the stage. “He deserves this more than anyone. He needs this win. Please,”.
Then, slicing through the haze, the presenter’s voice rang out—sharp, unwavering, impossible to ignore even in the thick of the haze you were in,
“And this year’s AP NFL MVP…Louisiana’s favorite son…Joe Burrow!”.
You gasped, “Oh fuck,”.
The thought thundered through you, knocking the air from your lungs as if you’d just been hit by a 290-pound defensive end. The room erupted, applause exploding in a tidal wave of sound, but somehow it all felt strangely slowed, drawn out, every cheer and whistle echoing as if underwater. Time seemed to distort around you, like the whole world had paused to marvel, suspended between heartbeats.
Because he wasn’t supposed to win this. Not this year. Not after everything.
And he knew that.
They all knew that.
Joe froze in his seat as the cameras panned over to the two of you, his broad shoulders tightening, rigid like a coiled spring. His eyes blinked rapidly, pupils dilating as if trying to make sense of the words tumbling through the hall like thunder. His breath caught somewhere deep in his chest, faltering, uneven. The stage lights spilled over him, painting his face in golden hues that flickered with every trace of emotion—shock, disbelief, something raw and unguarded.
His eyes darted nervously across the sea of faces, searching for something steady, a lifeline, a tether he could hold onto as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. You glanced toward where his parents should have been, expecting to magically find them there instead of Ja’marr and Deja for support, but the seats still weren’t filled by the two people who were the living embodiments of midwestern charm, and a hint of fear tightened in your chest. For a heartbeat, you worried he might crack, that the overwhelming pressure and attention would shatter the calm he’d fought so hard to maintain
Then, just as the doubt threatened to swallow him whole, his gaze found you beside him.
In that instant, the world stopped for Joe. It was like the very air held its breath, sound and motion folding in on themselves until there was nothing left but the two of you. You, glowing with tears in your eyes and love written all over your face. You, his anchor and his undoing all at once.
He’d never felt anything so absolute, so soul-deep, it bordered on terrifying. Like the universe had been conspiring from the very beginning to place you here beside him, so when moments like this threatened to pull him under, he could look at you—his soulmate—and simply exist. It was more than love; it was the kind of quiet, unstoppable truth that lived in the marrow of his bones, stitched into every thud of his heart. You were the love story he never saw coming, the lyric he’d been waiting a lifetime to write. The calm after the chaos, the soft golden hour that made everything before you look like dusk. You were the flash of color in his grayscale world, the forever he used to think belonged only in fairy tales he read as a kid, and songs that hurt too good.
Right here, with your eyes shining up at him like he hung the stars just for you, he realized again that no touchdown, no trophy, no roaring crowd could ever compare. Because this? This was the only win that ever truly mattered.
You saw the tension begin to bleed from his shoulders in a flash, watched the rigid, uncertain mask soften until it gave way to a slow, almost disbelieving smile. Then his hand found yours—warm, a little clammy, trembling with everything he couldn’t say—and squeezed tight, a desperate, silent question sparking in the blue of his eyes.
Did you hear it too?
Your tight squeeze was the only answer he needed.
As he rose from his seat, the applause crashing like waves around you, his hand immediately reached for yours again, tight, urgent, like he couldn’t take that next step without you. He didn’t just help you stand; he brought you flush against him, arms wrapping firmly around your waist as if to remind himself that this was real, that you were real, right here in this perfect, impossible moment. It was silly considering it had been over half a year with you, but he still couldn’t believe you were real, couldn’t believe you were his. Like some radiant being pulled from the pages of a storybook or the whispers of a melody, all light and grace and impossible wonder, and somehow, impossibly, you chose him.
The cameras closed in, hungry for every angle of the tender scene, but neither of you seemed to care. You tucked your head into the warm, familiar crook of his neck, breathing him in before he was swept away by the award that was calling his name. A soft sound broke free from your chest, something between a laugh and a sob, all tangled up with the sheer pride swelling inside you. “I’m so proud of you, Joey,” you whispered against his skin, your voice breaking around his name.
“Thank you for doing this with me. I love you,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, voice thick with emotion he almost never let slip. You felt the faint tremor run through him, saw the way his eyes shone under the glittering lights, wet with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes.
Before you could even answer, he leaned back just enough to capture your mouth in a soft, meaningful kiss, tasting like gratitude and awe and every quiet promise he’d ever made you. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your skin instead of his. “I love you so much,” you mumbled back, voice a little shaky from pride, disbelief, basically every emotion a human could possibly feel.
When he finally pulled away, he stayed close for just a second, his forehead resting against yours, breaths mingling. And you realized then, it wasn’t just that he was thanking you for tonight. It was for everything—for being there through the bruises and doubts and endless late nights these past 9 months, for taking every piece of him he gave you and chershing it as if it was all you were made to do, for loving him past the roar of the crowds and headlines, for submerging yourself in his chaotic, messy, fast-paced life, for making all of this mean so much more simply because you were by his side.
“Go get ‘em, Quarterback,” you smiled through your tears, letting go of his hand, painfully so.
You swore you’d get up on that stage with him if you could, but you had to let him go, just this once. Even though every cell in your body longed to follow, you knew this was his moment. So you watched with a trembling smile, hands pressed to your lips, as your Quarterback, your forever, walked up into the golden glow, ready to claim everything he’d worked for, knowing he carried you with him all the way.
He climbed the steps like the ground itself might give way, legs heavy with disbelief and adrenaline. The lights above were so bright they blurred into golden halos, turning the whole moment into something dreamlike. When they handed him the trophy, his hand closed around it with a death grip, knuckles pale, like he was terrified it would disappear if he didn’t anchor it to himself.
Beside you, Ja’marr bumped your shoulder, trying and failing to keep his grin contained. “That’s your man right there,” he rasped, voice thick, teasing but drenched in pride because his best friend was finally getting recognized for his accomplishments on the second biggest stage of them all in the NFL.
You let out a helpless giggle, tears already balancing on your lashes. You nodded, because he was right—Joe was yours. Entirely, irrevocably, beautifully yours. “That’s your best friend right there,” you quipped, quickly reaching behind you to grab your phone so you could record this beautiful moment and send it to his parents so that once they landed back in Ohio, they’d have a nice little surprise waiting on their phones.
At the mic, Joe stood silent for a heartbeat too long, staring down at the trophy like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. After the way this Bengals season had swung like a pendulum, he hadn’t let himself believe this could happen. Not tonight. Not for him. A thousand memories seemed to flicker behind his eyes—grueling rehab sessions, silent locker rooms after crushing defeats, the lonely echo of his cleats in empty hallways. All the bruises, physical and otherwise, that had built up over the season. It was all there, coiling tight in his throat, making it hard to speak.
But he knew he could do this; he knew he had it in him. He may have helped you piece yourself back together these past nine months, steadying your hands when they shook, reminding you of your worth when old wounds tried to convince you otherwise, but somewhere along the way, he realized he’d been healing, too. He could do this. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, then lifted his eyes, that familiar guarded composure cracking right open under the soft vulnerability he learned to reserve for moments like this. “Thank you,” Joe’s voice rumbled low, thick with emotion, slicing through the quiet hush of the room. He shifted the trophy in his hands, holding it up just a little. The lights hit it, throwing tiny sparks across his suit jacket like stars. “But look, football’s never been a one-man deal. This? This right here–,” he gave the trophy a small, almost playful shake, “This isn’t just mine. It’s all of ours,” he smiled, a round of applause filling the room.
Joe let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a quiet laugh, eyes glistening with the effort to keep it together. “I wanna start by thanking my coaches, my teammates, my parents and family, everyone in the Bengals building, the fans…God, the fans who’ve stuck with us through…well, through what was honestly a pretty damn tough year as you all know,”.
He paused, dragging in a breath, jaw working. “This season, man…it wasn’t easy. There were games where it felt like the whole world was sitting on my chest, losses that made me question everything, injuries that damn near broke our team inside and out. Some days, quitting might’ve seemed simpler. But that’s not who we are. That’s not what this city is. We fight. We claw. We get up, no matter how many times we get knocked down. And that’s why I love this team, this place. Because we keep going,”.
He huffed out a small, breathless laugh, one that didn’t quite hide how his eyes were turning glossy. “You know…,” he started, voice catching for a beat before he cleared it, trying to steady the rush of feeling the next few words were bringing. “I’ve been playing this game for a long time. From riding the bench at Ohio State, wondering if I’d ever get my shot to be who I’d always wanted to be…to LSU, where it all changed for me in ways I still can’t wrap my head around years later…to standing right here in front of you all tonight,”.
He drew in another breath, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a wry, tender smile. “It’s been a hell of a road. Full of moments that made me, moments that quite nearly broke me, too. And the truth is, this?” he said, looking down at the trophy in his hand. “This doesn’t decide my worth. It’s taken me a long time to understand that. Because for years, everything was about proving myself, proving I deserved a shot at Ohio State, proving I could do it at LSU and that taking that risk was worth it, proving I was worth a first-round pick, worth being trusted with a whole city’s dreams on my back,” he exhaled, almost laughing through the emotion that tightened his throat to prevent himself from getting caught up in emotions that he’d buried a long time ago. “But then there were those long months rehabbing my knee, watching everything slow down while the game kept moving on without me. Those nights after a brutal loss, when I felt like I was failing everyone. And you start to realize, your value can’t just come from moments like this. From applause or awards or headlines,”.
Joe paused, his voice dipping even softer. “I learned my worth in the quiet. In the way my teammates looked at me in the huddle when we were down by three scores and still believed. In the way people back home painted their porches stripes just because they had hope in us, even when everybody counted us out. In the way I’d walk through the door after a hard game, and she…,” his eyes flicked straight to you, shining with gratitude, “Would look at me like I was still her everything, win or lose,”.
The camera found you instantly, like it always did, catching the exact moment your hand flew to your mouth, eyes shimmering with tears that slipped freely down your cheeks. A few soft “awws” rose from the crowd, the entire room leaning into this headline-worthy moment that felt far too intimate to be shared with thousands. “…Joey,” you whispered to yourself, voice trembling with so much love it almost hurt, your blush creeping all the way to the tips of your ears. Your eyes never left his, silently telling him everything your heart was screaming, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I’m so proud of you. I’d choose you a thousand times over if it meant seeing you smile like that,”.
His throat bobbed with another swallow, “So no, this trophy doesn’t define me. It doesn’t decide my worth. It just…it’s another chapter. A beautiful one I get to share with every single person who’s been part of this messy, incredible, impossible journey. And for that, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life,”.
Then he let out a gentle, almost disbelieving laugh—his Joe laugh—eyes sweeping over the crowd, over his teammates and peers, the few members of Bengals staff in attendance, the families in the audience, and finally, inevitably, back to you. “I’m grateful as hell. For every person who believed in me when I didn’t always believe in myself. For every guy in that locker room who went to fight on that field right beside me, fought through the ugly, the bruises, the heartbreak, just to come back stronger. And for everyone back home in Cincy who kept the faith, who never stopped wearing that orange and black, even when it got real dark,”.
He paused again, blinking fast, jaw flexing like he was trying to keep it all inside. “It means more than I can ever say. And I promise, I’m gonna keep fighting. Keep growing. Keep earning this. For all of us,”.
Then, as if the whole room melted away, his eyes locked onto yours, with that quiet, steady kind of love that feels like coming home, like a secret only the two of you knew, clear, persistent, and full of a thousand unsaid promises. The noise softened into a distant murmur, the lights dimmed into a gentle glow, and suddenly it was just you two, wrapped in your own world. A soft smile curved his lips, warm and tender, like the first notes of your favorite love song. Beneath that calm, familiar look, you caught a hint of vulnerability, the kind of natural, soft passion that hits you deep in your bones, like you’re the only one who truly sees him, and he’s been waiting all along to be seen like that.
“But most of all…,” his breath hitched, “I want to thank the person who’s changed everything for me these past few months. More than any game, any yard, any trophy ever could,”.
He puffed a soft breath, eyes shining as more memories, softer memories, seemed to play out behind them. “This is probably really uncharacteristic for me to do and say, I usually don't talk too much about my personal life, but I mean it when I say this woman has completely changed me since the moment she caught my eye. These past nine months, man…they were supposed to be the hardest of my career. Fighting through a recovering injury, tough losses, all that noise on the outside. Long flights back to Cincy with my body aching, game tape looping in my head, wondering how I could come back from every minor setback, wondering if I could come back. And then I’d walk through the door, and there you were, barefoot in my kitchen…our kitchen, dancing to ‘Heavenly,’ humming like you were made for that little slant of moonlight coming through our window. Singing to me like there was no stadium, no cameras, like I wasn’t Joe the Quarterback, but was Joey the man who you opened your heart to.
His voice dropped to a raw, aching softness as he shifted his weight onto his other leg, “You held me together when I felt like falling apart. Loved me even when I hated myself for missing a throw or letting the city down. When I was scared, confused, lost in the noise…you loved me harder. In ways I didn’t even know I needed. You’re my calm in the chaos of the pocket, my fire when it’s fourth and long, my home no matter how far this game takes me. I thought the plane was going down, and I still don’t know how you turned it right around, but you did. You’re magic, Y/N. And if this game’s taught me anything, it’s that stats fade, trophies collect dust, but love like this? This is what I’ll remember long after the stadium lights go out. I’m forever grateful to have fallen in love with a girl like you, who makes this so much more worth it,” he grinned, lightly raising the trophy to solidify what he meant by that.
You sucked in a tiny, startled breath, eyes going wide, your heart flipping painfully in your chest.
“Labyrinth,” you mumbled under your breath.
That was your song. The one you wrote about how you’d fallen for him against every odd, how he saved you without even trying. And now, here he was, standing under some of the brightest lights of his career, quoting it back to you like a promise, like he knew exactly what those words meant to you because they meant the same to him.
“You’ve always been my greatest win, long before any scoreboard lit up or a trophy ended up in my hands. This is just proof to everyone else that I’m good at what I do. But you…you’re the real prize. You’re the one I get to go home to. That’s the only victory that’s ever truly mattered to me,”.
Your hand lifted softly to your cheek, brushing away another stray tear as your lips moved silently, mouthing, “I love you, Golden Boy,”. He caught the gesture, returning it with a playful wink that sent a warm spark straight through you.
The crowd shifted, some whispering, others dabbing at their eyes, but for Joe, the world collapsed into just you, bathed in the shimmer of a thousand yellow lights, every tiny sparkle catching in your hair, your eyes, the gentle part of your lips. The soft curve of your smile hit him harder than any stadium roar ever could, sending a rush of heat through his chest, making his hands flex around the trophy like he might drop it.
He drew in a final, long breath, the trophy rising in his hand, and when he spoke, his voice dipped into that husky, reverent tone that wrapped around your heart like warm velvet. “So…thank you. To every person who’s ever believed in me. But most of all, to you, babe, my compass, my calm, my spark when I didn’t even know I needed one,”.
He paused, and something unguarded, achingly gentle spread across his face, a smile meant only for you. His eyes found yours and held, tender and certain, “Because this? All of this…It’s always been yours. Just like I am. I love you,”.
In that heartbeat, you knew this was bigger than any record, any sold-out stadium, any glittering award. This was your love story—beautiful, battered, impossibly bright—and it would outshine every accolade the world could offer. He spent nearly half his speech wrapped up in you, thanking you, loving you out loud in a way that felt almost too tender for the glare of the stage lights. It was everything you’d ever dreamed of and more. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation or insecurity in him about sharing this spotlight with you, someone whose own star shone just as bright. If anything, he seemed proud…proud to stand there and show the entire world that his biggest triumph wasn’t the award in his hands, but the love you’d built together.
You felt the emotion bubble in your throat, wanting nothing more than to cry into his suit jacket while he soothed you in every way possible, but you had to hold yourself back. That moment didn’t need to be caught on camera; some things were still supposed to be yours.
So, you watched him stride down the steps with a newfound ease, a radiant joy in his every movement that hadn’t been there before. The way his shoulders relaxed, the subtle bounce in his step, it all hit you like a wave of pride and love crashing through your chest. He did that, he really did that with no reluctance or nerves inhibiting the passion behind every word or movement. That was growth.
That was all your doing.
In that perfect, unguarded moment while you watched him stroll over to you, the biggest grin on his face and confidence practically radiating off him, the only thought you could hold onto was,
“That’s my fucking man.”
A few hours later
“Y/N, you’re so…oh fuck,”.
The bed squeaked under you, a steady beat pounding through the room as you continued to slide down his thick length, every movement a fiery dance of reward and release. His hands gripped your hips with desperate possessiveness, thumbs pressing into your skin, surely leaving fingerprints you’d proudly show off tomorrow by wearing a crop-top, as you leaned forward, breath hitching with the wild, intoxicating heat between you. His cock stretched you perfectly, deep and relentless, and you could feel every pulse of him driving up into you, setting fire to your insides much like the alcohol you consumed during the after party did to your hormones.
You’d stumbled into the hotel suite about an hour ago, giggling like teenagers who’d just discovered how good the world could feel—buzzing off too-strong mocktails, adrenaline, and the electric high of the night. And to top it all of, you were both so unbelievably horny, hands all over each other the second the door clicked shut, tearing at fancy clothes like they were little more than wrapping paper keeping you from what you really wanted. His eyes were stuck on you the entire after-party as you mingled with other athletes, some of your industry friends, and anyone important who was dying to talk to the woman who rocked the music industry and the NFL in back-to-back weekends. That denim corset minidress was making him want to legitimately risk it all, he was even considering taking those public indecency charges you joked about on he carpet earlier in the night because he just had to get his hands on his girl. He didn’t care where or when, he just needed to feel you.
Which is why, after that long, playful game the two of you had been locked in all evening—eyes finding each other across the crowded room again and again, your secret moments—you finally cracked. It started when he caught your gaze from across the floor, his expression all quiet mischief and heat. His brows lifted in a slow, exaggerated question that made your stomach flip. You couldn’t help it; you bit your lip, letting your lashes lower as you gave him the tiniest nod, just enough for him to see.
Joe’s answering grin was downright sinful. He didn’t look away, didn’t let you breathe for even a second. Instead, he let his gaze drop—dragging it painstakingly down your body, from your glossy lips to the way your dress hugged your hips, down to your lefs before easing back up with a hungry gleam in his eye. It was the kind of look that promised he’d ruin you the second he got you alone.
Then, with maddening slowness, he raised his hand, scratched his jaw like he was thinking something over, before barely tipping his head toward the door. Just the smallest, cocky flick of his chin, his meaning clear as day, “Wanna get out of here?”.
You swore your entire body went hot. Still, you held his gaze, deliberately letting your eyes narrow in playful challenge, “Really? right now?”, just to tease him a little longer.
But then he did something that completely drew you in, he pointed at the door with just his eyes again, then let them travel back to your face with a knowing smirk that was somehow both boyish and filthy, and you felt yourself practically melt into the floor.
Yeah. That was it. That was all it took.
Moments later, you were both slipping out the back exit, trying to look casual, even as the thrill of your little escape burned like fire under your skin. And you’d been glued to this bed ever since, making every secret promise from across that room come true. Irish Goodbye’s were slowly becoming your staple.
Your nails dug into his chest, clutching the cool metal of his chains, dragging them taut against his throat as you bounced on his cock, wild and gasping. Your hips snapped in a frantic rhythm, the obscene wet sound of your bodies colliding filling the dim hotel room. Joe’s head fell back against the pillow, jaw tight, throat working around every broken groan as his heavy-lidded eyes devoured you—your tits bouncing beautifully with each thrust, your parted lips swollen from biting down on them, hair wild around your face like some gorgeous, reckless halo
“Fuck, look at you...riding me like you were made for it. My gorgeous girl,” his big hands gripped your ass, fingertips biting deep as he drove up into you, sharp, greedy thrusts that made the headboard slam against the wall. Hopefully, nobody was staying in the room next to you…or below. You’d never show your face at this hotel again if someone heard the noises coming from this room almost every night you’d been here.
The slide of him was devastating, stretching you until you cried out, every deep fill kissing your cervix. “Joe…fuck, please,” you choked, nails digging cruel lines into his chest. His eyes locked on yours, wild with need, every muscle taut beneath your hands.
“Gonna cum…baby…fuck,” he rasped, voice breaking on another desperate moan. His hands were everywhere now, gripping your hips so tightly, sliding up to squeeze your waist, then clutching at your tits, desperate to touch every part of you as he chased that edge. His hips snapped up into you again and again, brutal and relentless, and the chains you still fisted pulled tight against his throat, forcing another strangled moan from him that vibrated right through your chest. Then he spilled into you with a soft, wrecked groan, hips thrusting up into your slick core again and again, chasing every last wave of pleasure. Your name tumbled from his lips in a shattered loop, “Y/N, fuck, fuck…Y/N,”, half-whimper, half-praise, until it was nothing but breathless, helpless sounds. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks, and his chest heaved under your hands like he’d just run miles. Then, through the haze, a small, blissed-out smile broke across his face—sweet and dazed, the kind that made your heart squeeze painfully tight.
That was all it took, the searing heat of him flooding inside you, the raw, desperate worship in his ragged moans that echoed through your core. It shattered something deep in your belly, a wildfire igniting every nerve ending at once, “Fuck, Joe!” you gasped as you clenched around him with everything you had, nails digging fierce, desperate lines down his chest, painting it with red trails, as your own orgasm exploded in a sharp, ragged scream that ripped free from your throat. Every muscle clenched tight, then shuddered uncontrollably, your walls squeezing him greedily, pulsing and milking every last drop of him as your vision blurred into a blinding, white-hot storm of pleasure that consumed you utterly.
You finally melted into him after that, completely blissed out and boneless, your chest rising and falling against his steady, powerful heartbeat. His arms closed around you like a shield, one hand threading gently through your tangled hair, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles at your scalp. The other hand glided tenderly up and down your sweat-slicked back, never still, as if every inch of your skin was sacred, impossible to leave untouched. Your bodies clung together, trembling with the electric aftershocks of release—slick, flushed, and utterly spent—breathing each other in deeply, both completely wrecked and whole at the same time, wrapped in the sweetest, rawest, most intoxicating kind of victory.
“That was a better reward than the trophy,” he breathlessly chuckled, breaking the comforting silence with a soft, raspy laugh that vibrated against your skin. His fingers tightened just a little in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “And honestly? I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else in the world,”.
You tilted your head, eyes heavy with heat and lingering pleasure, searching his face for the words on your tongue. But before you could speak, he leaned down slowly, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a gentle, tender kiss to your swollen, trembling lips, like he was memorizing every curve and taste, promising more to come. You smirked, voice teasing as you mumbled against his lips, “Even if the government finally dropped the news that aliens are real and living among us, would you still choose this moment over that?”. Your words hung between you, playful but heavy with meaning, daring him to say no.
“Yup,” he murmured against your cheek without hesitation, his lips warm and delicate as they lingered there, pressing a kiss that felt more like a promise than anything else. “Them confirming those suspicions would be insane, I’ve been waiting on that since high school, but it wouldn’t come close to this,” his thumb traced idle, loving patterns across your waist, his voice dipping lower, rough with something achingly raw. “Nothing could. I’m the MVP, I have the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me right here, the hottest woman to walk the earth, wrapped up in my arms, looking at me like I hung the moon…It’s like the rest of the world just stops existing. It’s only ever gonna be you for me, baby,”.
You sighed, completely undone, as you buried your face in the steady beat of his chest, your emotions doing somersaults in your brain currently. “Joe Burrow,” you whispered, voice trembling with so much adoration for this man beneath you, “What have you done to me?”. Every word soaked in the quiet, endless love that had you so utterly, hopelessly gone.
He brushed a slow, lingering kiss over the crown of your head, lips warm and tender, staying like he was trying to memorize every fragile, precious piece of you. “Made you believe in happy endings?” he murmured, voice soft and a little raspy from exhaustion, wrapped in a kind of wonder that gripped your heart in a breathless vise. It wasn’t truly a question—he already knew. It was there in the way your eyes softened every time they met his, the way your body melted closer without a single thought, as if you were always meant to find your place against him.
His breath ghosted over your temple, scattering goosebumps across your skin, and you felt the shape of his smile pressing into your hair, a smile so bright it could’ve lit the dim, golden room all on its own. When you finally shifted your face up again, the look in his eyes nearly knocked the air from your lungs. He gazed down at you like you were spun from pure starlight, a living, breathing miracle he somehow got to hold.
Happy Endings.
He was right. He truly made you believe in the impossible, that you could have it all. Fierce love that didn’t just stand with you, it stood for you, the dizzying glow of fame, but with less expectation to constantly be this version of yourself that only existed in others’ minds, and the reckless joy of youth that you were always meant to have. Everything that had been snatched from your hands a year ago, Joe brought back to you. But not the old, worn-out versions. He gave them back to you reborn, fresh and shimmering with new light, like a second chance wrapped in the promise of forever.
The past two weeks...they played out behind your eyelids in dazzling flashes. Your voice breaking as you held that Grammy on stage, a stage you never expected to be standing on again, the way Joe squeezed your hand so tight tonight at the Honors because he needed you—and not the thought of fame and fortune—to anchor him to the moment, his palm slick with nerves and hope. All of it building to this quiet hotel suite, where the gowns and suits lay in careless heaps on the floor, and the only spotlight was the gentle spill of lamplight catching on tangled limbs and sleepy smiles. As if every late night, every heartbreak, every high had led you here. You had never been this content with your life, from your career to your inner happiness, to your relationship. It was all…flawless.
This was your happy ending.
A soft, shaky laugh broke through your lips, fragile and cracked as you pressed your face to his chest, right over where his heart pounded so wildly for you. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice unsteady. “You did. More than I ever thought anyone could,”.
His arms tightened protectively, pulling you closer like he wished he could tuck you inside his ribs, keep you nestled there forever, keep you safe from absolutely anything that left even the slightest bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m proud of you, you know that? You’re so good at doing this…being what I need, being in my world, but also while staying true to yourself,” he nodded, looking up at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling above where you were laying, the sparkle of the crystals mirroring the sparkles he had seen in your eyes earlier in the night when he met you after his MVP speech.
You giggled softly, the sound light and teasing despite the weight of the moment, amused by how, even though this was his night, he couldn’t stop showering you with praise. With a slow smile tugging at your lips, you shifted your weight and lifted yourself up, straddling his hips, the warmth of his skin beneath you leveling every flutter of your heart. Your fingers reached up to brush the damp strands of hair away from his eyes, your touch gentle and purposeful, fingertips tracing the curve of his brow as you looked deep into the quiet awe shimmering in his gaze. “Well,” you breathed, voice low and sultry as you met his eyes, “I’m proud of you too…MVP. For being what I need, for fitting so well into my world, all while still being my Joey. We make a pretty good power couple, don’t we?”.
His breath caught at your words, chest rising beneath your palms as though your praise had pressed all the air from his lungs. You felt his heart thunder under your touch, a deep, rolling beat that seemed to echo the way your own pulsed wildly in your chest. He tilted his head into your hand as you swept his hair back again, his eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat like he was memorizing the delicate feel of your fingers on his skin. “She feels the same way,” he thought to himself, smiling at how this time you’d finally admitted it and not him.
When he opened them again, they were bright with something raw and wonderstruck. His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing little circles over your warm, goosebumped skin, savoring every inch. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice hoarse with affection, a crooked smile breaking across his face that sent a sharp pang straight through your heart. “We make a hell of a team. Unstoppable, actually. like…scary levels of perfect together,” his hands squeezed your hips gently, grounding himself in the lush give of your body. “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe it’s me who gets this. Who gets you. Not just the woman who lights up arenas and stadiums and takes home Grammys, or the girl who turned every eye in that theatre tonight…but you. Barefoot in our kitchen or backyard, giggling at your own jokes, singing off-key when you’re tipsy, curled up next to me like I’m the safest place you’ve ever been,”.
Your lips parted on a fragile, trembling breath as you cradled his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing over the slight dampness on his cheeks, whether from sweat, tears, or just the heat between you, you couldn’t tell. His scruff rasped deliciously against your skin, a small, grounding friction that made it all feel painfully, beautifully real. His eyes…oh god, those oceanic eyes, they gazed up at you with such open tenderness it nearly undid you right there. “Joey,” you whispered, your voice a shredded, delicate thing. How did you even begin to put words to this? To the way he saw you, really saw you—past the glitter, past the headlines, past even your carefully tended cracks. He’d loved every one of your hidden scars like they were little constellations, something to admire instead of conceal. It broke you and remade you all at once. “If you keep talking like that, I’m gonna have to drop to one knee and put a ring on your finger myself,” you tried to tease, but the words wobbled, soaked in too much truth, eyes glistening with tears you didn’t bother to fight.
A warm, shaky laugh rumbled in his chest. Then he leaned up, closing the last few inches between you to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. He lingered there, kissing your pulse like he was memorizing it, feeling it hammer just for him. “Mmm, no you won’t,” he whispered, voice low and brushed with a rough sweetness that made your heart lurch. “That’s my job. And it’ll happen…when all the pieces line up just right, when I can give you the moment you deserve. Don’t worry about that, baby. I’ve got you,”.
Something about how certain he sounded, how gently possessive, made your throat tighten with a rush of feeling so big it almost hurt. Your fingers threaded through his soft hair, tugging just enough to draw a sharp, delicious inhale from him. His eyes went dark and hungry, pupils blown wide, mouth parting like he was on the verge of saying something insatiable and respectful all at once. You leaned in, your noses brushing, breath mingling in a shared, trembling hush. The air felt thick with something golden and electric, as though the universe itself had paused to watch, holding its breath for the two of you. You could feel the slick heat of your bodies pressed together, his heart thrumming wildly under your palms, your own skipping in wild, giddy stutters that made you feel dizzy.
“Well then,” you whispered, your smile small and shaky and so full of wonder it hurt. Tears pricked your lashes again, but this time they were soft, sweet things. “Guess you’re stuck with me forever, Quarterback,”.
His hands slid up to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with an almost worshipful care. “Damn right I am,” he breathed. Then he pulled you down into a kiss—slow, melting, deep enough to make your toes curl. It tasted like salt and sugar, like victory and home, like every quiet miracle you’d ever dared to pray for finally blooming in your mouths.
Your bodies molded even closer, the silky sheets rustling beneath you, the lamplight catching on your tangled hair, and the slight sheen of sweat on your skin. The room was still faintly perfumed with champagne and roses from earlier in the night, from celebrations and bouquets that felt like another lifetime. And somewhere below it all was that soft, intimate scent that was just you and him, mingled and warm.
When you finally pulled back, breathing each other in, your forehead resting against his, you felt it again—that sure, bright spark that whispered this wasn’t the end. This was your beginning. A beginning built on late nights curled together whispering about dreams, on bright lights and blinding triumphs, on quiet moments just like this one where love felt so big it might swallow you whole.
Your happy ending wasn’t some perfect, polished thing. It was right here, in messy sheets and tear-streaked cheeks, in unsteady laughter and trembling kisses, in two hearts that had somehow found each other and decided, against every odd, to stay.
And god, wasn’t that the most beautiful story of all?
--The End--
the social media follow-up fic will be up as soon as possible <3