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When the house is empty years later—Jack Jack hunkered down in New York, Roslyn tucked away at Ohio State—and it’s just Joe and Domme again, after the passing of Jewels, who passed the day after Roslyn’s high school graduation, and the geckos have crossed into the great beyond halfway through Jack Jack’s first semester at college, Joe thinks it’s eerie to have a quiet and calm house again. He craved a modicum of calm during the pre-teen and early teen years, when Jack Jack and Ros would bicker often playfully, but still loud, when the house was a constant flurry of emotions—puberty, first crushes, heartbreak, frustration, deep-seated yearning for independence rubbing against his and Domme’s own worry and wisdom. Joe took the quiet days with a reverence starving and dehydrated men take being offered food and water—fervently and grotesque. Uncaring and possibly even a little reckless.
Joe grew fond of the chaos in a way. It reminded him of game days, when he’d be in the middle of the pocket, watching for when it will collapse, scanning his receivers, counting the seconds and slowing down his senses. Fatherhood and being a quarterback are different in many, many ways, but they felt borrowed of each other in some ways too. Like remaining calm under pressure, how to prioritize and re-prioritize with each new huddle, or milestone. How to handle Ros when she felt like everything was crumbling around her when a date with a boy she really liked turned out to be nothing more than a dare the boy couldn’t see through. How to reach Jack Jack when he turned so far inward he felt more like a shadow than the sweet, silly boy Joe knows him to be. A quiet churning behind Jack Jack’s eyes that Joe recognizes instantly. As uncomfortable as it was, and still is for Joe, staring at Jack is like staring into a mirror. The sometime crude joke of him messing with Roslyn’s things—like turning off the lights after delivering the Oreos she asked for, or farting in her room just to get a reaction and Roslyn chasing after him in retaliation with one of her stuffed animals armed at the ready for firing at Jack Jack’s back—became the soundtrack of their weekends, and lives in a way that without it the house feels too empty.
The noise brought the house alive. It made the physical structure of the house into a home. Because a home with two kids, and a cat, and the geckos is supposed to be loud. Joe should still be pulling in from work to a yard full of bicycles, and skateboards, and scooters discarded haphazardly. The house should be packed with Jack Jack’s friends congregated in the den or deck; Ros and her friends in the living room or upstairs in her room. There should be teenagers raiding the fridge and pantries that he and Domme are meticulous about keeping stocked even now because there are still some of the kids from the neighborhood and beyond that don't come from the same means that Jack and Roslyn do and they should never feel turned away or uncared for. There should still be kids who ask Domme for help with their hair, or homework, or just need a hug. There should be laughter and noise. So much noise that Joe should be able to feel it in his teeth.
Yet, there’s hardly a peep surrounding him now.
Joe learned how to juggle all the noise, and the tender moments and the stern ones. He learned to do it artfully, even if sometimes it was not perfect. He’s a damn good dad. A fact he’s proud of and proud to admit because even the boys he coaches see it, enough so a tradition grew amongst the team to come to some of Ros’ spring games and cheer for her. A tradition carried on year after year, leading to an entire section of the bleachers reserved just for the college ball team for the years Roslyn played.
The thing is: Joe’s not so good with change sometimes, when his routine is altered abruptly. And the house is too damn quiet now. It’s unsettling. There’s no more tags to twinkle softly behind Roslyn. There’s no more Roslyn—at least for now until winter break. There’s no Jack Jack either. But he’s been in and out of the house for the last two years—back for the Christmas, but stays in New York during the summers. Jack Jack works two jobs. One as a barista on weekend mornings and a server at night throughout the week, on top of classes, and working on demos for his music. Joe would be more than happy to support him financially living in the city, even offered it so Jack could focus on music. Jack insists to do it on his own, though he does appreciates that Joe and Domme are only a phone call away. A thing that Domme took literally that first year Jack Jack went away for college. In his spring term, right before finals and just a few weeks after he found a job, he called Domme. Just to talk. But somewhere in the quick fifteen minutes they talked, Domme ordered a flight.
When the alert came through on Joe’s phone, he found her in the bedroom, peeling open her travel backpack. She didn’t even look up when Joe asked her if everything was okay. She merely answered, “It was in his voice. I can tell something’s just not right.”
Wordlessly, Joe helped her even though it was unnecessary. She was in New York less than twenty four hours in total. Her flight in landed midday the following day. She found Jack Jack after his classes, had a late lunch at the restaurant he had a shift at, talked with him while he worked, left a more than generous tip in cash, and then she flew back that evening. It was only meant to be long enough to 'lay eyes on him' as she put it.
Joe doesn’t have much leg to stand on, considering just last month, only a few weeks after they dropped Roslyn off at her dorm—a strange experience for Joe to be back on the campus which felt familiar and new all the same—she called not in tears, but equally distressed sounding over the stress of college, being somewhere totally new, and feeling ridiculous for missing home even though she wanted to get away. Joe was in the car after texting Domme about his departure and was parked in front of Ros’ dorm in just over an hour. The same prayer Joe usually puts over Domme, he had to say over himself to not get a ticket nor to cause an accident. It was worth it to sit in the the McDonald’s close by, splitting a large fry and a large Dr. Pepper—like they used to do after flag football practice sometimes, and then lacrosse, and then it just became a thing for Ros when she wanted to talk but didn’t want to be home. It became their thing. A practice that doesn’t hold the same magic without the other.
Joe would make that drive as many times as Ros needed him too, just to sit in the booth side by side, her resting her head into his shoulder and just talk. About everything and about nothing too. Joe would always be there for her, no matter what. That is his job, as her father, but more important than that because he loves her too. And fuck if that doesn’t make him miss the times even before sports, when he’d pick Ros up early from school just so they could try the next treat on their list at their favorite bakery. How he’d come into the office every couple months on a Friday afternoon, having managed to get a couple meetings moved around to pick her up. Joe misses how Ros would sit low in her carseat, giggling to herself as to avoid the risk of running into Domme out in the city. The two of them making a mission out of those days ducking between cars and around poles only to sit out in the open air on nice days with their latest test subjects, croissants, bagels, donuts.
“I miss my kids,” Joe pouts to himself, folding his arms around the couch cushion in his lap. It’s more a general statement, a fact to the open air and all a quiet admission to himself before he turns to another channel. Hoping that maybe all he needs in a change in viewing to help relieve the unease. He flips until he lands on some old western, a film he has never seen and probably never will considering how much he is not paying attention to the TV right now. The movie plays on for maybe twenty minutes. Joe is not sure. Just long enough though that he releases the distraction it provides is minimal.
Joe misses the rounds of play wrestling with Jack Jack, the quiet conversations on the steps to the backyard. Joe misses the shout of Jack Jack for the entire family to come listen to a new guitar line, or some new lyric he finally got right. He misses those late afternoon strolls, when Jack Jack and he would wander through the neighborhood or wherever new they were and take note of the insects, and lizards, and bugs. Neither one of them were great entomologists, but it was nice in the summer breeze to hear the crickets singing, hands covered in thick cold mud turning over rocks in the hopes of some new discovery. Joe misses the counts, following behind Jack Jack as he worked through his materials arts, the soft tap of feet and the swish of the gi.
Now, it just so fucking strange not to hear someone or some creature around. The couch feels much too large without the kids sprawled across it. The sounds feels too wide and too empty without Jack Jack's strumming or Ros chatting about every detail of her day. There’s no one knocking at the door to ask if Jack or Ros could come out to play, or asking to hang out in their home.
Joe sits, arms still folded around one of the cushions, feet lifted onto the corner of the coffee table—socked because even though Domme’s currently out, her spirit stills nag him about being bare feet on the piece of furniture. Not that he minds her little quirks. It’s comforting to always have a little piece of her even if it’s just his own consciousness. Yet, not even that cuts through the thick and awkward silence of how still the house is. It’s much too calm.
“I miss my wife too,” Joe pouts again. Again, it is only a revelation not meant for anyone or for any particular reason—it’s just a fact, something to hopefully cut through the grating silence.
He misses Jewels too. And the geckos, who though quiet, were a comforting presence—steady as they were always there, unwavering as they blinked up at Joe from behind the glass on the occasion he has had to feed them. He misses what he took for granted, a busy house, alive in ways that drained him at times. But now as Joe is alone on his couch, he realizes the constant buzz filled his cup too. His kids love him, and his kids’ friends felt safe enough in the home that he and Domme created. The world is vast and the universe even bigger, but this house at the start of the street was, and still is, a safe haven for so many. A fact that Joe takes immense pride in.
A blessing though is that Joe doesn’t have to miss Domme anymore as the gears of the garage door echo throughout the house. Joe follows the sound, meeting Domme in the laundry room, the chamber between the garage and the rest of the house.
She’s grinning, like always, as she settles against his chest and her arms wind around his waist in a hug. “Hi, Papa Bear.”
“Hi, baby,” Joe hums back, winding his arms around her shoulder. An embrace that he feels deep into his chest because thankfully he has someone back.
Without thought, Joe slides his palms from her shoulders and slips them over her waist. Domme hisses and Joe pulls away sharply, hands hovering over her body, and his brows knitted together. “Shit, I’m sorry. You okay?”
Domme nods. “Just a little tender.”
“Tender?” Joe’s fingers are curling around the hem of her t-shirt. An instinctual move to look check for blood, a byproduct of all the years of skinned knees from the playground and the children’s sports. He finds himself moving without truly thinking at all until Domme’s swatting at his hands.
“Hey, hey, hey. I’m not Jack Jack or Ros.” Her laughter swallows the words, but the repeated taps to Joe’s fingers tell a different story—one that he needs to take a step back.
He drops the hold around her t-shirt, but steps in even closer to her. One hand cups her cheek. “You just said it’s tender? What the hell happened?”
Joe knows she was out to get her scheduled manicure and pedicure. He figured, given how much time passed after, she might’ve run an additional couple errands—there was the return that needed to be dropped off at the post office, which was gone from where it’d been dumped next to the front door by the time Joe set out to leave.
It’d been a divide and conquer day. Joe was picking up the dry cleaning, grabbing a few odds and ends for the house, and still needed be back in time for the plumbers. They suspected a leak with a pipe, well Domme did, and the plumbers confirmed it a few days ago. They got a temporary fix into place and had to come back to finish the job properly. All of that, the dry cleaning, the grocery sore, are the kind of things Joe would’ve preferred to do with Domme around, would’ve killed to have her small interjections, her hand in his as they walked around. Her presence would’ve made sitting in the kitchen while the plumbers worked more bearable.
Yet, they had to be apart. It just made the most sense and was the most convenient. It didn’t mean that Joe had to like it. He never really would either. However, to think in just the few short hours she’d been gone, that something happened to her gets under Joe’s skin. Maybe she’d tripped, or been bumped. Maybe Domme was trying to help someone else and inadvertently gotten hurt herself. All those possibilities make Joe’s chest tighten. It worries and infuriates him too that he hadn’t been there.
“No, no, nothing bad. I can see your jaw tightening. It is nothing bad, promise. You remember how we took Roslyn to get her tragus pierced at the tattoo shop not too far from where Veronica is for Ros’ birthday?”
Joe sighs. The tightness in his chest doesn’t ease, but he keeps it locked away until he knows for certain it’s nothing bad. “I remember. Jack got his ears pierced that day too.”
Joe and Domme flew him in for the weekend—on his request so that he could be there for her. Jack stayed long enough to help her finish packing for college and move her into her dorm that weekend too. By that Monday, the entire house was empty. Roslyn wanted a new piercing, to add to the two sets of lobe piercings she had. A piercing that would not need parental consent as she was now a legal adult. Yet, she hadn't wanted to into the salon alone, so the whole family went with her. Jack Jack went back into the piercing area with her while Domme and Joe were in the front of the shop.
Domme doesn’t say anything else after Joe finishes his recollection, just peels the cotton up, turning so her left rib faces Joe. Etched into her skin—though it’s slightly red and puffy—are three flowers. The petals opened big and wide. Each flower holds splashes of color—a deep purple, a garnet that for a moment looks exactly like blood until his eyes adjusts, and a soft baby blue—saturated enough to bounce well off her skin. The tallest flower is in the middle, the one painted the soft baby blue color, the red and purple ones rests on either side. They look like—
“Dahlias?” Joe questions, easing down into a squat for a better look.
“Yeah.”
Closer now Joe notices that the middle of the flowers don’t look like they should. There’s swirls and lines that look like a topographical map etched in. A tiny, oh so tiny lowercase cursive ‘j’ rests in the middle of the lines. He carries on to red flower and sees more lines and swirls that lead to another tiny ‘j’ and in the middle of the purple flower a small cursive ‘r’ rests inside. The stalks are tiny and wispy lines tied off in a bow that dances along to her ribs.
Reflexively, Joe reaches out. Wants to touch it but then remembers it's still tender and he probably shouldn't disturb a fresh tattoo. He settles for his fingers grazing just at the bottom of the transparent film over the ink. “Are those the initials of the kids?”
“Yes. And yours too.” Her sapphire cladded finger comes into the top of his peripheral as she taps just above the tallest of the flowers, as if to single him out.
His throat burns, and the tightens that once was the protective flair, this thing of anger, melts into something softer. That’s her skin, painted with each of them. Their family rendered so artfully into something just as permanent as blood and DNA. His eyes well with tears as he looks up at her. “Purple for her middle name, right?”
“Of course. How could I not?”
“And the red? For Jack?” He assumes it's the January birthstone, but he doesn’t want to be wrong about the reasoning. He does not want to be wrong about something so vital, fragile, and important as this.
“Yeah, his birthstone.”
Joe nods, lips parting to something something else—to convey how honored he is that she did this, that she wants to carry all of them like this— but then Domme swims again with the fresh wave of tears. Maybe now isn’t the right time. Or maybe he doesn’t have the right word just yet. So Joe withholds and instead glances back down to the flowers. “And then...baby blue?” It’s not quite a baby blue, there is a slightly more greenish undertone too it. It’s still blue, but with just a little something else added into the mix.
Domme hums an affirmative. “For your eyes. Those are each of your fingerprints, in the middle of each of the flowers too.”
God, he really wants to touch it, trace the lines the needle etched into her, how Domme’s got a piece of each of them to carry fully integrated into her being. He can’t. Not without hurting her. So Joe stands and gathers her hips into his hands. “It’s beautiful, baby.”
Her palms are warm as Domme holds his face and wipes away his tears. “There’s even Jewels and the geckos in there too.”
“I—I didn’t see that. Let me look again,” Joe returns breathless as he eases the shirt up again. The inhale is deep but it steadies him as Joe studies her skin again. There in at the ends of the ribbon Joe catches a tiny cat paw print in the center to two sets of gecko tracks.
It’s more hip than rib where Joe plants the kiss, but he hopes is a spot that will be unlikely to cause pain. Behind the warmth that’s settled into his chest, behind the honor and the awe, there is something deeper, hotter, more carnal. Mine and ours, plays on repeat in Joe’s head. Domme is his, without question. And would always be his too. Just like he’d be hers, endlessly, selflessly, and maybe even just a little bit of greed and selfishness is in there too.
Mine, she’s all mine. Joe presses his nose into her flesh, inhales a slightly more chemical but fresh edge off her skin—probably from the process of tattoo—and lets that more primal urge bubble. It escapes out his chest in a low groan. A mixture of knowing that she’s marked herself as his in all ways possible and the tenderness of her to carry every bit of their family with her forever.
“I know what that sounds means,” Domme laughs. Her hands settle into his hair, the tips of her nails dragging along his scalp.
His spine shivers, a chill crawling down his skin at the steady stroke of her fingers. Joe peels out of her stomach and looks up through his lashes. “I am but a man.” Mortal, flawed, prideful, envious, and utterly desperate for her—a taste, something just to satiate the thirst, if such a thing is achievable when it comes to them about each other.
“A man that needs to behave,” Domme reprimands. Her brow arches; she means business.
But Joe’s always been in the business of testing the waters—well, now he is. He stands, fills his hands with her ass and tugs her in closer. Her laughter falls from her deep and in a purr. “If you wanted me to behave, you should’ve either not told me about this until later, once it healed, or you make it a command. Because if not for either of those things, I do plan to ruin you.”
Domme loops her arms around his neck, eases up to her tip toes. It’s just enough leverage that Joe takes it as invitation. He adjusts his grip and hoists her up. It’s easy even still after all the years away from football. He’s made sure to lift regularly just for moments like this. Domme winds her legs around his waist. Her lips slot in so close to Joe he can feel the heat radiating off them. But it’s not a kiss. Not quite. “I sat for two and a half hours being stabbed by multiple needles to get this. You are not fucking it up. Behave.”
The deep and slow grovel in her voice is a command. Even it hurts that it is, Joe’s going to heed it. “Yes, Miss,” he whispers.
Her grin causes her lips to brush over his. She lands, one, then two soft pats to his cheek with her palm. “Good boy. Always so good for me.” It sounds like honey, hearing her praise him. Joe can’t help the flutter of his eyes closed to savor the purr in her voice. “Kiss me. Please.”
Joe doesn’t need to be told twice. He seals his mouth around hers, savors the peppermint lingering on her tongue. One from her purse, Joe is sure. A staple that she carries now no matter what. The good thing about all the time they’ve had in the house means that they both know it backwards and forwards. Even in the heat Joe melts into of Domme’s kiss, he carries her with ease to the dryer. He deposits her gently to the top of it, smooths his hands over her thighs—over the thin material of her linen pants. The kisses echo around them, but the sound all bleeds into the background as Joe focuses on her—the way she feels against him, beneath his hands, how she tastes.
Her, always her.
Domme whimpers into his mouth, a broken and wet sound. He shouldn’t, yet there’s the hot kick of pride in his stomach. That he’s done this to her, made her a mess. “Fuck,” she exhales before it dissolves into another whimper. This time at the work of Joe over her jaw and throat.
The swear shakes against Joe’s lips and he grins. “Still want me to behave?”
“You are not getting off that easy. What do you take me for? A sucker?”
“Never,” Joe whispers into her skin. “I take you as my beautiful wife. Who’s asked me to behave,” Joe pauses just long enough to give into the command of Domme's hand, pulling him out from her neck. He sees how her eyes have darkened. How she licks her lips, hungry, like she can already taste him. Maybe she can. Joe continues, “But upon further explorations, I’ve gathered data that might suggest otherwise. I merely intend to—”
Domme cover his mouth with hers, stealing the rest of the sentence off his tongue. Like she can’t help it. Like she had to. Even with the decades together, they are still like magnets at opposite polarities destined for each other, searching and craving the other. The tip of her tongue traces over his lips as she eases out from the kiss. His face still held in her hands, still as he does not want to interrupt her. Her exhale is heavy, “You merely intend to take me upstairs. Where I merely intend to have my way with you. Yes?”
Have my way with you. It echoes in his head and the blood that already rushed south, stays and pools with that much more desire. He bobs his head twice in dumbfounded silent agreement. Domme slips her hand from his face down his neck, and slithers it so her palm is pressed against his throat. Then she squeezes for a brief moment. Not even hard enough to really cut off his air. But enough for a warning.
Verbal. He has to remain as verbal as possible. Knows that rule better than anything else, even as his eyes flutter close at the sweet promise: Have my way with you.
He opens his eyes when he feels the press of her fingers into his jaw. Knows she is going to handle him rough, just he way he fucking likes it. Her squeeze forces his lips to part and his jaw to hinge open, like a door missing a washer—automatic and with no ability to stop it. Her brow arches, a punctuation to the question ghosting over her face. His skin grows hotter, the tips of his fingers buzzing under her sharp pout.
It’s been too long. Since they’ve been able to be like this. Not in a bad way. It is only a byproduct of the kids growing up, sports, recitals, practice, games, work. All of it requiring time and energy and though there’s the long standing rule for date night, there’s something much more alluring about the spontaneity. Joe knows that Domme still wants him, desires him, all these years later. They make a point to express it—verbally in the quiet moments, in passing touches, lingering gazes, tucking into corners of their home like teenagers trying to avoid getting caught just to feel the rush.
But Domme still craves him. Still feels it deep in her belly, an aching kind of want. Something that feels so close to a need that Joe’s positive he could die without it. And he has it again. Just by the way Domme holds him, unafraid to make it sting but gentle enough to know that she acts out of love and of lust. Two things never in opposition as they always work together.
Joe’s verbal agreement falls way too earnest from his lips. Even he can tell how pathetic he sounds when it all comes out in one breathe, “Ye-yes, absolutely exactly that.”
She grins. “Upstairs. On the bed. Down to your boxers. Got it?”
Of course Joe does. “Yes,” he breathes, inhaling the faint peppermint still on the wispy ends of her words.
“Good.” Domme reclines back on the dryer, head nodding towards the door.
To send him off, he knows.
But Joe doesn’t go, not immediately, though he does take the first step back. He extends a hand to her, figures the least he can do it help her down. But she shakes her head no, bottom lip tucking under her teeth for a brief moment to hide away her amusement. “Go. It’s barely a couple feet up. I’m right behind you.”
“I’m not taking any trips to the ER,” Joe returns. There were already concerns about her bone density considering she’d hit perimenopause and menopause earlier than anticipated. Her latest density scan showed slight improvements thanks to the return to weight lifting. Joe hopes, too, that the start to a low dose of estrogen helps not only with the hot flashes and sleep issues, but with her heart and bones too. Joe is not taking any unnecessary risks if he does not have to.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” The tease doesn’t stop Domme from taking the outstretched hand. She descends back to level ground gracefully.
“Chivalry for you only dies when I die. So you’ve got a while before you need to worry about that.”
Joe won’t go until she does. That’s his plan at least. Doesn’t want to leave a second before she does and does not want to be left behind either. A thing he absolutely can’t plan for. It’s a hope, faith that the world will grant a man crazy in love one last ridiculous miracle.
His exit is marked by two sharp pats to his ass and Joe swats behind him, laughing as he goes. “That’s my ass!” he hollers over his shoulder. He carries on still, towards the stairs. To do like he’s been asked, to go upstairs to the bedroom. To strip but not totally nude and to sit on the bed for her. Because he’ll always do what she asks of him.
“Won’t be when I’m done with it!” she calls back.
An enticing and tantalizing offer, Joe must say. He listens for the shuffle of Domme behind him and manages to catch her closing the laundry room door behind her, and the clack of keys into the bowl next to the door before he’s ascended just far enough up out of range to hear the specifics anymore. Joe carries on, the hot twist of desire still wound tight in his belly as he goes. Just outside the bedroom door, he pulls the t-shirt up and over his head. The house is cool and it nips at his exposed skin. Yet, the promise of what’s to come keeps him warm. The bottoms go next after he’s crossed the threshold—sweat shorts that he can’t remember if he bought or if she did but have withstood the test of time.
His weight causes the bed to dip, sink in around his hips and thighs. But Joe waits, half a top his hands, ears straining for the sound of her moving in closer. He counts the seconds, not to see how long it takes, but as comfort to remind him that just on the other side of each passing second will be her. It’ll be her sweet voice cooing in his ear. It’ll be her that takes him apart, her fingers, her tongue, her hot kisses. All of which is a solace for the ache that burrows deeper and deeper into his gut.
The floorboard creaks, too close to be that fourth step on the stairs. When Joe looks up, her shadow floats over the hallway before Domme appears in the doorway. She leans into the moulding of the door, shoulder pressed in and holding her weight. Her eyes travel over him, down from his face, dancing over his shoulders and then back up.
“Handsome devil,” she laughs.
“Or so I’ve been told,” Joe offers in a halfhearted attempt at humor. He watches, waits for her to move away from the door, towards him. It’s a selfish need, truly it is. But he misses her warmth now.
Domme crosses the room, in just a few steady and assured strides. “Yeah, and who’s telling you that? Hm?”
“You,” Joe whispers.
Domme stops just in front of him. The height difference forces him to look up at her. That and his posture too. Joe knows when she presses her hot palm into his oblique that she’s urging him to sit up straight. Joe gives into the tug, follows the silent order until he’s sitting more squared, shoulders dropped down and rounded back. His chest sits out more, so close to her that he can feel the heat seeping off her.
Domme skates her hand, teases of his nipple before smoothing the meat of her palm of his pec. Her hand creeps up and up, until her fingers are dancing along his neck and at the hair along the nape of his neck. “Yeah, I am always calling you that. Because you are one handsome devil.”
Joe doesn’t really care about that, not now, not when the bed dips again. This time to Domme’s added weight. Her knees pressed down into the mattress, her thighs settling over his. Her arms are looped around his neck, head dipped low and her lips teasing over his jaw. For her, he’d be whatever she needed him to be. Would accept whatever name she wanted to give him.
He’s careful of his hands. Joe teases at the edge of her shirt as Domme continues to leave a trail of hot kisses down his neck but desperately wants to pull her in closer. Wants her to to be as close as possible. He just has to be careful, can’t risk hurting her, if he were to brush over that tender spot. But God does he need her.
“Missed you,” Joe exhales, digging his fingers into her hips. “All day.”
The confession earns a rock, the drag of Domme’s clothed core over his erection. The whine is high and tight from her throat, like those words were exactly what she needed. “All day?” she questions, easing out from the hollow of his neck.
Joe nods. “All day.”
Domme lets out a laugh—low and dark. Joe shivers at the sound. “Can I let you in on a little secret?”
“Please.”
She leans back in, her lips and tongue brushing over the lobe of his ear as she speaks. “Thought about you all day too. Thought about this,” she pauses, one hand slipping between their bodies now. She teases over his stomach and works her fingers beneath the elastic of the underwear. “Thought about the pretty noises you make.”
Joe exhales, can’t help the low groan when she wraps her hand around his cock. “Fuck.”
“Thought about that too,” Domme laughs. Her hand is steady over him. Though she’s arched out of the way, to give her ministrations plenty of room, her breath still ghosts over his skin. “I wondered how’d you react to the tattoo. If you’d drop to your knees the second you saw it, begged to have a taste.”
“I still can,” Joe murmurs back, eyes blinking as he fights to keep them open. “If—fuck,” he huffs as she squeezes—not harshly, just enough pressure that it makes his spine tingle.
“I know you’d love that. Always have, always will. But I want a taste first.”
The rush of cold air makes him hiss and his eyes to fly open. Domme’s gone. All of her—the heat, the weight, all there one second and then gone the next. Without thought Joe reaches forward, starts to push up and forward on the bed, but she pauses him one hand on his chest. Joe freezes even though he can feel the huff building in his chest.
“Up against the pillows,” Domme directs, removing her hand from his sternum and then points backwards behind him.
Joe moves with ease, holding and shifting his weight as he climbs up backwards. The pillows—all ten of them that Joe swears he’s going to pick a fight over, but never actually does—catch him when he plops backwards. She’s watched him the entire time, easing her clothing off one item at a time. First the shirt, then her pants. She never moves faster than him—teasing each item off when they both know she could move faster. It leaves her in a deep royal blue set—a color that Joe swears each time she wears makes her look plucked directly from a painting. The tail end of the ribbon curves around her ribs nearing her stomach, protected by the film, but just the sight of it alone is enough to make Joe think twice about listening to her about saying up against the pillows. Not that he think he’d actually intentionally forgo a command, but that he’s too much to the burn in the back of his throat for a taste of her.
Domme moves in double—directly in front of him as she climbs up on the bed and in the reflection of the mirror above the bed too. But she takes her time, nice and slow as she crawls between his legs. Like predator stalking prey, but all of Joe’s instincts tell him not to run away. They tell him to give in. To let his head fall back when she kisses at his right calf. To melt into her when she traces her teeth over the incision scars on his left knee. To sigh at the wet warmth of her tongue along his inner thighs.
Joe doesn’t resist her when she eases his underwear down. Can’t do such a thing because his brain is too full of the soft fuzz—the haze that tells him he’s going to fall under. Even all these fucking years later, Joe can’t help it. When she whispers against his skin to watch, to not focus on anything but her, he simply cannot resist. It’s been said such a thing is futile. Each time they meet like this Joe is reminded of why resistance is a waste.
“Relax me for me, baby,” she urges, one hand cupping at his balls, the other wrapped around his cock. Her lips glisten from the mixture of spit and pre-cum he’s been oozing since he sat her onto the dryer. A thing he’d been aware of only because he had a feeling that if she saw it immediately, she’d make some kind of remark.
“Pretty fucking impossible,” Joe huffs out, watching her directly in front of him and then again in the reflection after he drops his head back again. Not when she’s like this, between his legs, mouth and hands slow and methodical over him. Not when she’s taking her sweet fucking time and every touch makes him feel alive in every meaning of the phrase. He feels raw, and wild, but seen and cared for. She sees it too, the way his fists are wrapped too tightly around the comforter, how his jaw feels like it’s been punched from how hard he’s grinding his teeth.
“Christ, I can’t believe what you do to me.” Joe wants it to mean something like he can’t believe that it’s him she wants like this, that it’s her that drives him wild. But it falls desperate and hot. “I love it. Swear I do. I just—gah, I can’t think straight.”
All he has in his head is her. Her touch. Her kiss. That he wants to make her feel good, make her proud. Wants to unravel beneath her and be wound up too tight all at the same time. Contradictions that make Joe feel like a rubber band stretched to it’s max capacity—but unsure if he’ll retract or snap.
“Deep breathe in,” Domme asks. Joe inhales, pulls in as much air as his lungs can hold. “And out,” Domme concludes. Joe pushes the air out slow, forces his hips to drop, allows his shoulders to sink into the pillow. “Can I take my time with you?”
“Always.” And forever.
“Just want you, okay? On my tongue for right now. Want to see you writhe. You make such gorgeous sounds, baby.”
Joe nods, hears the brushing of his hair against the pillow cases. “Always can have me.”
Because what is Joe if not an offering? What is he but a man that loves his wife, the person made for him, so deeply that if God needed to a rib to make woman again Joe would offer his and ask that it be her? Always her.
Domme’s pace starts slow—a steady stroke but it moves unhurried. She moves like she has all the time in the world. And here, they do. Joe could never rush her. He would never rush her.
In the reflection above, he sees just how pink his chest is, just how haggard he looks, but just how content Domme is, spread out between his legs, one of her legs hitched just a little for leverage. The curves of her body illuminated by the sun streaking in from the partially closed blinds. Her dark hair is sparse amongst the grays. Aged to perfection if anyone where to ask Joe.
He’s gentle as he can be, a small tremor making the movement feel more sacred and timid, as he tucks some of the hair behind her ear—the strands impossibly soft as always and straight. A silk press that only for a brief moment Joe worries she might sweat out, when he takes in the roots, but then loses track of all that when sight and sensation reconnect. Domme’s pace picks up, one hand coming to his thighs to ease his knee upwards his chest.
Joe should feel more exposed and way more vulnerable like this. Yet, he doesn’t. All he can think about it how good it feels, how content she looks, how it’s him giving her that pleasure. That’s all him. The greedy grin that splits her cheeks when she peels off him for a solid breath. When she kneels between his thighs, using her body to hold him into the position she wants. When her fingers trail south and teasing first just at the seam where thigh and ass meet. When all he can do it gasp at the nip of her teeth, and she chuckles into his skin. That’s him. That’s his doing. It makes him feel like his skin could burst. Like he might explode and implode simultaneously.
“May I?” Her fingers are teasing the rim of his hole, skating around before she kneads at his ass.
The sound that leaves him is sharp and hot—something that he can’t register fully as a moan, possibly a whimper. “Yes. Fuck, please. Please.”
The bed creaks, her body hovering over his but not quite touching. Joe takes the moment to blink back into his surroundings, to watch the way she moves, shoulders tensing and relaxing with her reach. He stretches up and latches onto the thin skin of her clavicle. Peppers kisses across, eases the strap of the bra aside so that his mouth only comes in contact with Domme’s body. Joe leaves a trail of those kiss to the center of her chest, which is as far as he can reach for the moment.
Domme’s laughter shakes against his lips. “Like what you see?”
“When have I not?”
“Never,” she whispers.
“And I intend to keep it that way.” He cups her jaw, thumb stroking over her cheek. The action brings her attention to him, body parallel over his now rather than the intersection of her previous perpendicular angle. “So fucking beautiful,” Joe whispers and brings her in for a kiss. Both hands cup her face, feels the heat of her, the thumping of her heart through the tendons of her neck.
The kiss is slow, all the wet echoing of lips meeting and parting, and a little salty—Joe’s able to taste himself, but he’s inhaling that soft warm vanilla edge of her perfume. It’s heavier than usual, maybe freshly applied, or maybe it’s just thick in the room from her daily use. Joe doesn’t really care, just appreciates it as it settles into his lungs.
In all his own distraction somehow Joe’s missed the click and snap of the bottle. Her touch is wet, and cold, enough so that it makes him hiss. It leaves his slack jawed for a moment and it’s all mostly a tease, just her right at the rim but never fully breeching. “Fuck, your nails,” Joe mutters. Somewhere in his head he’s remembered that was part of the reason for her going out today, even though now’s not really the time to remember such things.
Domme laughs into his jaw, kissing at the stubble he needs to shave but has been too stubborn to get rid of. “I have tricks to the trade.”
She eases just one digit in, up to the first knuckle, and something rubs, squeaks as it does, and in the heat of the stretch Joe realizes it’s mostly like a glove. He huffs out a laugh before it dissolves into a momentary moan. His head drops back into the pillows. “I’ve already had my prostate checked, doc.”
“I provide a different approach.”
Just as he goes to retort, lips parting, she eases in further to the second knuckle before a brief pause, and then continues on all the way. Suddenly, he can’t find the quip. His remark about needing evidence based care replaced now by the wet and desperate sigh of pleasure. It escapes his chest and makes him reach for her, hands reaching for whatever part they can touch of her. He moves his hips in time with the easy thrust of her fingers, pleasure curling at his toes at the rhythm she’s setting—slow and excruciating, but delicious all the same— until Domme hisses and slows.
“Careful, please,” she whispers against his lips. “Left rib is still tender.”
“Shit, God, I’m so sorry,” Joe drops his hands from her and finds the bedding beneath them to grip instead.
“Apology accepted, love. Here, let’s try this instead.” She’s careful as she eases her finger out. Joe exhales, one part grateful because he wasn’t sure how long he’d last like that, one part frustrated at the loss of her, and another worried about the spot he hit—unintentional as it was. “Can I get you to lay on your right side?”
He nods and waits for her to roll out of the way before pushing himself up and over. The direction of the blinds force the sun down towards the floor and the curtain is not fully pulled closed. Their room faces the backyard. With no one directly behind them, privacy isn’t that much of a concern. But Joe can’t help the small prickle of concern, brief as it is.
The pop to his backside comes swift and damning as the bed dips again—a sound the cracks sharp against the muffled silence and comes with the hot stinging side effect. His cheeks warm and he buries his face into the pillows, thankful for the vast array of them now. His shocked laughter is muffled as Domme giggles behind him. A sound full of delight, and sprinkled with only a little bit of mischief.
“All this ass, sir. Please share,” she teases.
Joe glances over his shoulder and sure enough, she’s sporting a smug grin. “You’re unbelievable.”
Her response is a kiss to his shoulder, tender before she rests her chin there. “Believe it, baby.” His exhale becomes her inhale, a shared breath in the silence as they gaze at each other, soft grins still dancing with the edges of amusement. “I heard there’s a warrant for your arrest in all 50 states and the territories.”
Joe rolls his eyes, feels the burn at his cheeks as another blush overtakes him. “What are the charges? Being a handsome devil?” Domme nods, lips quirking into a grin. “So you’re harboring a fugitive now? Is that it?”
“Something like that,” she offers it in a whisper, dropping her head just a little to kiss him again. Tender and slow as she moves the trail down his shoulder blade. Joe lets himself go, eyes closing as she kisses over his tricep, a hand soothing over his ribs, over his ass, to the back of his thighs. A path that Joe commits to memory, tracks over second her palm is in contact with his skin.
Just like a conductor guides a symphony, Joe falls into the rhythm Domme sets again. His body collapses into the pleasure, into her hot kisses, into the teasing creep of her fingers as she angles his top leg up and bent at the knee. Joe knows where it’s going, knows what his role is and is more than happy to play it. Gives into her, not so much physically, as it is mental. He drops the guard.
Domme is a safe person to give into, to lay himself bare in front of, both figuratively and literally. She’s always there to catch him, to steady him. She’s always there to consume him too, when they both need it. When they both want it.
The touch is cold—again—and smooth—again— but Joe hums at the fire in his belly, and how she whispers into his skin, “You like that?” It comes out equal parts a question and equal parts a statement of fact. They both know he does. That he always will. Especially with her body pressed into his. Her mouth on his flesh. The stretch of her fingers leaves Joe slack jawed and panting.
He nods all the same though, whispers out, “Yes,” like it’s a prayer because the only person Joe wants to pray to is Domme. He only wants her to hear the deepest desires, the hardest battles, the confusing and sometimes dark matter that makes up a soul.
Only ever her. And the rhythm she sets. Only ever here. Joe arching back into her palm—greedy but uncaring. Only ever this—the purr of Domme’s voice in his ear, “So good for me. Sound so fucking pretty,” over and over again his head until there is only one option, only one way to handle the knot in his belly and the heat sticking to his skin as his lungs pant and pant and pant.
Joe thinks he’s saying something like, “Feel so fucking good” and “Please don’t stop. Please, please,” but he can’t tell. Doesn’t need to be able to tell the difference. Because both of those lead to the same thing: the sweet and hot release, the way his stomach tenses and his chest caves with the long groan of his orgasm, half his face buried into the pillows, one hand reaching back for her, needing to know that she’s still right there to ground him even when he feels like he could float away.
He follows the timing of her breathing—how her inhales and exhales are equally measured, the brush of her expanding skin into his back. Something soft and warm presses into his skin and around it, he hears a faint smack. Then another press. And another press.
Around his labored breathing, Joe realizes those are kisses. Domme’s kisses specifically. One of her arms is wrapped around his waist now, fingers brushing over his stomach, her weight pressed into him, pinning him into the mattress, in the same way that a blanket—as light as it is—acts a temporary excuse not to leave the warmth it’s created.
She is so warm.
The kisses are scattered, enough so that it feels unplanned, until Joe can find his senses again—sharper now— to realize she’s going left to right, kiss after kiss after kiss until she has to start again, left to right. An anchor he’s thankful for, moving now to tug Domme up and onto his lap as he eases up and onto his back.
Her eyes are assessing, taking in his face. Joe recognizes the calculus in her eyes, how she seems to never stay in one spot for long, but sees everything. To make sure he is okay. He always is with her. Always safe. He can only watch for a beat, still trying to remember how his mouth works, before he whispers out, “Thank you.”
“I’ll be here all week. Anytime. But I do have a favor to ask,” she starts, hips hitching over his thigh. She forces air out from her lungs, before she looks away—not for long, a moment or maybe two. Then Domme inhales.
He shouldn’t, really, he shouldn’t be so fucking smug. But sue him for having a little pride. Joe is not the only one who’s going to break. And that weakness, the small chink in her otherwise calm and calculated demeanor is because of him.
“Listening,” Joe breathes, brushing the tips of his fingers over her knees.
“And I want you to answer honestly, okay?”
“I will.” Because he always does.
“I had this whole plan, to ride you too. Thought I could handle it, wait out until you’d be ready again.” The previous almost bashfulness slips, melts away into a devious grin as Domme leans in closer. “But you see, watching you cum like that, begging for me, has me so fucking wet, that I don’t think I can wait.”
Joe can taste her now on his lips that he licks them. He could play coy, if he were a stronger man. If he weren’t so fucking pitiful, he might be able to say that it really sounds like a personal problem just to mess with her. But Christ, if Joe’s not a house made of a deck of cards in a slight breeze—in which all he can do is cave in. Domme hovers right above him, their noses brushing. So close to kiss. Then she moves on, the bridge of her nose tracing at his jaw.
“Whatever you need. Whatever you want,” he agrees.
“See that’s my dilemma,” she hums, lips brushing over his ear lobe again. And Joe’s spine shiver again, because he’s useless against her. “Don’t know what I want. I could have your fingers, or your tongue. I could take what I need by riding your thigh. Just so many options.”
Joe would be happy to give her all of those things too, offer himself as a platter from which she is to consume. All he needs is for her to say the words. Joe is much more careful this time, mindful as he brings his hands up her body. The straps to the bra have fallen, resting now over her biceps than her shoulders. Not quite disheveled in her appearance, but ravished, and still hungry for more. He traces the line of her clavicle up towards her neck, then takes it the line of her throat up and up and—
Domme doesn’t hesitate to open her mouth, allowing his pointer and middle fingers into her mouth. A hum crawls up her chest and shakes along the pads of his fingers. She sucks around his digits once. The sight makes his stomach leap again, twisting with desire. He knows it’ll take him much too long to recover this time—though he’s maintained his physique well, age has crept in a little.
Her nipples are hard, have been for a while that much Joe knows when he brings his right hand to her chest, easing the cup of the bra down. The brown bud stands erect for him as he rolls it between his fingers. “You know you can have whatever you want from me,” Joe states. It’s tender. He doesn’t want to be too loud in this moment, watching her head fall back on her neck.
Domme’s hips hitch against his thighs. He can tell just how wet she is, how there will be a stain in those panties and how his thigh is sticky too. But that’s what he loves, that he does this to her, turns her this primal. She only gives herself a couple passes before she stutters to a stop.
“No,” Joe hums, moving the hand with the wet digits down to her hips. “No, you don’t have to stop. We both know what you want. So take it, okay? You can take it from me. That’s okay.”
Her pupils are blown wide, a pathetic and pleased smile crosses over her lips. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I am. Need it.” Joe craves it, feels like his lungs are aching for it like he’s starved of oxygen.
That’s all Domme needs before she huffs out, “Thank you.” Her hips move before the words have truly finished crossing her lips. But neither one of them cares. Not in this moment. It’s just the two of them, the work of Domme’s soaked cunt over his thighs, her choked out praise—huffy and puffy as she works herself over him. It’s just them and Joe’s hands on her hips, pressing her down into him, wants her to use every inch of him that she needs, or wants.
It’s all hisses as she swears, “Fuck.”
It’s all Joe begging, pleading with her, “C’mon, baby. Take it from me. Jesus, please.”
“Joe, baby,” she hums, shaky as it leaves her throat.
“Take it. Use me.”
Over and over and over and over. Until her teeth are bared, the sound of her orgasm strangled and pitchy from her throat. Until there’s a mess dripping over Joe’s thigh onto the bedding, already ruined from his own seed. Joe watches the trail of sweat as it slips down Domme’s sternum, a path he knows all too well. Has traveled it with his tongue plenty of times before, left a string of kisses there too. He pushes himself up to clean up the salty streak with his tongue. The erratic thumping of her heart quivers against his lips.
“Proud of you,” Joe whispers into her bones. “So fucking proud. Gorgeous, always so fucking pretty.” Praise leaving his lips after each kiss he presses there and there is that pride of course. That she used him, took him to satisfy herself.
Domme’s breathing evens out slowly. Her pants quieted after a couple minutes. And all Joe can think to do is revel in it, in the hollow of her throat as he leaves behind lazy kisses, soothes a hand over her spine to bring her back to her body. Her skin’s gone clammy—not entirely unusual as of lately, but Joe does find himself hoping it’s not the sign of a potential hot flash.
Her fingers find his chin, urging him back. Joe finds her face to be a little more flush than usual—not something he can usually see on her unless it’s bad. Through the light haze, he is already trying to pull himself up, keep himself aware so he can be there if she needs him, grab something cool for her to press into her face and chest.
But first there is the warmth of her soft and almost sleepy grin. “Thank you,” she whispers first and kisses him. Because none of this exist without the gratitude, none of this happens if they don’t care for each other. None of this can stay if they start to take each other for granted.
“Thank you,” Joe hums, eyes fluttering close around the second kiss she gives.
“Are you okay if I turn the fan on? I think I’m dying over here.”
“You aren’t allowed to die on me yet. And yeah, that’s okay.” Joe knows she needs it, and he’s always run a tad warmer himself.
Domme plants a third kiss—short and sweet—to his lips before she eases off him. The ceiling fan begins to whir with a single flick of the switch. “Thank you for putting up with me and these hot flashes.”
“I’m not putting up with anything.” Because this isn’t just some inevitable that Joe has to learn to live with, this is about her—his wife, and caring for her just as much as she cares for him. This is about forever and the work that requires.
Before Joe can find the mental strength to climb off the bed, Domme’s returned one washcloth on her forearm, another in her hand. It’s warm against his skin. Her movements are careful but efficient over his thigh before she taps at his hip—a signal to roll. Joe takes the cloth himself instead from her grasps. “I can wipe my own ass.”
There’s no fight as Domme moves on, folding the second washcloth in half and placing it on the back her neck—her hair tucked up and away safe from the damp item. “I was just looking to get practice for when we wind up in the nursing home together.”
“I’ll be the one to wipe your ass before you wipe mine.”
“This is not a competition, baby. But leave it to you.”
Domme only gets the comforter stripped before Joe eases her down to sit on the bench at the foot of their bed, right under the spinning blades, upon his return from dropping off the used wash cloth into the laundry basket in the bathroom. The sheets didn’t make it out totally unscathed, but they’re not nearly in bad as shape as the comforter.
Joe grins—a little lopsided and smug, but they both know that it’s just the way he is. “Hey, I wouldn’t be me without that competitive streak. Now, take it easy. You’ll make it worse if you do too much.”
“But the sheets.”
“I know.”
“And you still feel a little foggy too, I bet.”
Not a literal fog, just the haze that always seems to find him, like being underwater and on the way up to the surface, but not quite breeching it. He’s not so far under that he can’t function, but it does feel like he’s moving a bit in slow motion. Joe’s adapted from where he started—where he once would have very little capacity after, he now manages to keep himself a step or two above a full drop just for these moments—when Domme might push herself a little too far a little too soon.
“Only a little,” he confesses. Joe can’t lie. Domme knows him too well for that. It’d be a foolish tactic. “Lay with me? Until we’re both back up and running. And I promise I’ll actually let you cool down first before jumping into your skin.”
Her nod comes easy, much to Joe’s relief, and she laughs. “I don’t mind you jumping into my skin. It’s just very hot right now.”
“Yeah, seems like it’s not very comfortable.”
“It is not. You climb up first in case your legs go wobbly, so I can help.”
“And who’s fault is it that my legs might go wobbly in first place, huh?” He offers it with a grin, but even Joe is careful as he settles back into the bed.
“Some might argue it’s your own fault.”
Domme’s addition to the bed it much more graceful. She settles into her side with ease, back and torso slightly elevated due to the pillows. Joe lays on his side, facing her to watch as she moves the washcloth from her neck to her forehead. He helps hold back the few springs of hair that have escaped from the bangs—those piece still a little too short and now a little too coiled at the roots to fully obey the command of the claw clip—during the transition of the wet cloth. Without really thing, Joe presses the back of his knuckles to her cheeks once she is settled. Still hot to the touch, but cooler than before, which are all good. He make a mental note to ask if the dose is helping at all later. It hasn't been relatively long since she started the estrogen, but still, it worries him that it might not be helping.
“I argue it’s your fault,” Joe mutters. He doesn’t want to, but he does pull his hand back. He’d rather be in her arms, but such a thing would be a disaster. Domme would only grow hotter and more uncomfortable. Thought she would suffer just for him, he rather not make it worse right now. Instead, Joe settles for easing in a little closer. Not touching—there’s a good eight to ten inches between them—but close enough that he can stretch out and kiss her arm.
Domme grins down at him—Joe having opted to discard the mass of pillows on his side of the bed to the floor in favor of just one of the pillows. She offers her pinkie, held up without words, but with clear intent—a compromise, something to meet both their needs halfway. Joe hooks his around hers, bringing both their hands back down to the mattress.
“But,” Joe hums, “in a court of law, there wouldn’t be sufficient evidence to solidly blame only one of us. So I guess that means we have to go down together.”
“You have always looked good in orange,” Domme laughs, easing from hooked pinkies until their hands rest palm in palm. “I can wake you up once I feel like I’ve left all the circles of hell, if you happen to doze off before then."
“We both know I will.”
“Hence, the offer.”
Joe squeezes at her hand, a quick two pumps. An I love you given if and when words fail him.
Domme squeezes back, three quick pulses. An I love you returned, but always with a little extra in there as well.
Check out 'indy 500' before this for more context. 19.6k words
sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist
Joe promised himself he’d never let Domme step one singular foot into the driver side of a sports car. He’d even go so far as to not drive any of the sports cars on game days after they got married so that when she drove them both back, she couldn’t be tempted.
Before the ticket, and the subsequent court date, Joe knew as much as he loved Domme, as much as he’d walk hot coals to the ends of the earth for her and their two kids, he would never ever let her get the taste of fresh blood in her mouth with the speed of a sports car. Domme’s not even a terrible driver. Admittedly, she is a better driver than Joe. Always aware of her surroundings, checking for bikers, pausing for cyclists even if other drivers honked at her, giving two and a half car links between her and the car front of her. But she has a lead foot and a bit of road rage if on the roads too long. An hour and a half drive can easily take a nose dive if one too many people cut her off, or if someone’s creeping in the fast lane.
The few times Domme’s driven the two of them Joe starts nestled into the passenger seat. It’s his job to order their drinks for pick up in the app of the coffee shop they met at. It starts smooth, at eased. However, the end of the trip comes with frayed edges. Where Joe prattles off random facts about the types of trees that they’re passing by, even goes so far as to recline back and watch the city blur past him with the outside world unaware, it only takes but so little to grate at the calm around them.
More than once, Joe’s managed to drift into the light lull of sleep—where he can hear mostly everything, but isn’t conscious enough to respond to any of it. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes will pass before he rouses awake again. The playlist he selected is still going, Domme’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee or the gearshift and when he looks out the window, the cars around them feel like they’re standing still.
“You’re speeding,” Joe will note, easing the seat upright. He’s never scared, but always a bit cautious. His eyes drift towards the mirrors to see if cops are behind them and if he’s somehow managed to sleep through the beginnings of a police chase that involve him.
“I’m making up for lost time,” is her infamous reply. It’s this reply that tells Joe something’s happened in the time he’s been mostly unconscious. Maybe there was traffic, maybe someone cut her off, maybe she had some internal clock that they were late on and she never wants to rush Joe—especially not in the office season—but part of her is a stickler for punctuality.
Joe—when the gas pedal is pressed a little too hard, and Domme’s gaze is a little too focused—holds onto the internal door handle and whispers a prayer that she never gets caught nor does she have a wreck.
Given that, Domme’s never been in Joe’s sports car or any sports car that he can manage. The second she gets to press the gas pedal and the engine roars but glides up on the speedometer and never stutters, a true new level of hell will be unleashed. Joe’s gone as far to loop Ja’Marr and Tee into this promise, to not let Domme behind the wheel at the very least. If she wants to go for a joyride, Joe’s fine with her in the passenger seat, but she can’t be at the helm.
It’s not a control thing—well, it’s not fully about control, if Joe has to be even a fraction honest. Joe knows Domme. Been with her for more than a decade now, watched her grow. She’s always been a confident person, fierce when it comes to things that matter to her—a practice though that usually only extends to the people around her. Caring for others comes so naturally to her, but Joe’s been the one to watch her struggle to take care of herself, to approach herself with the same grace and empathy and patience she extends to others. He’s watched her go from being confident behind the scenes at her job to someone who not only had interest in leadership role but also secured it at her job and is doing well at it too.
Joe sat with her and reviewed her resume, helped her with her cover letter—though he did have to Google for some refreshers. He’s watched her come to life in ways that are quiet, that no one else would ever see. He’s stayed up with her when both kids were sick and seemingly insatiable for anything but the two of them and though all either of them wanted was a halfway decent night’s sleep, and though Joe had practice, and she had work, Domme didn’t attempt to shoulder it all herself. She let him in, asked if Joe thought bringing in reinforcements in the shape of his parents would be a good idea.
Joe’s born witness to the silly side, when Domme does laps around the bedroom because she’s got too much energy or too many nerves and knows she has to get them out somehow. He’s been the one that sauntered into the house only to be ambushed at the door, several nerf guns hanging from Domme, “Your arsenal’s upstairs in the bedroom. You have two minutes to prepare for war.” Joe’s been the one to drop his practice bag in the laundry room, fighting out of his sneakers, as to not waste a single second as he took the steps two at a time and waited behind the guest bed for the first creaks of Domme’s ascent and fighting to keep his heavy breathes and giggles from giving away his position.
It’s also been Joe that’s watched Domme welcome Jack into the kitchen and have more patience than she’s ever had with him as the little boy chopped bananas, or stirred batter. When Jack Jack asked if he could help her make the morning coffee, Domme pulled his step stool up to the counter and talked him through each step, let him pour and spill creamer that’s only ever laughed about. It’s always been Joe to see how Domme’s evolved. How the doors open for her slow at the start and then swing wide open and never close.
Now it’s Joe who’s going to break that promise. The emailed conformation stares at him, unblinking, unforgiving. It’s Joe’s going to blow a door clean off its hinges with this latest gift. “This better be worth it.”
He knows it will be. To see Domme smile big and bright, to hear her laugh, dance in place with her glee. It will be worth it, but holy shit, Joe’s scared about what this means after they’re off the raceway, after the engine’s quieted, when it’s just them. Will he have to make another courtroom appearance?
_________________________________________________
“You’re trying to get my girl another fucking ticket, that’s what this is,” Ja’Marr hums, his thumb jabbing in Joe’s direction as he looks towards Tee. “You see your mans. Telling us not to let her drive our cars, and then comes back and gets her a whole trip to fucking Milan so she can race.”
“It’ll be an empty track. She’ll have a professional in the car with her. It’ll be safe. Unlike when you two go on your trips on some back fucking roads,” Joe retorts. There’s no real annoyance in his words. This is just how it goes with them. And it does sound insane, even Joe knows that. But it really is meant to be the safest way for her to enjoy the speed.
“That’s twenty-five cent, by the way,” Ja’Marr notes.
“So should we tell him now or later?” Tee grins. The question is directed to Ja’Marr.
“Tell me what?” Joe questions.
Joe and Domme have no secrets—no real ones at least. Sure, they hide what the presents are for birthdays, Christmas, and anniversaries, but their lives have been laid bare to each other. Joe’s told her every fucked up thought he’s ever had—that at one point he wondered if the all the injuries were some kind of sign from the universe, if he could love a sport that didn’t truly love him back. He’d confessed to the fact that as much as he wanted to be a dad and likes being a dad, he’s afraid somehow he’s fucking it all up all the time. He’s sat with her when stuff from her family came back to haunt her, when she worried at some point Joe would choose football over her early into their relationship, when she’s worried she’s not being a good mother or wife. They have no reason to hide anything.
Tee and Ja’Marr hold a stare for a moment, then two. The laughter starts in a sputter before Ja’Marr howls, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he laughter erupts from him. “You wrong for that. Oh my god, bro. Deadass wrong.”
Tee shakes his head. “I’m really just fucking with you, man. She’s been on a few joyrides with us, but we wouldn’t do that—break our word to you. She did ask once. Back before y’all had kids and we had to fess up that we promised you we wouldn’t let her drive.”
Ja’Marr is still laughing, a sound that bounces off the concrete under them. He’s bent over now, at his waist, shoulder still dancing with his amusement. “Oh my god,” he hollers before drawing in a giant inhale. “Tee, you so wrong for that! That man’s eyes nearly came up out his sockets.”
Joe ignores Ja’Marr’s cackling and rolls his eyes at Tee. “Stick to your fucking day job. You’ll make more money that way than being a comedian.”
Tee shrugs and the shy smile morphs into something more mischievous. “Now it’s fifty. But I don’t know, man. The way he laughin’ I think I might have a backup career when football’s done.”
“Joe, we’d never do anything like that,” Ja’Marr finally adds on, sitting upright. He exhales, wiping at the corner of his eyes to clear away the tears that have started due to his laughter.
There’s a tiny rustle over the baby monitor. Neither Roslyn or Jack Jack are young enough anymore to truly warrant it. A reality that still stings Joe’s chest every time he thinks about it. But the monitors are still used occasionally. When Joe’s doing chores around the house and the kids are in different rooms, he flips the monitors on. Keeps one near him so he can work over crown molding with the rag or fight with grass stains on the knees of their jeans in the the laundry room with sound mind, because Joe needs the noise.
It’s strange to be retired. There’s no need for the constant buzz that was football in the back of his head head. Yet, the back of Joe’s mind is rarely ever quiet; part of him waiting for the phone calls, and the meetings, the regiment of the game. The noise from the monitors—Ros or Jack Jack muttering to themselves or amongst themselves—is just enough noise to keep Joe’s wits about him. Joe doesn’t regret retiring. He wants to be there for the kids—present for all the major things, recitals, and games, and first days of schools. Joe wanted to be strong and healthy for them too. Football is brutal and his tenure in the sport has proven that. There are other things that are more important, like when Ros and Jack want to play in the backyard, Joe wants to know that he can. That Joe can let them use him like a horse, or toss them into couch cushions when they want to play wrestle without worrying about a knee, or a shoulder, or his back.
This is the first season that’s started without Joe. Today, the dawn of OTAs— because Joe can’t help but satisfy the itch by keeping up with the schedule—is the first moment it’s hit Joe since he carted Jack and Ros in his arms for the second time in their lives as the orange and black confetti rained down earlier in February that it’s really over. The largest chapter Joe’s life is complete—no additions, no rewrites. The good thing is that the second largest, and arguably the most important chapter, of his life has just gotten started, being a dad and all. Today Joe’s needed noise and lots of it to help drawn out that persistent low grade hum about the team, and the drills, and practice, and where they might head out next after practice—a bar, or some other restaurant, if they’ll go to all the same places that he used to go with them, even if it did feel like pulling his own teeth sometimes. Curse his inherently introverted nature.
Joe drops his gaze down to the monitor and spies Ros face planted into the pillow Joe snuck under her when he noticed she’d finally fallen victim to the sleep she so desperately needed on the couch. Her knees are tucked under and elevating her hips a little. She groans and sits up, using her arms to lift her the rest of the way. Jewels is perched just above her, gaze zeroed in on every moment. Jewels has gotten larger than either Joe or Domme anticipated, but she’s mild mannered. Sassy, in the same way Roslyn is, but mild mannered all the same and she’s never, ever, too far from Ros—except for school days.
The plaits Joe did a couple days ago—a practice he’s still getting right thanks to a testament in Roslyn’s patience on wash days—are still holding strong as Ros falls backwards into the cushions behind her. Her school called him yesterday, after Roslyn asked to go to the nurse due to not feeling well. There was no fever, but Joe had already been anticipating a call. She’d been a little more sluggish than usual—noting her stomach as the issue. Both he and Domme kept an eye out for a fever. A fever that never broke while the stomach cramps continued for her. So much so, that the nurse noted that Roslyn had been crying. Just the mention of tears stoked a panic in Joe’s chest. However, on the drive to the school after getting the call, Joe called his parents for their thoughts on what could be wrong before spending the entirety of the afternoon in the ER.
His mother—God bless her—asked one simple question, “Can you recall the last time Ros had a bowel movement?”
Lots of water, some prune juice, and many trips to the bathroom later, the tummy ache disappeared thankfully. Neither Joe or Domme had figured out how the constipation started; their focus was on getting her comfortable first and get to the root cause second. Ros was drinking water at home and she ate all her veggies at dinner. But it’s possible, as Joe’s noticed her lunch box holding a few more remnants of the fruits and veggies they pack coming home than usual, that at school she was either not eating everything on purpose or as a result of being full off something else—snacks or candy from teachers or other kids. That’s a question for later on, when both he and Domme are present.
Rather than subjecting Roslyn to school again today, Joe let her stay home one extra day. Whether it’s really for Roslyn’s sake or for Joe’s sake, he doesn’t know. Joe hasn’t let himself probe that line of questioning too deeply. When Jack Jack realized Ros was staying home, he asked to stay home too. Joe doesn’t consider himself a sucker, but he agreed with ease even though he could tell Domme was prepared to tell Jack that it wasn’t anything serious and that he should still go to school. One extra day out from school wouldn’t hurt either kid.
Jack pauses his work on his art, and turns to his sister, planting a tiny kiss to her cheek. “Hi, sleepyhead.”
Roslyn hums at the greeting, still trying to gather her bearings. Most of her night she’d been up with Joe in and out of the bathroom. The moment Ros starts to look side to side, even going so far as to peer over the top of the couch, Joe knows she’s looking for him. He’d been just inside of the kitchen before she fell asleep about half an hour ago. To give her a little bit more quiet, Joe moved him, Ja’Marr, and Tee outside, allowing the door that leads from the house to the deck to stay open, but using the screen door to keep insects out and make it easier to hear in case anything happened.
Joe pushes up from the plush chair just as her tiny voice crackles through the speakers and through the open door. “Daddy?”
“Oh,” Tee groans, hand clutching his chest. “What I’d do for my kids to be back at this age again. God, makes me miss these days, hearing yours.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about y’alls antics,” Joe hums as he slides open the screen door. “You can’t use my daughter as a distraction. I have the memory of an elephant.”
“We shaking in our boots,” Ja’Marr quips, going so far as to recline back and tapping his socked heels together for emphasis, before he erupts into laughter again.
Neither Ja’Marr or Tee have verbally fessed up to why they’d shown up to the house—together, only an hour or so after OTAs wrapped up. But Joe saw the way they looked at him—a gentle kind of assessing like one might do when approaching a scared animal. They teased Joe as they entered, asked if he’d starting knitting yet—a callback to the answer Joe provided during a presser. The question about how to fill his days once retired answered with a shrug, “My wife suggested knitting. So besides being a husband and a dad, maybe that.”
Though, none of them really needed words anymore and probably wouldn’t need words really ever again to understand each other. Joe let them say that it was all about seeing if he’d started knitting, and he retorted that they clearly are obsessed with him, but all three of them understood what was really underneath: that they all needed each other.
Ja’Marr took the news the hardest about Joe's retirement and that reality is one Joe had been anticipating. It still cracked something in his chest to see his best friend like that—shattered, full of disbelief, some part of it probably feeling like betrayal and being ambushed by the news, but still proud, still understanding that at the end of the day it would be about what Joe needed to do for himself and his family. When Joe made his final decision, when he knew his heart wanted every second he could get with his kids, so that when the school’s needed to call someone and it wouldn’t be always Domme, that when the kids wanted help with school projects they could find him too instead of her, Joe worried endlessly about Ja’Marr—that he’d step away from what he loves before he might even be ready to step away because Joe had.
True to all Joe’s anxiety, Ja’Marr did threaten to leave, teary-eyed and shaky as it was, “If you really mean that shit bro, I’m retirin’ with you. I swear to God, man. If you walk, I walk. Just like that. It’s always been us.”
It’s always been us. A sentence that echoed in Joe’s head long before he gathered Ja’Marr and Tee together, in the same backyard they’re sitting out in today. It was always them since their days drenched in that hot Louisiana sun, colored in yellow and purple jerseys. It was always them when Ja’Marr caught Joe’s first touchdown pass. It was always them when Ja’Marr would tease the ever lasting shit out of Joe on those bus rides to and from games. It would always be them too—in the highlight reels, in the fan edits, in the back to back AFC championship runs, in the Super Bowl appearances, the best of times and in the worst of times. Always them. A bond that could not unravel so easily, but still retiring is such a fragile thing, such a complicated and sometimes scary step to take. So much of his and Ja’Mar’s adult lives forever intertwined, the kind of relationship that does make Joe believe in the cosmos as an all knowing force, a force which gives and takes away, that plants seeds where trees are needed, that is molding fate and the strings of time long before any of them can be thoughts.
It was the three of them too—Tee who’s proven himself time and time again, worked day in and day out, someone that gets Joe in those quiet moments, when the nose is to the grind, even in the silly moments discussing boats and lizards. It was Joe that talked about how crucial Tee was the offense at the tipping point of his career. Joe and Tee a pair that have been forged in a different kind of fire, but a fire all the same. There’s a bond and brotherhood that only comes to fruition because of trials, victories, and behind closed doors conversations. Joe didn’t want to unravel that, didn’t want to fray an edge. Yet, he knew needed to be a dad, knew that there were other lives he was responsible for and that he would be there, no matter what. So, Joe had to confess that day and did so, all in a whisper, “You know how they say animals in the wild go and hide before they die? This is me, hiding away before the end. No one else, besides my family, knows this yet. I had to tell you guys first after them.”
Joe wishes in some ways he’d been more graceful in that conversation, that he’d cushioned the blow. However, he’d always been able to be direct with Ja’Marr and Tee—blunt without the need for flair. So Joe did what he’s always done, he got right to the point. Even if it fucking hurt. Even if it meant he’d be testing that bond he and Ja’Marr had built. Even if it felt like it could’ve killed him. No one died, thankfully. And only one of the trio retired—as intended. This new chapter in all of their lives is still strange and still too fresh a wound, scabbed over, but fragile. He is grateful that Ja’Marr and Tee did show up today, even if none of them want to say why.
The inside of the house is cool, when Joe steps inside, thanks of the hum of the AC, held perfectly in place at 71 by the thermostat that Joe is particular about setting just right in winter and in summer. Never too cold that coming inside from being outside feels like a shock and never too warm that it feels unbearable to be indoors either.
“Daddy’s right here,” Joe coos before he scoops Roslyn up and off the couch. Her face is pinched and her cheeks holds tiny indents from the rumpled pillow case. An indication that she slept hard during her nap.
Roslyn threads her arms around his neck, face nestled into his skin. Joe can’t help but melt, smoothing a hand down over her back. “Uncle Ja’Marr and Uncle Tee are still here, right?” she asks. “I didn’t miss them.”
Joe nods. “No, you didn’t miss them. They’re still here. We’re just out in the backyard.”
“Good.”
Joe’s careful as he kneels down, next to Jack Jack. “Spider Man?” The red and blue give it away, but still Joe finds himself asking out of habit.
“Yes,” Jack beams. “Saving a cat from a tree!”
Joe carries his gaze over to the tree, a brown base of thick strokes from the crayons and puffs of green that clearly indicate the leaves. The trunk had darker lines that run through it faintly, clearly meant to imitate the bark of an actual tree. There’s small swirls inside of the leaves that give the picture depth. Joe spots an orange puff of crayon with thick black whiskers up near the top of the tree. “Excellent work from our resident artist.”
“It’s not done yet. I still have the webs to do and I have to finish the cat.”
“I can see the vision. You okay in here?” The bowl of goldfish is empty, but there’s still water in Jack’s cup. The cheese snack never really stood a chance, as it is one of Jack’s current favorites. There’s no shock that it’s gone first.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m going to finish coloring and then come outside.”
“Sounds like a good plan, bud.” Joe is careful as he eases his palm over the fresh cut of Jack’s hair, and then every so gently presses down. Not enough to hurt nor does carries any real weight. But just enough to get the message across and Joe adds an exaggerated groan. “Help your old man up, will ya?”
“Dad,” Jack huffs, but he laughs in the end too. “You are too heavy for me to help right now.”
“One day,” Joe hums before he presses a kiss to the top of Jack’s head.
“Daddy, I have to use the bathroom,” Roslyn interjects softly. She unburies herself from Joe’s neck to make the request clear.
Joe nods, his second hand coming up to her back again—a soft two taps to her spine. “One bathroom trip, coming right up.”
“I can do it myself. I’m a big girl now,” she laughs. “And I just have to pee. Thank goodness.”
Besides himself, Joe manages a laugh. He’s a little glad to hear it’s not another bowel movement too. Still though, on a day like today, when Joe’s more frail than he’d like to be, he finds himself clinging to the kids, more so than he’d usually do. They won’t stay young forever. They won’t always need their dad’s help. That scares Joe. His kids will grow up and they’ll want independence—faster than Joe’s ever ready to give them. He knows he must give it to them. He wants them to grow up brave, and strong, and capable and it means doing the thing that scares the shit out of him.
At the end of this summer, in just another eleven short weeks, Ros will be off to first grade; Jack Jack off to the third. They will always continue to grow up, no matter how much Joe finds that fact cruel. If he were a betting man, Joe would bet it’ll be him that cries the most that day when he drops them both off for college.
“I know you can because you’re strong and capable.” It’s a reminder for himself, so Joe sets her down. “Remember to sing Happy Birthday while you wash your hands. And if anything doesn’t look or hurts, let me know.” Joe’s worried about how frequently she’s gone, though thankfully, so far she’s not complained about any more pain.
Ros nods and then scurries off to the bathroom—just two rooms down from the living room, not even fully around the corner, but enough so that Joe feels the tug in his chest to follow. The screen door creaks open again to reveal Tee slipping into the house, his glass in hand. “Hi, Uncle Tee,” Jack waves.
“Hey, how’s the picture going?” Jack Jack started right as Ja’Marr and Tee showed up. Now with about thirty minutes under his belt, of uninterrupted time, Jack’s remained mostly secretive about the progress.
“Almost done. I’ll show you when I’m done.”
“Sounds good, Jack Jack. I promise no peeking.” Tee even goes so far as to cover his eyes for a moment before he carries on to the kitchen.
“I know our girl got the good snacks. Can you grab me some of those pop corner chips?” Ja’Marr hollers from outside.
“I got you,” Tee calls back.
“And who said you could raid our kitchen?” Joe teases, still situated onto the floor next to Jack.
“Your wife.” It’s all Tee says before he taps the magnetic whiteboard on the fridge—where Domme’s handwriting rests, Adult snacks in the cupboard: top shelf only please! Joe noticed it too in the midsts of getting lunch settled. He found it odd, to see the note, but he couldn't bring himself to erase it either. “Which, speaking of, do you know when she’ll be back? I really came over here to hang out with her and my niece and nephew.”
Joe glances to the time on the stove, a bleary green that he can thankfully still make out. It’s probably an indication to get to the optometrist again and update his contact prescription. “Maybe another hour? And I’m not so sure those are the only two reasons.”
“Well, you ain’t start knitting, so I can’t see about that. When you do break out a granny square or something, let me know.”
Truth be told Joe’s still waiting on the text from Domme that she’s done with her ‘me day’. A date that Joe had ensured was on her calendar weeks ago. Though Domme had taken the day off of work at Joe’s insistence because he had something special planned for her, she did look at him a little too long—like she could see something but hadn’t gotten the words to ask about it. Joe wonders if the analogy between him about wounded animals hiding is less metamorphic now—or if Joe had known today would be rough and rather than having Domme fawn over him, he’d tried to fawn over her first.
In the end, after neither kid needed to be dropped off at school, Joe still ushered Domme out of the door at 9:30 AM sharp for her 10AM manicure and pedicure. And he had not, and would not, to take no for an answer. She’d follow that up with a solo lunch date at her favorite sushi restaurant, not that they took reservations but because it would put her closer to the spa. At the spa, she’d have a facial, a full body massage, time in the sauna if she wanted all before she’d be recommended to take at least another hour or two to browse shops.
Joe’s only instruction is that she can only buy for herself—not for the kids, not for him, not for the house. But for her and her specifically. A practice she does not often undertake, not that Joe doesn’t understand why. Just that he knows she needs this time, not to be a wife, not to be a mom, but to just be her. His phone’s buzzed with notification from the salon, the restaurant, and from the spa already. There were charges from two stores at the Outlets, but both those notifications were nearly an hour old. Which is just enough time for her to have left the mall and begin her drive back home. Though, Joe was anticipating at least a text that she was on her way back home.
Roslyn’s voice floats in from beneath the cracks in the bathroom and Joe just faintly hears her halfway through Happy Birthday when the gears begin to grind and a whir starts from the garage.
“Or less,” Joe tacks on to his previous estimate and watches for the laundry door to crack open.
The noise of the garage door is met with a sharp meow from behind Joe—undoubtedly Jewels calling out for confirmation of life. She meows again, before leaping off the back of the couch. She lands mostly silently though as she begin to walk, the sound of her nails clicking over the floors echoes. The laundry door eeks open just a little, a tiny crack hardly noticeable if not for the fact that Joe’s staring. Domme pokes her head out, spots Jewels who continues on by, and then the bathroom door swings open.
“Careful,” Joe calls out, eyes locked into the glow of Domme’s face.
She smiles brightly from behind the door, but doesn’t open it any more than it already is. “Is there a little one behind the door attempting to scare me again?”
Joe laughs and shakes his head. “No, just a traffic jam.”
Roslyn, who Joe hadn’t realized paused too, continues on and stops a couple feet in front of the laundry room door. “Hi, Mommy.”
“Hi, baby, how was your day?”
“Good. I just woke up from a nap.”
“Yeah,” Domme laughs, easing fully into the house. There’s several bags looped onto her arms. But only two store logos on them. “Was it a good nap?”
“The lines on my face say so,” she laughs. “Need help?”
“No, Mom’s got it. Thank you. How’s your stomach?”
“All better.”
“That’s good.”
“Hi, Mamas,” Jack exhales, waiting until Domme’s able to drop the bags into the couch before he wraps himself around her legs in a hug.
“Hey there, baby boy.”
“I thought I heard a ruckus,” Ja’Marr’s voice floats in. “I get a hug next, right?”
“Take a number,” Joe huffs. “But after me, specifically.”
Joe really doesn’t mind that his friends and Domme get alone well. It’s actually a bit of a relief that the people that matter the most to him all get along. The thing that Joe won’t stand for is his friends thinking that they can get ahead of him to his own wife. Joe’s also waiting in line—behind the kids of course—for his own moment with her too and they can wait as long as need be.
The soft brush of a palm over his cheek brings Joe’s attention from Ja’Marr to Domme. “Hey, Papa Bear.”
The nickname falls from her in a whisper. It sounds so sweet whenever she says it that Joe feels it down to his toes. Joe takes hold of her wrist and tugs, bringing her from her full height over him down to her knees next to him. She laughs as she settles onto the floor next to him. But Joe’s taking in the changes—her brows are freshly shaped, there’s the glow too. He trails down over her face and arms to her hand, turning it so the sapphire and gold band both face him. Her nails are a festive collection of pinks and oranges, a 3D flower on one nail, polka dots on a couple others. It’s a fun set, perfect for the summer.
Then Joe carries on back towards her face and eases in closer to close the gap between them. “Hi, Mamas.” The kiss is short, more than a peck, but quite tame. “The nails are very cute. I like the flower.”
“The pink and orange just go together so well. I was worried when Veronica started them, but I should’ve never doubted her.”
“She’s never to be underestimated. Now, did you follow my instructions while out shopping?”
“Nope,” Domme laughs, the addition of the ‘p’ popping off her lips.
“Baby,” Joe returns, one brow arched as he scolds her. “My only instruction was that you spent money on yourself. It’s not even money from the joint account either! It was my money.”
“I did buy a few things for myself. But I also bought other things too.”
“Toys?” Roslyn questions. “New candles? Did you finally replace the laundry basket? There’s one that’s got a taped handle; I know, I saw it.”
Roslyn’s definitely feeling better, Joe notes to himself. There’s no doubt about that.
“The handle is fixed,” Domme laughs, wiggling her fingers for Roslyn to step in closer. When Ros does, Domme taps the end of her nose. “Jack and I fixed it yesterday if you must know. And not with tape. With glue.”
Joe winds an arm around Domme’s shoulders and squeezes. “Seriously. This was all about you today. Not us. You always do for us. Which is appreciated, but not what I intended.”
“I didn’t go crazy buying for everyone else. Just a couple things.” Even as she says it, Domme tries to hide the bags from his view. As if there’s not a collection of them still waiting to be cracked opened. “There’s shoes in a couple of them. That’s why it looks like so much.”
Joe arches his brow. “Swear it?”
“On the lives of our children.”
“Mommy! I like living,” Roslyn teases.
“Let’s see.” Because Joe knows he’s in for the fashion show anyways. Anytime Domme does shop—for herself, or for the kids—she pulls it all out for Joe to see. It’s a ritual now that Joe can’t say he doesn’t enjoy. He’s found even himself indulging in showing off what he’s acquired for her, or for the kids too. A tradition that Joe probably should’ve noticed when Domme would perch herself in the walk in closet as he and Kyle worked, requesting that Joe try on certain items so she could get the feel of piece of clothing.
Domme laughs just as Tee and Ja’Marr clear their throats. “After I greet our lovely and clearly neglected guests.”
“If you must.” Joe says it with a grin, watching as Domme pushes back up off the floor and starts towards Ja’Marr and Tee. “Apparently, they are here for the free snacks, the kids, and you anyway.”
“Damn—I mean dang straight,” Tee corrects.
“Ten cents,” Joe calls out—a reflex now after the years—as he slips Jack’s picture and crayons to the other side of the coffee table. Not to make Jack move, but to give him plenty of space to work, that the space he had once occupied has unintentionally be co-opted. Joe’s careful to arrange the crayons just as Jack had them, the orange, black, and silver crayons right next to the picture, the brown and green on the left.
There’s a rustling of the plastic, a tiny rummaging that causes Joe to look up from his rearrangements when he spots Roslyn peeling open one of the bags. She hits paper first, the crisp crinkle echoes as well. “Mamas, what is this?” she questions.
Something a soft lilac color starts to breech the top of the bag and Joe notices immediately it’s lacy—most likely underwear, though it goes on for longer than he think underwear should and considers it’s some other kind of lingerie item. He stretches up to lower Roslyn’s hand, and keep the item hidden beneath the bag.
“Let’s let Mamas sort out what to show us, yeah? What if that’s a surprise and you ruin it?” Joe counters, praying no one else has potentially seen the lingerie.
His prayer goes unanswered, as Joe catches the stifled laughter echoing behind him from Ja’Marr and Tee. Everyone’s most certainly spotted what is undoubtedly lingerie Domme purchased. Roslyn releases the item without hesitation and slaps a hand over her eyes. “I saw nothing!” she shouts.
A soft meow hits the air as Jewels brushes past Joe’s shoulder and settles into Roslyn’s lap. “It’s impolite to go into bags that aren’t yours or that no one’s instructed you to go into.” It’s embarrassing too, in this circumstance, but Joe doesn’t need to worry Roslyn about that.
“Sorry for going into the bag without asking. I was excited,” Ros explains, one eye peeking out out from between her spread open fingers. “I won’t do it again.”
“Apology accepted, sweetheart,” Domme laughs, crossing back into the living room.
“Thanks, Dad,” Jack whispers as he settles back down in front of his drawing.
Joe nods, depositing the last of the loose crayons next to Jack—the red and blue that were pushed further to the side, as if he hadn’t been sure if he was done with them yet. The boy always gives his gratitude with so much awe, as if he’s somehow expecting to have to do something himself, as if he might be an after thought. But Joe could never do that, would never do anything to make either of his kids feel like they’re in the way or being an inconvenience. All three of Joe’s reason for living, for existing exist right inside of this living and he’d never want any one of them to feel like their needs are somehow interruptions. Joe has nowhere else to go—his entire heart is here, in front of him. Three pieces that make up the whole.
“Always, Jack Jack,” Joe whispers. “Always, buddy.”
Joe’s never been in Jack Jack’s shoes before—the oldest having to learn to navigate a sibling just under him. Joe was always the baby, a life noted by the the chasm between him and his brothers. Not that he and his brothers aren’t close, but that they have such a large age gap, that they were out of the house while Joe was growing up, off to college, adult in a way that kids see teens are much more mature than they actually are. But it makes Joe wonder if Jack feels like he has to skirt around, hold himself to the edges so that there’s space. A thought that makes Joe’s stomach churn and he cements to himself, a promise that never needs to be uttered to anyone but Joe, that he’ll be more intentional about giving him and Jack Jack one-on-one time. Not that Joe’s not doing it already, but that it might be worth investing into it more.
Yeah, Joe thinks to himself as he turns back towards Domme, we’ll have a father-son day next weekend. There’s a new exhibit at the children’s museum and while Joe might’ve initially leaned into tossing the baseball in the backyard, or even the foam football, he know now that’s a thing that Jack needs to initiate.
The same bag that Roslyn started to peek inside of gets put to the floor, next to the side of the couch and out of the way, tucked away from both kids. Joe tracks where it lands and when he looks back up, Domme’s grinning down at him—a sly quirk of her lips that tells Joe that all his suspicions early were right. A surprise that’s not ruined as much as it hangs even more tantalizing in front of him.
Domme pulls out a few new summer pieces—new shorts and tanks for Jack Jack considering his current growth spurt, one that seemed like it wouldn’t stop but they take in stride. One pair is denim that Domme promises that she and him can work on together to add a few of the patches he got as a result of his A honor roll status at the end of the last two nine weeks in the school year. Joe knows it means most of the work will be done by Domme but Jack Jack will be able to have input on what patches go where on the shorts—shorts that Joe is really hoping to get more than one summer out of.
Roslyn is the recipient of some jelly sandals—the kind of sandals that Joe never thought he’d see come back into style after their time in the 90’s and 2000’s. Roslyn holds them like a holy grail above her head in their soft blue hue. “They’re perfect!” she proclaims and immediately has the string holding them together cut in order to get them onto her feet. “Look, Daddy!”
“Yeah,” Joe laughs, hooking the left buckle through for her. “I’m looking. Hop down and let’s check where those tiny toes are.”
“My toes are not tiny.”
“I don’t know,” Joe teases. “Look pretty tiny to me.”
“That’s because you’re gigantic. I’m not gigantic yet.” She offers it like it’s obvious, and in some ways it is, of course. Yet, she delivers it like only Ros can—cutting and hilarious—as she slips to the floor.
Joe presses down over the flexible material and notices there’s still space between her toes and the end of the shoes. “How do they feel?”
Roslyn holds up one finger and starts doing laps around the living room. She starts out in a brisk walk before taking out in a sprint. She attempts to cross up Tee, who pretends to stumble and fall into the fridge. It’s all for the dramatics but she doesn’t fail to laugh before Ros gives a thumbs up though with a bright beaming smile. “Good!”
Ja’Marr picks her up. “Little Miss, Uncle Tee needs his ankles for work.”
“Had to do it to him one time,” she laughs.
“It’s my fault really,” Tee interjects with a grin. “Should’ve known who I was getting onto the court with.”
In addition to the shoes, there’s two new dresses for Roslyn too. One’s a soft yellow and the other is a white base with blue flowers. Though Roslyn is an active child, Domme can’t resist at least one dress each summer. It undoubtedly winds up with a hole in it from all that Roslyn does, but they do get worn so it’s never a waste.
About half the bags are emptied now. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, but Joe’s still waiting to see what Domme got herself, what she did just because she wanted. Like she can sense the reprimand that’s about to come, Domme pulls out another bag. This one not as loose as the other and the box is chunky and long as she unveils it. “It’s a little ridiculous. But these were on sale because they were out of season now with the summer approaching, but I had to get them.”
Joe squints and Domme peels open the box before she pulls out a pair of heeled boots—black, leather, with a platform in front. The leg looks like it goes up to the knee and has a little scrunch—structured into the design and not loose as it doesn’t fall over when Domme holds them by the bottom of the shoe. The heel is thick and blocky in the back but it looks mostly proportional to the size of the boot itself.
“Your old black ones were literally falling apart,” Joe comments, recalling how he had to plead with her to give them up. They’d been resoled several times, until the cobbler let her know that they weren’t salvageable anymore due to dry rot.
“Well loved,” Domme defends.
“We’re not arguing semantics. They’re in a grave now, where they belong. Let’s see these new boots on. A runway strut.”
“Joe, we have guests.”
Joe turns to Jack Jack—a true weakness of Domme’s that Joe’s not above exploiting for something like small like this. “Bud, do you want to see Mamas do a model walk in her new shoes?”
“Of course,” Jack returns with a grin.
“The eldest has spoken.”
“Model walk! Model walk!” Roslyn starts up, a chant that catches fire amongst the entire group—Ja’Marr and Tee included. Joe even taps the sides of his fists gingerly to the coffee table between the syllables of the two word phrase.
“Fine, fine, fine,” she sighs and eases the boots up. “You’re ridiculous though.”
“And you still married me.” That fated day in April, that Joe’s sure neither of them could ever forget. Joe would marry her a thousand times over, in every lifetime he gets to have, without question or worry.
“Don’t remind me,” she snickers before pushing off the couch. Domme tries to put on a serious face but can’t take more than a step before she laughs. “This is so silly.”
Joe merely shrugs and waves for her to continue. She doesn’t walk more than a few steps before her attempts to hold a serious face again crack. Her smile bright over her face. Just before the screen door, Domme pauses, poses at the end of the makeshift runway and then turns on one heel and walks back towards Joe and Jack Jack.
“You look beautiful, Mamas,” Jack declares, offered effortlessly to his mother.
“Thanks, baby,” Domme returns, her voice soft in something louder than a whisper, but not her normal volume.
“Do you have any more shoes to show us?”
“Boring work shoes.”
Jack shrugs. “Not boring if you do another model walk.”
“Just for you,” she smiles, stroking his cheek and then settling back down onto the couch. “Just for the record, I am hardly ever influenced but I saw these on a girl’s video and had to find a similar pair. And I may have bought all three colors, so no one come for me.”
“That’s fine. I’ll handle anyone who judges,” Joe offers from the floor.
The boxes stack nicely one atop the other on the floor between Joe and Domme—a brand that Joe’s seen often on Domme’s side of the closest he reads Steve Madden embossed into the top of the black boxes. The first pair of heels are a baby pink color, a little squared off at the toe unlike Domme’s usual pointed toe with a ribbon that laces up the ankle too. “Those are cute, different in the toe, too.”
“Shockingly, I didn’t hate them when I tried them on in the store because they’re not pointed like I usually go for.”
Domme’s leggings interrupting the full look of course, but she stands all the same once the ribbons are tied around her ankles and shuffles back out from behind the coffee table. “You look like a ballerina, Mommy,” Ros notes, still in Ja’Marr’s arms. “Can I get a first position?”
Domme accommodates the request, angling so her heels touch and her toes point towards at an an angle—leaving a space between her feet in the shape of slice of pizza. Her arms widen out from her side and her plié is small, but still noticeable. “I’m shocked I still remember those positions all these years later.”
“Like riding a bike, you never really forget,” Joe offers. He’s curious though to see what other colors she acquired. They do look good on her. The heels is maybe a tad higher than she usually goes, but only but an inch at best. The only thing Joe hopes aside from her liking them is that they don’t hurt her feet too bad.
“Uh oh, Burrow, I think your wife might get an invite to Fashion Week before you get your second,” Tee teases.
“Fine by me. I think she deserves it more than I did.”
The heat floods his cheeks damn near immediately. Even with all their time together, Joe always falls victim to her. He returns a soft thanks, but can’t it as he casts his eyes away for a moment. Domme’s stare is hot, not heavy in the way that he feels like he’s being scolded, but weighted in the way she’s always managed to make these moments feel. Important, and direct, but still charming. Joe’s stomach flips just a little, still feeling weight of her gaze. He even has to go so far as to take a deep breathe before he can look back up again at her.
“What other colors did you get?” Ros asks.
“Red and black.”
“Bring the red one with you,” Joe offers, waiting for Domme to turn towards him, “when we go to Milan in a couple weeks.”
The middle of her forehead wrinkles with the furrow of her brow. “When we’re in Milan? What are you talking about? Is there something you’re doing out there?”
“Celebrating. Enjoying a family trip. The usual.” It’s not their usual, not yet anyway, now that there’s more time on Joe’s schedule. The first time in several decades that Joe’s not had a truly set schedule. It feels nice to have the possibility, but part of him holds grief—the words still taste bitter to even think.
“I’m—I’m not following, love. I don’t recall a conversation about a family trip to Milan.”
“Surprise,” Joe grins.
She blinks—once, then twice. “You planned an entire family trip to Milan? Just what? On a whim?”
“I mean, technically, it’s a trip to Italy. There’s two places we’re visiting; Milan’s the second. And I wouldn’t say it was on a whim.” It's much more desperate than that. It was done with an urgency to look forward to again, something to help guide him back to himself. Help him remember that change doesn’t have to be scary, even when it already does feel scary.
“How—how long?”
“In total, eight days.”
“When again? I’ll have to let me team know I’m going to be out.”
“Your director knows, I’ve been in contact with them.” Joe prattles off the specific dates. He had the password to Domme’s work laptop and email. Though the most he’s ever had to use it for is to alert her boss of both her deliveries. Besides that, Joe doesn’t interfere with her work, knows that she undoubtedly has a system and he does not want to mess it up.
“And the flights? Itinerary? Hotels?”
“All done. I have a whole email drafted that’s scheduled to send later tonight.” Because Joe knows how much Domme likes a plan. She wants to see the nitty gritty details. It’s how her brain works and Joe’s never been once annoyed by that. He like a plan too. Likes to know exactly what he’s getting into if he can help it.
“Milan,” Domme laughs, all incredulous. “And somewhere else too, you said?”
Jo nods. “Elba Island.”
“That’s exciting.”
“Where’s Italy?” Jack Jack asks.
“Italy is a country in Europe. It’s east of us,” Joe answers, resting his weight onto his forearms against the coffee table.
“So, it’s fancy?”
“Well, I don’t know what you classify as fancy. But it is different than what you’re used to. Much different than Ohio that’s for sure. You’ll hear people speaking Italian. The buildings are a little older. Some are historic. You know some of the churches around here that have stained glass windows?” Jack Jack nods. “They have buildings with those too over there. But some of them are even cooler. And the food’s a little different too, but they have favorites like pasta over there.”
“Pasta? I’m sold. That’s all you had to say.” The entire room laughs at how it’s the food that’s the selling point for Jackson. As if the world is big and so small at the same time that all it takes is food to cross divides.
Later in the evening, after both kids are tucked into their beds, long after Ja'Marr and Tee have left, and it’s just Domme and Joe downstairs, huddled into the kitchen with the last few rounds of dishes in soapy water that Joe’s wrist deep in, the veil that he’d been able to hide behind—the fact that he needed to be there for Roslyn, that he’d been chatting with Jack, working through the laundry, keeping an eye out for where Domme was in her day—fades.
“Baby, can we talk?” Domme’s voice is just as soft as the palm that slides over his spine.
“Yeah, I’m listening.” Joe keeps his focus on the lid of the pot, a relatively small item, that he scrubs at a second time.
“I noticed that our shared calendar has some pretty interesting dates highlighted.”
Joe nods, rinses the lid. All the sauce is gone. Joe takes the Swedish cloth that Domme insisted on getting because it had lemons on it just in time for summer—which was still officially two and a half weeks away—and scrubs at the glass a third time. “Does it? I thought I’d done pretty well hiding away those Milan dates.”
“You did. But there’s some dates up there specifically about football. Did you mean to have those up there? Those dates about training camp and such.”
Joe rinses the lid again. Still clean as a whistle, but he goes in for a fourth round of scrubbing with the cloth. “Habit.”
“Was it, let’s just say for a lack of a better phrase, the same habit that scheduled a get away day for me on the first day of OTAs?” Domme offers the question so gently, like she doesn’t want to scare Joe off, but she’s not going to back down from this either.
“I don’t—” Joe starts and then stops. The lid drips into the sink below, the droplets a soft drip-drop as they break the surface tension. “I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
“I’m always going to worry about you.”
“Do you remember that game? Back around New Years—it was what? A little over a decade now ago, I think? In Pittsburgh. Road game. You came with me. I took a pretty nasty hit, had to go into the medical tent. Thought I broke my fucking neck for a second.”
Domme’s hum is more akin to a hiss, a grimace as she recalls the particular instance. “Twenty-five cents. I remember that game.”
“I got cleared and came out from the tent. After I told you I was okay, that it was all good, you turned around. And you cried. I knew it the second you turned away that you were.”
Joe knew well before it aired on season 2 of Quarterback. He knew she cried when they met in front of the bus to take him to the airport and they stood in the freezing cold together but she had not said anything yet about it. Joe knew it laying on that field, flat on his back, listening to the athletic trainers and medics. In the back of his head there was Domme. She was woven between the directions for Joe to look left and then look right. Pretty sure my fiancée is going to start World War III over me now, that’s what he said before he sat up, even if the world never saw that part. Even if Joe never told Domme about it either.
The trainers laughed at his statement and Joe wanted to as well, but all he could managed was a huffy exhale. The adrenaline was still pumping, he was still a little winded. Everyone knew it was less of a joke even though they did laugh. Yet, the focus was him. Joe’s focus was on Domme. They sat him up, and carried on to clear him, checking his head and neck. But she was always right there with him, right in the back of his mind.
Domme shuffles a little, moves just a fraction further away. They weren’t touching before, but close enough that they shared heat. And they still are close, but Joe can feel just a little bit more air between them. He eases in closer to her, closes the gap. She answers too, instead of pulling back way, with the press of her shoulder into his outer bicep.
Domme’s voice is small when she finally speaks again, “I didn’t want to break your focus because you were thinking about me in the back of your head.”
“I will always know,” Joe whispers to himself. He’ll always know when it comes to Domme. She’ll always be there with him. He knows how she moves, how she blinks. How she likes her eggs. How she gets dressed in the morning, how she steps into her pants left side first even though that's not her dominant side. How she has to drink orange juice an hour after brushing her teeth, and prefers to get cranberry juice if she can. He knows her like poets study the stars, full of reverence, and awe, and hunger.
“You needed to focus on the game. Not be thinking about me.”
The water’s running down Joe’s wrist and off the lid too—slower now than before, there’s more space between the plops of the water. But there’s still enough water threatening to brush down his forearms, down to his elbows. Joe turns, places the lid into the rack and then looks at Domme for the first time he started the dishes. She is already looking at him and in the depths of her eyes, Joe sees how she’s recalling those moments, how she worried about him, how relief hadn’t undermined the fear.
“Worry, call it worry,” Joe urges. “You didn’t want me to worry about you if I saw you crying.” Domme stares back, lips quirked like she’s got a rebuttal. Joe beats her to the punch. “Call it worry. Please.”
She sighs. “I didn’t want to worry you about me if you saw me crying.”
“I’m always going to worry about you,” Joe repeats back. They worry because they care. They care because they love. “And I know that—that you’re always going to be thinking about me, that you’re going to care about me too.”
“I don’t make promises, or vows, lightly.”
“Neither do I. I just—I wanted to see if I could face this alone. Maybe I wanted to face this one alone. Meet the consequences of my actions head on. And I don’t regret it—being able to pick Roslyn up for school yesterday, being able to stay home with both of them. Do you know how much fun it is to drop them off in the mornings? Like, just the radio blaring, the three of us laughing? I’d trade every single penny I’ve ever made to have had the opportunity to do that every morning.” Joe blinks and Domme’s blurred in his vision, the shape of her rough around the edges. His throat hurts, feels like there’s something knotting together in the middle. The emotion literally choking him. “Yesterday, I drove all the way to Paycor. After I dropped off Jack Jack and Ros, I drove there without thinking. Habit. So ingrained in me.”
The words are shaky and hurt to get out, but Joe can’t stop. Not now. Not when the dam’s burst. Because if he can’t spill his guts to Domme, who can he spill his guts to? “I got a little teary eyed when I realized I’d have to turn around. And I just wanted today to prove to myself that I wouldn’t always live with regret or sadness or whatever it is. Then Roslyn needed me. And Jack Jack and I just like hung out and it was great. But I still had the thing,” Joe points to the back if his head, wet and soapy hands all the same, “this voice in the back of my head wondering about the guys. I wanted to know if they’d finished the renovations at the stadium. I wondered what was for breakfast, if it was the same as always. I wondered about the rookies and the second years and if they were adjusting. I wanted to turn it off the entire day. Tried to drown it out with laundry, and lunch, and the puzzle that Jack and I finished. And it wouldn’t leave me alone.
“It didn’t feel like failure as much as it felt like guilt? I felt so guilty for thinking about football when it’s not even my job anymore because I’m supposed to be more present now that it’s not on my plate anymore. Maybe I wanted to punish myself, you know? Some kind of sick torture tactic that I could pretend was me being strong about today. I don’t know. I just know that I don’t really regret anything, I just—I don’t know how to just be a dad? Which feels so fucking stupid.” Joe’s losing his breath, so he inhales deeply and turns back to the sink. The pot that had been soaking still waits to be washed, the skins of the beans that had stuck to the walls have officially loosened up and begun to float.
“That’s another twenty-five cents, I know,” he huffs out, a smile quirking his lips. “I just—I don’t handle not being to do things well. You know that part,” Joe laughs, and then takes his damp wrist to wipe the snot off from his top lip. The roll of paper towel rattles off the holder and Domme’s swift to dab it over his cheeks and lips before folding and dabbing over the wrist he’d used. “I want to be a good dad to them. I know I can be. I just don’t know how to turn that other part off.”
“You spent decades being a football player,” Domme starts, “No one’s asking for you to turn that off immediately.”
“I am. I’m asking for that space back in my brain so I can be here.” Joe points to the sink, but he means the house, the present. “That’s what I retired for. So I could be a dad. So I could be a husband because you three are my heart now. And it just didn’t go quiet.”
“Baby, it’s one day. Just one out of so many others. It’ll get easier, the more you do it. And if it never does, then we’ll pivot. Maybe you coach or something. I don’t know. But it’s just one day, Joe. Just one bad day.”
Joe shakes his head, shuffling now, so he’s a step and a half away from the sink, his weight resting into the edge of the sink by his palms. His head hangs on his neck, chin resting into his chest. It feels so heavy, but so light to say it out loud now. “It’s been like this since March.” March is when the madness after a Super Bowl win settles, when the Pro Bowl is done, when the press tour and all the dust settles. There's still the rings, which they'll get sometimes in June or July. Not that Joe knows he'll have the stomach to go, but that looms too in front of him.
“That's only what? Been a month and a half?”
She doesn’t get it. Not that Joe's helping bridge the gap. Another heavy sigh escapes his chest, this one heavier than before. “Every day that voice is there, baby. Some days are quiet, but others like today are so goddamn loud. But it’s always there. Every single second.”
There’s a moment where the silence hangs, feels like an icicle threatening to drop above them. Or least above Joe. Truth be told, Joe's worried about what this means. If he will have to face a reality where he’s forced to answer a question he’d rather not face.
“What happens if the that voice never goes away?”
Joe snaps his head up, brow knitted together in the middle of his forehead at the tender but unforgiving tone around Domme’s question. “The whole point is that it does.” That’s why it’s so infuriating that it hasn’t, that it’s being a persistent mongrel.
“And I’m asking: what happens if that voice never goes away? What if it’s always going to be there?”
“I need it to go away.” Because it has to go quiet. If it doesn’t, it’ll drive Joe mad. He can’t afford to go mad.
Domme smiles at him—a rueful twist of her lips. One palm comes to his cheek—the left one that holds both bands, warm from the heat it’s taken from Domme’s body. “Love, what happens if that voice never goes away?”
It has to go away though. It has to. It has to. It has to. It has to. “Please.”
“No. I can’t make that voice go away.”
Joe knows what word that should be used there. That can’t is really just won’t in disguise. Because they both know Joe’s not asking because it’s fair. He’s asking because it would mean then he wouldn’t have to do the work. It’s cheating. And he’d never really be able to live with himself if he cheated. As tempting as it is. As weak as he was to ask.
Joe drops his head again, sandwiching her hand against his cheek and shoulder. “Don’t ask that please. Please don’t.”
Joe’s not ready to think about that, if somehow he’s been so deep into this world that he’ll never be able to turn it off. It was the same thing that worried him when Ros was born. That he’d get so sucked in, he’d never see the other side of his life—he’d never actually live because he’d always be chained to football. He didn’t want to miss anything, didn’t want to be the dad too preoccupied that he didn’t even know his kids birthdays, or their favorite colors, or favorite superheros.
Domme’s confirming the thing he’s wanted to bury. That as much as Joe loves football, that he’d spent so much of his life in that world, he cannot sever it in final swoop. It will always have a part of him, be apart of him. He’d always have a part of that world in him too. There’d be parts of him so inextricably woven into that world that’s there’s no undoing it.
“I have to ask, love. I don’t want to. But I have to. What happens if that voice never goes quiet?”
He sighs, lips stretched out and his chin pressing into her palm a bit more to even kiss her skin. It feels like defeat to answer. So, for as long as he can get away it it, Joe remains silent.
“Joe,” she commands softly.
An answer, Domme wants an answer. it’s right there on his tongue, the thing she said just a few moments again. Joe exhales as he lets his eyes slip close. He presses every ounce of oxygen from his lungs and sinks further into her touch. Her warm palm against his cheek is as comforting as much as it is damning in this moment. “We pivot,” Joe answers and it tastes like freedom.
“As a team. Forever and always. Just like our wedding bands say.”
Joe nods, “Together.”
_________________________________________
The first day in Italy starts slow. A thing that Joe and Domme anticipate when the kids collapse into the bed after their arrival. Jack Jack wails into the pillows about how it feels like it’s been forever, which given how long the flight is, Joe can’t fault. Roslyn shushes Jack Jack, tells him he’s being too loud for her brain. A feat that Joe never thought could occur.
It’s just warm enough that when Joe joins Domme on the balcony, the sliding doors cracked open just enough to hear the kids, it almost feels surreal. The air fills his lungs differently, possibly because it’s the furthest place from home. Nothing really matters here, except each other. He slips his arm around Domme, palms pressed into the railing to support his weight. Domme eases her head back into his shoulder. There’s nothing to say for the moment. Nothing is urgent or pressing. The conversations around them are competing for attention up against the water lapping against the shoreline.
Joe figured the first couple days would be best suited for slow and easy—beaches, a few quaint shops. Slow mornings and long evenings and then they’d fly into the Milan, experience more hustle and bustle after they’d adjusted to the time difference. Domme hums and then eases around into a turn, leaning back into the railing between Joe’s arms as she faces him. Her nails are dulled edges, but Joe still feels the heat of her touch through his t-shirt.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, slipping the sunglasses up off her face and resting at the top of her braids. A style that almost mirrors Roslyn’s hair—where Ros’ hair is braided all the way back in multiple rows and beaded at the end, Domme’s is braided back about half way. Then about halfway back on her scalp, a collection of box braids hang lose. It makes Domme look even younger than she is, a thing Joe doesn’t understand how it works, but the how matters less to him as time goes on. It’s just a fact now. That Domme still looks good—not even for her age, not even for a mother of two. She just looks good, still breathtaking as she’s always been.
“I think I have the best view in front of me.” Joe’s smiling before he can finish the sentence, catching the roll of Domme’s eyes. She grins though, like she always does when Joe’s being a little ridiculous. “No, I’m serious. You’re hot stuff. I already know that when Jack Jack’s friends get just a little bit older, right at the start of sixth grade or so, there’s going to be a whole gaggle of boys following you around, trying to impress you. Total MILF.”
“Joe, I doubt there’s going to be a whole gaggle.”
“Mark my words, baby. Whole gaggle.”
“You’ll be right behind me—two years behind me, but behind me.”
“Two years?” Joe questions, easing up and off the railing. His palms fall to Domme’s hips as her arms loop around his neck.
She nods, gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips—only for a second—and then back up. If Joe hadn’t been paying attention, he would’ve missed it, how quickly she diverted her gaze and then returned. Joe squeezes, wills her in closer. There’s only inches between them as it is. “Total DILF,” Domme whispers back, “Roslyn’s friends are going to fawn all over you.”
“Pfft, doubt it.”
“Mark my words, Joe. They will.”
The inches shrink, Domme pulling up to meet his lips and Joe stretching down. It’s a slow kiss, one that Joe loses himself in. The retort he had primed, something to the affect of him being unable to see such a thing happening because he’ll be too busy focusing on Domme, dies somewhere between his exhale and inhale. Joe presses the scent of Domme—a little stale and salty given all the time on planes and in airports but still soft and warm like vanilla and magnolia’s mixing—into his lungs. Lets the soft crashing of the waves and the warmth of the sun liquify his senses. Everything melts into Domme, and her touch, the way she sighs into his mouth, how her body melds into his. Her ribs pressed into his torso, how she fits against him like a puzzle piece.
There’s no reason to think—to worry about who might be watching, or who might see. Because it’s too picturesque, too perfect, too warm as he holds Domme to let that be tainted by the harsh edge of anxiety. Joe just gets to exist, in this moment, his body pressed into Domme’s, his hands full of her hips. He gets to not care, for the tiniest of moments and Joe takes it for everything it’s worth—breaks the kiss to leave a trail of kisses along her jaw, trails down the tendons of her neck to her collarbones. Domme lets him, tilts her head back, one leg hitching up and around his hip. Joe cups the back of her knee to keep her steady and inhales deeply—takes in the sweat, the vanilla, the sweet floral—and wants to tattoo it into his brain.
Joe does not care about his wandering hands, as his skates up Domme’s thigh, cupping her over the thin material of her leggins. A heat that seeps into his palm and Joe knows if he dips below, he will be greeted with a fountain of Domme’s slick arousal. He teases the pads of his fingers along the waistband, all barely a touch just to feel her shiver before—
“Ew. Really? Kissing again? You’re going to suck each other’s faces off.”
Domme and Joe snort at the tease as they ease apart from each other. She pulls her leg back down and Joe glances back over his shoulder. Roslyn’s paused right in cracked balcony door. Jack Jack’s still on the bed. Given how deeply his chest presses in and out, Joe feels safe in his assumption that the young boy’s fallen asleep.
“When you’re older, you’ll have someone you’ll want to kiss all the time,” Domme teases. “And you won’t be saying ‘ew’ to that.”
Joe, though he knows it’s inevitable, feels the hair on the back of his neck raise. It’s not that he wants to do the whole overprotective dad routine. He doesn’t want to inadvertently teach Ros that her desire is somehow to be shadowed away, but he doesn’t want her to get hurt. Can’t fathom how he’ll deal with her first heartbreak, or how he’ll be able to standby and let her make choices that could get her hurt. Being a dad right now seems leagues easier than being a dad to teens.
“Possibly,” Ros retorts. “But I hope it doesn’t look like that all the time. It’s a good thing we’re not praying mantis’. Or else, Daddy, you’d be dead by now.”
Domme gives a gentle squeeze to Joe’s shoulders before she slides out from behind him. “Praying mantis? What do you have our kids watching when I’m not home?”
“It’s informative. It’s nature,” Joe defends, and gives himself an extra moment, or even two, before he turns around fully. It is no secret to him or Domme where things were headed before the interruption.
“Female praying mantis will sometimes eat the males during mating, most often starting with the head.” Roslyn returns the fact with pride, happy at being able to not only remember but to recount the fact with decent accuracy. “Hence,” she starts and then waves at the two of them before pushing the door open fully to step out. “I’m really glad Daddy still has his head.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Mamas eating my head,” Joe reassures. His glance up to Domme tells a different story, one that both of them will get given the potential for a double entendre, but neither one of them can truly utter it right now, given how young both kids are.
“I like the nature videos. Even if I feel bad that sometimes the animals and stuff die.”
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Domme offers and her eyes have narrowed and darkened, but not in the way that Joe would hope for though. It’s a tic. Everyone knows it when Domme says something is interesting, it’s really not. It’s deeper than that but she doesn’t want to cause a scene.
Joe grimaces, dragging one palm along the back of his neck. He knows he should’ve mentioned the mishap earlier. He’d intended to, but he got distracted helping Domme glue seashells and seaweed to items—nail polish, lipgloss, and a mirror—that Domme intends to hide in various spots along the beach while they’re visiting for Roslyn to discover in a hunt for mermaid treasure. It hadn’t helped either that right after they finished Jack Jack wanted help going through his swimming trunks to ensure that both he and Joe would match, and to ensure that he had the best tools for building sandcastles. By the time, Joe remembered he needed to tell Domme about the nature documentary, it was deep into the night. Domme was already in bed, half asleep. It seemed better to hold off, until the next day. Then, as unfortunate as it turned out, Joe had just plain forgotten.
Until now.
“It’s my fault that I didn’t say anything before now. So I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. I thought I’d watched through all of the nature docuseries, and one section got past me. A lion and a gazelle. It’s really no different that The Lion King in a way. The circle of life does come for us all.”
“She’s not even six, Joe.”
“She was very brave about it and we had a discussion about death. She didn’t even have a nightmare. Right, Ros?” Besides, after Roslyn went to bed and slept well without waking up in the middle of the night, Joe figured it most likely wouldn’t come back up. He really ought to just assume that no information is safe from being told when it comes to Roslyn.
Ros nods. “This is true. No nightmares. I was just sad. Animals have to eat, you know? And it helps with overpopulation sometimes. It’s not bad or scary.”
The nod Domme gives is firm, and she holds her hands out—a silent offering for her to hold Roslyn, which Ros gives into immediately. The lift is easy and Roslyn falls right into the dip of Domme’s hip. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, one million percent positive I’m okay.”
“Okay, that’s what matters.” Domme kisses Roslyn’s cheek and then turns her attention to Joe. “You, mister, are forgiven for forgetting to tell me. You are right, that is is nature and it does happen. I worried that it was too graphic or something.”
Joe shake his head. “I understand. Besides, there is a reason that you’re sometimes referred to as Momma Bear among my friends. I knew what I was signing up for when we agreed to have kids.”
“I am not that bad,” she laughs.
Joe scoffs, pushing off the railing as he does before he turns and drops his hip into it. His arms slot in and over each other in front of his chest as he settles into the new position. “Baby, you looked like you were going to eat my head. You are that bad. It’s hot. So I never complain about it.”
“Joe!” Domme reprimands, all of it coming out around a sharp burst of laughter.
He merely shrugs. “What is that you told me once? You might tell a joke, but you never tell a lie?” She affirms him with a nod. “Well, let’s just say you might consider it a joke, but it definitely wasn’t a lie.”
“It’s because you care, Mommy,” Ros adds on. “We understand.”
“Yes,” Joe agrees, dropping a kiss to Roslyn’s cheek first and then one to Domme’s cheek second. “We most certainly do understand.”
“Can I go hunting for mermaid treasure tomorrow?” Roslyn asks. “Please.”
Domme’s stare at Joe is pointed and directed, like she’s going to say something but then thinks better of it. Undoubtedly, a retort to his comment about The Lion King. She instead focuses on Ros, and gives a nod to the previously asked question. “Yeah, we can go tomorrow.”
There are small graces, Joe has come to learn, and Domme choosing to spare him in that moment, is definitely one of them.
________________________________
The thing Joe didn’t do in that email that he sent to Domme was include the exact details, of course, about day five. He kept it hidden in plain sight. Shrouded in vague mentions of “Track/Waiting on Approval”. It was enough that Domme didn’t question it too deeply, when Joe mentioned that he‘d been warned that he’d mostly likely need to make contact the day off just to make sure, but that it could be a free day to let Google and some local recommendations take them to new corners of the city.
The fifth day in Italy, now that they're settled into Milan after the slow and restful three days on the island, starts like all the others. They’ve established a bit of a routine even in the ease of the vacation. They have breakfast and continue the tradition of Ros and Jack Jack trying new things off the menu of their own choosing. They take their time, laughing when someone’s shocked by the look and taste of what they’ve actually ordered. On a normal day, where Joe’s not hiding away a secret, the kids would undoubtedly chat excitedly as they prepare for the early afternoon adventure: ask about the museum they’re going to, or chat about what kind of stores they could see as they milled about.
But today is different. They eat, and everyone but Joe is a murmur of intrigue, trying to guess where they might be going. Though Jack Jack can be trusted, Roslyn might’ve given the information away. So Joe decided to not tell either one of them. “Did you ever get confirmation?” Domme asks, setting the tiny white mug of her drink down onto the matching saucer. “If you didn’t, there’s still that park we never did. The one we past on the first day.”
Giving the kids an hour or so to run about would be good. If they needed it, of course. Though, Ros and Jack Jack have managed to tucker themselves out well by the end of their days. Perhaps, it’s testament to how well played the days are—exciting but never packed in so full that there’s not a chance to breathe. Joe nods though to Domme’s question, setting his glass down. “Yeah, I did. A car’s coming in another hour to get us.”
“Oh. From the hotel?”
They’re about a block and a half from the hotel, where the kids seem insistent on starting their day. Joe’s not sure if because it’s familiar, or if Jack Jack and Ros truly want to try everything on the menu. He’s in no real position to argue though. The kids eat and that’s all that truly matters at the end of the day.
“Yeah. Plenty of time for food to digest before we head out.”
“What are we doing?” Jack Jack asks, his fork holding a portion of the crepe he’s ordered.
“It’s a surprise for Mamas.”
“Like a trip to Milan isn’t surprise enough?” Domme laughs. “Do I get a hint?”
“No hints.”
“That’s rude,” she huffs. Though it’s uncouth, she sets her elbows down on the table. Her gaze is sharp, eyes narrowed. “Shopping?”
Joe doesn’t give anything. Just continues to stare her down. He counts the blinks he can feel, slows down his senses—keeps track of the ticking seconds in the back of his head.
“Can the kids join in?”
An exacting and damning question. But still, Joe can’t give in. He can’t say yes or no and give her any indication.
“Is it far away?”
Jack and Ros giggle to themselves, gazes darting back and forth between Joe and Domme in the silence that’s emitted. Domme reclines back in her seat. “Does it involve the red heels you requested I bring?”
“The shoes are for dinner tonight, actually.”
“You said no hints.”
“I’m providing factual information about a non relevant item to your line of inquiry.”
“Inquiry?” Roslyn parrots back, the world a little jumbled on her tongue as she says it.
“A way to say asking questions, usually tied to something formal—like a police investigation,” Joe returns and turns her plate just a little so the sections of eggs is closest to her. The croissant is about halfway consumed and while Joe’s happy to have Roslyn eat anything, he is hoping to get something more slightly more filling into her stomach too.
She sighs. “Yes, yes, the eggs.”
“I know. I’m being picky. But you crashed on me halfway through the art museum yesterday afternoon.”
“It was a lot of walking. I have little legs!”
“Little legs that sure can keep up on the playground though.”
“Well, I eat for fuel. So I can be so fast and keep up.”
“And what would you count of fuel on the plate in front of you? That’ll help you keep up and be fast?” Joe glances down to the eggs on her plate as he asks.
“The eggs,” she grumbles and picks up her fork. The prongs click against the porcelain but she collects a hefty portion and consumes them—pointedly looking at Joe while she does.
“You think you invented that stare, but I know you got it from Mamas. Won’t work,” Joe laughs. Roslyn stares harder, eyes narrowed, but her lips are quirked into a grin. “Before you choke, chew and swallow please.”
It earns Joe another intense degree of the hot stare, but around the edges the smile starts to win, more her amusement cracking through the tough exterior. Roslyn does as instructed and continues to work on the forkful of eggs.
“Nope,” he returns, reclining back into the metal of the chair. “Still not working.”
“Mommy, how do you do it?” Ros asks, after she’s finished. “It’s a very specific look.”
“I’ll teach you when you’re older,” Domme laughs. “It takes a little bit of practice.”
“Is it sort of like this?” Jack interjects and then attempts to knit his brows together, but furrows them too deep. His lips are pursed and rolled too far for the look to read as threatening, as it falls starkly into silly.
Ros laughs with a head shake. “You’re doing it so wrong, Jack Jack.”
“Dad, can you do it?” Jack Jack questions, turning now to Joe.
“Definitely not. Only Mom can do it, for right now.” Joe is swift to add the qualifier before he drops his gaze in Roslyn’s direction. She sits up a little straighter with a curt nod before going in for a second helping of her eggs.
As their table starts to settle down, the last bits of laughter fading into the warming air around them, Joe thinks to himself, that strangely for the first time in weeks that voice is almost totally quiet, that if not for the small moment of reflection in the silence of listening to his family’s laughter as the only sound in his head, such a thing would not feel achievable. And it could be that it’s Italy, and that the vacation is meant to help them all unwind, that it’s meant to bring them together and break up routines that they have at home. But for however long it will last, Joe is grateful.
The quiet means he gets to enjoy things a little bit deeper. The quiet means that when he’s escorting Domme out of the car, with her blind folded about halfway through the journey, he catches the pounding of his own heart, the roar of blood in his ears as he pleads with both kids to stay quiet, and not give too much away even if they are filled to the brim with excitement. The quiet means that when Domme’s steady on her feet and Joe undoes the knot, and she screeches, “Shut up! No way!” he hears every syllable and decibel.
Just on the other side, there’s the unmistakable roar of an engine and Domme spins to face Joe. Her face bright with her smile, bouncing on the balls of her heels. “For me?”
“Yeah, for you. But this means no more speeding tickets once we’re back home.” Joe can’t have her promising no more speeding. It’s a tad too unrealistic for Domme’s leadened foot.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Swear I won’t even go twelve miles over anymore, except for emergencies!” Her excitement is much too big for her body. She threads her arms around Joe’s neck. The hug rocks them both side to side. In the moment, all Joe can do is tuck his face into her neck, breathe in the powdery edge of her perfume—floral and fresh with something deeper like amber at the base of it—into his lungs. A scent that’s new, but still familiar, because it smells like a home Joe never wants to leave. Then Domme’s off, bouncing still, as she scoops up Roslyn and Jack Jack in one arm each and rushes forward. “C’mon, Joe! You’re being too slow! Mamas got a hot ride to catch!”
The display of strength shouldn’t make his stomach flutter. He knows Domme’s been working out; knows it’s important to her that she can handle both kids in case of an emergency. Yet, witnessing such fruits of her labor does make Joe’s stomach twist just a little with a sharp inhale at the pang of desire. He’s quick to recover and jogs to catch up, following the sound of Domme’s delighted amusement and the bubbly sound of Jack Jack and Ros’s giggles.
The release form doesn’t stand a chance. Domme takes the pen and swipes her signature so hard that Joe can see the lines on the next page below. They walk through all the safety concerns, ones that Joe read up on three separate times to make sure he wasn’t missing anything before even inquiring about how to set up a time for her. Domme’s then equipped with a helmet and walks through how the harnesses in the car work. Joe can’t lie and say it doesn’t worry him a little, that as he stands with Jack and Roslyn he doesn’t hold onto their hands a little too tightly because he doesn’t want anything to happen to Domme. But she’s not stopped smiling—one that goes ear to ear in a way that tells Joe she’s never going to forget this. Joe wants to remember that excitement, that glee, rather than his own nagging voice.
“I drive first, and you second?” the instructor clarifies.
Domme nods. “Sounds good.”
Joe is careful to request that both kids stand right in front of him as he slips his phone out his pocket. The first two laps around is smooth—clear to Joe that the guy’s taken this track multiple times, feels confident and at ease. It’s over much faster than he thought and the car quiet to a purr as it eases to a stop right at the some point it started out.
The doors crack open and Domme and instructor switch sides. “Go, Mom!” Jack Jack cheers, clapping with all his might.
“That car goes so fast,” Ros quips, head dropping back to look at Joe. “Like super fast!”
“Yes, it is very fast,” Joe agrees, phone still in one hand to capture the moment.
“Do you think she’s scared?”
“We’ll have to ask Mom, once she’s done. She may be, but we’ll know for sure once we ask.”
Roslyn’s nod is thoughtful. Something shadowy overtakes her face, though it last only for a few seconds as the engine of the car captures her attention. Domme is now in the driver seat. The lap starts a little slower than Joe anticipated, but it’s at the first curve that his own heart rate leaps—jumps so high in his throat he can taste it. She takes the curve with relative ease, a little swerve, but she corrects easy into the straightway and then takes the next turn with more precision. She glides through it like she might’ve also done it multiple times and that sight makes Joe worry just fraction less.
Domme guns it on the straightaway and wherever his heart had previously settled is empty once more. Joe likes to imagine that if this were a cartoon, him and the kids would be standing in the dust, all of their hair frozen straight back from their scalp. Domme’s there one second and the second she’s only left behind a huge cloud of dust. She barrels into her second lap, takes the curve smooth yet again, eats away at the straightway and as she comes out of the second loop, she begins to slow down on the straightway. The car’s slow stop is mostly smooth.
“Talk about a rush,” Domme exhales after she gets the car off and slips out.
Jack and Roslyn take off, their feet a thunder of sound as they cross the asphalt. “You were safe, right?” Ros asks. “It was so fast. Like I blink and you were gone!”
“Yeah, Mom was safe. Helmet, seatbelt, the whole nine,” Domme reassures. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, if I can help it. Come here.” She widens her arms for Ros to approach. That’s all the invitation their daughter needs before she collides into Domme’s chest. “Mamas does her best to be safe all the time, okay? I’m always thinking about how to get home to you and Jack, and Papa Bear. Always. It’s my job, okay? I take that very seriously.”
“I just got a little scared. Sort of like when Daddy plays sometimes. Didn’t want anything to happen.”
“Yeah? I get that, baby. But he and I always do our best to put safety first. We’re always thinking about you two; it’s imperative that we do that.”
“I know.” What Roslyn doesn’t need to say is that sometimes the worry isn’t always rational, or easy to reason away. The thing Domme doesn’t need to say is that that feeling is okay, because the tight embrace says it all, the way Domme doesn’t let go until Ros does and even then, Roslyn makes sure to stay tucked in close.
“What does imperative mean?” Jack asks, peering up at Joe.
“In this context, important.”
“There’s more than one meaning?”
“Sort of yes and no. In this context, it’s operating like a descriptor.”
“Like an adjective,” Jack notes.
“Exactly,” Joe nods. “So here it means important because it’s describing the action before. If it were being used like a noun, it would mean that something is important too but it would be more like a set of instructions. Like when Mom or I tell you to eat all your veggies or to finish your homework. Those are instructions so they’d be called imperatives, but they are important bits of information too.”
“English is so strange.”
“A little bit. It is one of the hardest languages to learn.”
“Do you think I could learn Italian since I am already learning the hardest languages?”
It’s an easy affirmative to give. “Absolutely. If you want to learn, we can look into classes once we’re back home.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, Jack Jack. Anytime.”
The hug around his legs isn’t quick, lasts just long enough—Joe can feel the seconds melting around them, but he’s in no hurry either—and then Jack Jack eases in closer to Domme. “You were great, Mamas. Proud of you.” He pairs the praise with a kiss to her cheek too.
A lot like Joe plans to do, a lot like Joe has done in the past too. And if Joe could only get one thing right, he really hopes it’s this—treating his family the way they deserve to be treated, even if he stumbles at times with it. Joe, for the moment, as he watches Domme squatted in front of the car, is grateful that the quiet gives him this too—the ability to watch his family and have just a little bit of peace to enjoy it, to not worry about the buzzing of alerts.
The quiet last even into the depths of the night. The restaurant is a soft yellow glow of candle light and shaded bulbs. Their plates are empty, aside from tiny remnants of corners their stomachs were too full for, and the the cutlery. Joe and Domme sit across from each other, at each of their sides is a kid around the circular table. Roslyn’s already faded—her head too heavy for her neck to support and Joe takes her by her underarms and plants her into his lap. She curls into his stomach.
Jack is going to go soon too, that much Joe can tell. He’s stretched over the arm of his chair, leaning in closer to Domme. His eyes are a rapid blink. Each time his head drops, he jolts back awake. It happens a third time and Domme exhales out a small laugh. “Jack Jack, do you want to sit in my lap?” she offers in a that gentle soothing tone that she reserves for when the kids are sick or tired. Doesn’t want to make a decision for them unless it’s vital.
He nods but doesn’t speak a word as he pushes out of the seat. Domme gets him settled into her lap, his head finding her chest without an ounce of hesitation and his eyes flutter close. “He’s going to be asleep in under a minute,” Joe teases.
“That’s….rude, Papa Bear,” Jack Jack slurs out.
“It’s accurate,” Joe mutters, dropping his gaze to check on Roslyn. Her cheek is smashed into his sternum but she’s gone lax against him—surrendered fully into the sleep that was laying claim to her earlier.
The background is full of chatter—a soft lull of voices and laughter that Joe can’t piece out what’s being said and for the first time in his life since being thrusted into the limelight, he doesn’t really care that he can’t piece out what’s going on around him. It doesn’t matter. Joe’s not been recognized much either—a handful of times at most. And it’s always been obvious by the double takes. Thankfully, Joe’s been able to make it clear in those moments, with a kid in his arms, and Domme nestled in right next to him that he’s not exactly looking to interrupt this time with his family. It’s mostly a fleeting moment of recognition that crosses their face that Joe notices from behind the dark lenses of his shades. Then it’s done. They don’t stop him, don’t even realize he’s seen them looking at him and they both go on separate ways.
In the soft light of the restaurant, with the chatter of conversations Joe can’t understand for the most part, he reclines back into his chair, arms circling around Ros to keep her safe and tucked in nicely against him, and he feels at ease under the warm stare of Domme who sets down the glass with her water. Her glass of wine has only had a few sips taken from it. The soft yellow off the shoulder top, with ruffles that rest gently over the top hem and against her chest as well as ruffled loops that wrap around Domme's biceps paired with a dramatic pair of wide legs pants—the same red to match the heels Joe specifically requested she bring and wear—make her look ethereal. The gold jewelry sparkle in the soft light, and against her skin. An outfit that looks comfortable but echoes of something more sultry as the cropped nature of the shirt and the high waist of the pants shows off just a little midriff —a combination that sent a jolt of electricity through Joe's spine when she stepped out of the bathroom of their hotel room.
“Have I told you that you look beautiful? What is in it in Italian—bellissima?” Joe’s heard the phrase uttered a thousand times since the four of them arrived, and it’s always directed at Domme or the kids. Most often, it’s been an older woman who stops dead in her tracks as the four of them walk past and she doesn’t hesitate to reach out, to wave them down and take a moment to admire Domme—her lips moving at a speed that Joe can’t keep up with. The gestures give it away, the wave over Domme’s frame, a circle of their fingers to indicate a turn, and the soft awe in which they repeat bellissima over and over again.
“You might’ve mentioned it a thousand times before we even left the hotel tonight.”
“This is a thousand and one: You are so beautiful.”
“Thank you, love. And thanks, again, for the day at the track.”
“That’s the one thousand and second time you’ve said thank you.”
“Had to beat you at your own game,” she grins. The shuffle is subtle, as she eases Jack Jack higher onto her lap and he gives without protest, his mouth slacked open. “He’s out like a light, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah, an absolute KO.” It’s how the kids have been—energetic throughout the day but by the time dinner is over, they’re both half asleep. The days have been long due to them adjusting for the time change and the long laundry list of their activities. Exactly what Joe hoped for, even if it means at times he’s carrying them both back in his arms, each of them tucked into either side of his neck with their tiny snores reverberating in his ear.
“Didn’t even make it to the third round, poor kid.” Joe huffs out a laugh, his nod affirming that he’s heard what Domme has said. But he doesn’t get a chance to respond before she speaks again, “How’s your head?”
“My head?” Joe’s not had any issues with his head recently—no headaches, he even got his contact prescription updated before this trip too.
“The voice in your head.”
It’s only been a few weeks, since he had the breakdown in the kitchen. Neither one of them had mentioned to the other since. But leave it to Domme to have that unnerving timing, like she can sense the change like animals can sense storms. “Better,” is all Joe can offer. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s not gone because he can feel it, the tendrils left behind like roots, but that it’s dormant. It’s gone quiet. Though he’s worried it won’t ever leave, he’s trying to soak up the silence for however long that last.
“You remember those dahlias that I begged to plant in the front and side yard?”
Joe blinks, head tilted slightly as he considers why she’s bringing them up again. Because they’ve been planted for the last four years now. He nods nevertheless. “Of course, I do. They bloom every year and they’re pretty.”
“And you recall how I have to dig them up every October and put them in those tubes and I fuss every winter over them before the bulbs go back into the ground in the spring?”
“God, yes. I do.” The garage is a mess of the supplies during the early fall. The yard looks like it’s been excavated for land mines and the kids don’t really seem to care as they’re playing—though they are careful not to step onto anything that could be a plant while Domme’s working. Most often they stick to the sidewalks as they chase each other around or with the few other kids in the neighborhood. The shed in the back becomes more like a greenhouse than anything else until all the outdoor plants are returned to their rightful spots at the right time of the year.
“What if that voice in the back of your head is like those dahlias? It never goes away, just goes dormant for the winter and it comes back—maybe not year round, or like clock work like a plant. But it comes in waves, ya know?”
Joe’s never been afraid to say, I don’t know, to Domme. It only means they have to work it out together. But Joe hates not having a plan. He hates not knowing what to do next. His mouth goes a little dry but he knows he can’t avoid this question either. “We pivot?”
“Of course, we do that,” Domme agrees. “But I mean—what about you? How does that feel when you think about the fact that it may come and it may go?”
Awful. Joe feels awful, but somehow he doesn’t feel so surprised by this potential. “Not great.”
She nods, body rocking back and forth like she can’t help the motion with a child in her lap. A sway Joe’s been tracking since she scooped Jack Jack up. “I don’t know where I want to go with that line of questioning. But I have been thinking that if it never goes away, that I don’t want you to feel like you’ve failed us—me, Jack, Ros. We love you and we know that football’s like your first love. You and I—we’d find a way to make it work. But I don’t—you’re not a failure, Joe. You’re a damn good dad. You’re the most handsomest husband I’ve ever had.”
“And the only husband you’ll have too.”
“And the only husband I’ll have too,” she laughs. “We’re not perfect creatures. I’m not. You’re not. We’re not meant to be. And I just want you to know that, if that voice comes back, I want you to remember this—that you’re an amazing father, the best husband I could ever have or ask for, and it’s okay to miss or to need football in some kind of way. It doesn’t make you a failure if you do need it.”
She’s careful, the if’s fall in a soft hiss and she pauses around it like she wants to say something else. Joe hears it, how every if is trying to cover up the inevitable when. An optimism that doesn’t fully hide away the reality underneath. Joe may never fully be outside the world of football—he may need it like he needs Domme, like he needs his kids. He may be trying to sever off a limb in a trap of his own making.
“I want to enjoy them, while they’re still young. While they’ll still call me Daddy, you know?”
The candles flicker and with it, Joe notices the sadness that drips onto Domme’s face. “I get it. When I went from Mommy to Mom with Jack Jack, I think a little piece of me got lost. I’m not rushing you, I don’t want you to think that. I just—I felt like you needed to hear that. That we’re proud of you.” She lets the sentence linger and Joe, god he’s been trying not to cry, trying to hold back but his chest squeezes. The sting is inevitable and maybe all of this is inevitable too, that Joe will always need football in some way, that he’ll need his family and that he’ll always be working to balance too—and he will fuck it up some day, and there will be other days that he gets it right.
“We love you because you’re you. Nothing’s going to change that,” Domme finishes, her sway never broken with Jack Jack in her lap. “And I mean that. Nothing. The next time that voice gets loud, can you let me know? I’d like to feel included, even when it’s ugly, Joe. I’m not scared of ugly.”
She’s never been afraid of that ugly. Not once. “So much for the cat and geckos helping with retirement,” Joe teases, even as the words get caught around the lump in his throat. Her visage blurs, but Joe doesn’t move to wipe away the tears—he lets them bubble onto his lash line, careful that should they fall, which they most likely will, they don’t land Roslyn below.
“It’s only been a couple months, give them some time. And yourself too. Grace, we all need it sometimes.”
“Thank you—for saying that. I needed it.” Joe needed those words—that they’re still proud of him, that they love him—more than he cares to admit, but he can admit that to Domme. Because she never flinches away. She leans in, even when Joe feels like he’s being flayed open, when all his innards are left hanging for the world to see, Domme never grimaces. She holds her hands out wide for him, for all of him. Even the parts that cut her. Even the parts that Joe wishes he could hide away from her.
She is right there. “Forever and always.”
“I don’t think I can do the dinner alone, for the ring.” He doesn't want to do it alone if he doesn't have to. Not if he can help it.
“What am I? A soggy diaper? Christ almighty.”
Though he doesn't want to, Joe laughs, shaking his head. “No, I mean, I want the kids there too. All four of us. It would be nice. To share that moment with all of you.” Joe’s already thinking about how everyone in the room's going to be watching him like a hawk. And it won’t even be out of a malicious intent. Everyone knows it’s the last time Joe will be in a room like that, as the quarterback. It’s emotional and weighty. And Joe doesn’t want to crumble. Yet, if he does, he at least wants to know that his family is there and they’re proud of him and that there is strength in letting the weight of the a moment settle, even if it is crushing.
“We will be there, Papa Bear. Don’t you worry.”
“And you're a great mother too.”
Joe hadn’t really seen what Domme was referring too about losing a little piece of herself. She’d still shown up like always. But that’s what Domme does. She shows up. She does the hard work, the work that aches. Still, Joe can’t halt the panic. Her appetite was holding steady. Joe is sure to keep an eye on it after the first stretch postpartum with Roslyn. Joe never, and he means never, wants to see Domme like that again, struggling to eat, to sleep, to feel human. Joe is not one to be easily spooked, but watching Domme deteriorate and refuse help so vehemently at the start shook him to his core. There are still days when Joe feels like he might be missing something, that she is asking for help in ways Joe cannot see. More than once he’s thoroughly checked through her lunch bag, weighed containers that came back home and prayed that she wasn't scraping it out in the office just to get around his defenses.
“Thanks, love. I appreciate that.”
“Jack Jack does not love you any less even if he doesn’t call you Mommy anymore. Trust me. He talks about you constantly. I think he’s trying to steal my spot.”
Her scoff, paired with an eye roll, makes her grin. Joe teases about this all the time. “He is not stealing your spot.”
“No, he is. I’ve seen him plotting. And he’s a formidable opponent. But I’m still winning.”
“If I recall correctly, you were the one plotting,” Domme grins as she reaches for her wine glass. “You were the one that sent Jack Jack on the chase for that brush, that no one needed.”
Joe can’t help the smirk, recalling how just a couple days before flying out to Italy, he’d spotted Jack Jack cuddled up next to Domme and asked Jack Jack to go upstairs to get a brush—a ploy for what he really wanted, which was the opening. In the time it look Jack to leave and come back, Joe slipped into the vacant spot next to Domme. Upon Jack’s return, he declared with a tut of laughter that Joe was stealing his Mamas’ and waged all out war. War that really meant a spontaneous round of wrestling in the living room, Joe carefully dropping Jack into the couch cushions, Jack attempting to pin Joe to the ground which Joe admittedly did let Jack put some actual muscle into before artfully kicking out on the count of 2 from Domme who was pressed directly into the carpet, her palm thumping against the floor with each number. Foam from a package was used like the black folding chair, cracking over backs and skulls with only an ounce of pressure behind it. Jack went so far as to create a tag team, tapping Roslyn in as she climbed up onto the couch and stretched out her hand to her brother. Joe won just barely, a heavy and haggard rhythm to his breathing as both kids huffed and puffed out more cackles of delights, one wrapped around each of his legs. In his arms, Joe carried Domme bridal style, insisting that she was his.
“That’s because you didn’t see what I saw. I saw his master plan,” Joe insists, grinning as he does. “But seriously, are you okay? You can talk to me.” Please don’t let me have missed something. Please. Even as Joe asks, he is scared, feels it down to his bones how much the thought of Domme struggling alone makes him ache.
“It’s just hard sometimes. Watching them grow up. We were in the newborn trenches in what feels like was just a few days ago. And now, they’re asking us what words mean and going over to see friends and Jack Jack didn’t even need help with his math homework. I thought I’d be ready for it. They’re growing up and I feel like sometimes it’s faster than I can keep up with."
Joe nods before he speaks. “It is hard. But maybe that means we’re doing it right? I don’t know, but I feel like I have to believe that them wanting to do things on their own, and the push back is a good sign, that we're raising them to be competent and capable.”
Domme’s nod is thoughtful, her gaze clouded as she thinks and then when she flicks her eyes back, Joe sees how tender it is. “I’m okay. I saw that look. It’s not like before, I swear it’s not. I made a promise I wouldn’t hide that from you again. And I’m not. I just had one of those oh shit moments. Where I was finally catching up to what was happening around me.”
Joe’s had plenty of those. When there’s finally a break in the grind to see how far you’ve come. The kind of moment that feels like an exhale, and still terrifying at the same time. “They’re heavy hitters, aren’t they?”
“Still think you’d rather face defenders? Because if sacks feel like that, I don’t know if I’d be able to choose.”
“Fortunately, I’d rather be here. Without the risk to my physical body. Just my heart, which does indeed hurt worse.”
A small but pregnant pause settles around them, leaving just the soft quirks of smiles in the flickering candle light. Domme eases forward, stretching one hand across the table. Joe answers, his fingers wrapping around hers. Her wedding band kissing against his fingertips as she speaks, “I’m really glad that I get to be a parent with you, and be your wife. I wouldn’t want to contemplate parenting with anyone else.”
The blue sapphire is dark in the low light. Just barely registers as blue, but Joe knows that it is. Joe couldn’t create a better partner for himself even if he’d be given instructions. He glances back up and nods, feeling another fresh wave of tears brewing on his lash lines. “Me too. I don’t want to do life with anyone else—parenting, all of it. Really glad it’s with you too.”
Heart of the Matter—Jealousy, Jealousy (Surprise Extra)
Are you really here right now?
CW: 18+ Content (Smut). 15.9K words
Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist
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“That spot taken?”
Before Joe can finish the question, he’s already crawling up. He eases his way between Marlowe’s legs. She lets him in, of course, arms and legs spread open without so much as a twitch of her gaze towards him. The TV’s dancing with Martin, a season that they’ve absolutely watched already, but provides entertainment even now as they watch again.
“Always open,” Marlowe hums in return. Her words melt into a small tutted round of laughter.
Joe nestles his head onto her chest. Cheek pressed into the soft tissue of her breast. Beneath the surface, he catches the thumping of her heart—a steady rhythm he knows all too well by now. Marlowe’s left hand eases up, the bands catching in the soft mid-summer sunlight and reflecting onto the glass table—a prism of the rainbow flashing with her movements. The floors shine with the light from the windows. The palm of her right hand is warm over his cheek, as she strokes once, then twice before it retreats up and out of Joe's line of awareness.
Marlowe was home seemingly before Joe—an amazing feat considering how she was in the process of preparing for a two day workshop. A class meant to help the everyday person find their best makeup routine in fifteen minutes or less. Joe timed Marlowe’s application process for her just last week. He watched how she started with moisturizer, dabbed on concealer but did not use foundation, set with powder, dusted shadow onto her eyes, lined, swiped on mascara, and finished with her signature lined lips and gloss combo. She talked while she worked, her fingers swift and deft between all the brushes and sponges. Joe kept a careful eye on his timer too. He glanced between her and the screen until Joe heard her soft, “Time.” Then he tapped. She’d done it all within 13 minutes and 45 seconds.
Joe was sure she’d have plenty to do—an outline of her talking points, checking the new business cards that arrived earlier this week. When Joe left that morning, Marlowe seemed to be moving a little slower than usual. But she smiled brightly all the same, kissed him all the same on the cheek, whispered, I love you. Be safe out there there today, all the same. He didn’t think she was getting sick; sick Marlowe wallowed a bit more, her propensity for the dramatics came out more. Still, the pieces now do stir a bit of a concern in Joe’s gut.
“Everything okay?” Joe asks, sliding his cheek up her clothed chest to get a look at her.
In another couple weeks they have the appointment at the fertility clinic. The appointment, as Marlowe confessed to Joe last night, worried her—that they’d find something wrong with her, something that would render her unable to have kids entirely. Did those thoughts still linger? Joe did what he could to console her, but not even he can lie. Fear nags him too him too. It’s a fear based less so about Marlowe and more so about himself, that somehow the odds would be stacked against him, and how that would impact Marlowe too.
The hand Marlowe slid up into his hair falls just a little, moving from the light scratch to a gentle cup. “Yeah,” Marlowe answers, dropping her gaze to him. Her irises that deep brown that Joe loves to see if he can make out the edges between pupil and color. “What’s up?”
“I was shocked that you got home before me today. That’s all.” Well, at least that’s how he conveys it. Because it could be nothing, but it could be something too. Malia’s birthday wasn’t for another month. August’s weight dropped with each year, became lighter and lighter, but the grief still crept in on Malia’s birthday. But Joe's always home before Marlowe, especially given the early morning practices to try and beat the brutal and scorching afternoon summer sun.
“Admin day. The office is getting sprayed because a few people have noticed bugs.”
Right, right, right. Marlowe had mentioned that. The conversation last weekend comes back to his mind, how they sat at dinner outside, the smoke from the meat Marlowe slow cooked on the grill started to fade when she mentioned that she’d be home in the middle of the week. Joe’d been a little distracted, trying to keep the sauce from the ribs from staining the cushions of their outdoor couch. But he did hear it, caught it faintly around her laughter at his panicked huffs.
“Right, thanks for reminding me. Almost forgot.”
“Silly goose,” Marlowe snorts.
Joe settles back into his previous position: head on her breasts, arms looped around her waist, eyes closing now. Everything would turn out okay, Joe reminds himself. The fertility appointments were to seek clarity, not bring more confusion. They were only going this early on in their marriage because of Marlowe’s age. It would give the two of them plenty of time to consider their options. Perhaps it’s just the wanting that brings up the nasty thoughts. That Joe wants kids with Marlowe so bad it scares him to think about what it looks like if it couldn’t happen.
Marlowe doesn’t start with the slow scratch again immediately. Joe huffs, cracks one eye open and spies her left arm stretching out for her phone—now lit up on the coffee table. “When you have both hands, I’d like scalp scratches, please.”
Both of them snort. “I’m starting to think Korey likes you more than she likes me,” Marlowe hums. Her hand moves from the back of his neck up to the top and the slow scratch resumes.
Joe nestles into Marlowe deeper. His bones are heavy. Nothing aches; it’s just the weight of use. Feels like he’s been carrying a heavy load for far too long. The price Joe plays for football is that he has to bulk up for the season. Now Joe can let go, allow his muscles to relax. He drops every ounce into Marlowe. She absorbs it well. Never complains when he does this—well, never enough to make Joe stop at least.
Korey called Joe over the weekend, and specifically him. Now in the first grade, Korey’s started memorizing phone numbers. She had Trey and Regina’s numbers down, could recite them with her eyes closed. She was pretty good at remembering Marlowe’s phone number. More often than not, she’d excitedly recount how she’d dialed when Marlowe’s number from the house phone just to prove that she remembered it.
Apparently Joe’s number was next on the docket. That Saturday evening his phone rang. The number was not saved and he’d almost ignored it. Joe’s initial reaction was to consider it spam. But the area code was familiar enough. His thumb hovered the red to hang up and his gut lurched. Joe moved to answer and upon his answering, “Hello?” Korey’s bright voice chirped back at him, “Hi, Joe! It’s me, Korey. I dialed your number all by myself!”
Now Joe’s stuck with her mannerisms again at least for the next week, if not longer. “I’m her big brother,” Joe defends. “Of course she likes me more than you.”
The tap to the back of his head is swift and damning. “I was here first.”
“Watch it!” Joe huffs as he looks back up to Marlowe. Her face is obscured by her phone partially as she holds it in one hand. “And too bad, I’m here now.”
Joe doesn’t miss the roll of Marlowe’s eyes as she moves the phone just long enough to laser the sharp eyebrow raise at him. “You watch it,” Marlowe grumbles. Then her face is gone again, hidden by her phone covered in the case that has a bright red tomato painted into the back of the case.
Joe is watching too. Not about being Korey’s favorite, but the roll of Marlowe’s lips as the hummed disgruntlement echoes out of her chest and throat. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Marlowe rolls her head side to side, the movement conveying the indecision as it shakes her shoulders and his too slightly. “Just a couple old friends asking if I want in on the fantasy league this year. But I have the championship from a few years back and now that we’re married, having a fantasy league just feels weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Weird because if I didn’t get the chance to draft you, Ja’Marr, or Tee it would feel like an personal insult. I’d have to make a scene, darling. I’d have to make a scene. But, also, because of how I won the league last time too, you know.”
“No,” Joe returns slowly. Not out of concern, but because he’s attempting to recall, flipping through the stories he’s been told. But he comes up blank? “I don’t think I do know?” He can’t recall Marlowe ever mentioning a fantasy league to him. He tries to think back to her moving in, the boxes and suitcases that she had. He hadn’t come across a medal, or trophy, or anything to indicate it either.
“I haven’t told you, have I? I think you’d remember that story if I did tell it.”
“I remember everything you tell me.” Joe eases up and unthreads himself from between her legs. His back falls into the cushions. Marlowe’s ankles stay draped into his lap as she sits up.
“You almost forgot today was bug spray day.”
“Almost, but I did not forget,” Joe returns with a grin.
“Close enough.”
“No, it’s not. But about this fantasy league, what happened?”
Marlowe exhales as she drops her phone back to the coffee table. “It was before Malia died. 2021, I’m pretty sure. It was your second year? I was seeing this guy at the time. I can’t say we were really dating. I think we’d gone on like four, maybe five dates. He was a friend of Bryson; have I told you about Bryson?”
Joe shakes his head. “No.”
“Bryson’s a friend, sort of? It’s been a little weird since Malia died. He and Malia were very close. Q and I are close, but Bryson and Malia were different. Fated in ways that not even I can ever explain. He used to be at our place all the time hanging out. Jace, the guy I very loosely ‘dated’, was friends with Bryson.”
“You have a thing for J names.” It comes as an observation, and with humor too, as Joe’s unable to fight off his smirk.
“I have only dated two people with J names.”
“But you married me, so therefore, you have a thing for J names.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Marlowe snorts. “Anyways, with Jace, I don’t know. It was a little strange at first. He seemed a little insecure, but it wasn’t glaring until our last date. He took me to a Cavs game. Pretty decent seats. It was loud. When we finally got to the seats, he seemed a little displeased so I asked him what was going on and he was huffy with me about how I hadn’t said anything to the compliment he’d given me earlier. But like I said, it was loud in the arena. I could barely here myself think. I apologized but it was already going downhill. Someone had snacks and I asked where they’d gotten them from. I wanted some concessions before getting seated but Jace wanted to find our seats first. I was trying to keep up with him and make note of what I’d seen. It was really only the drinks that I was able to spot. It was another guy that I asked about the concessions because that’s who was sitting right next to me and that's who just happened to have the snacks. I mean clearly, if I want snacks I'll ask the person who has snacks where they got them them, you know? And apparently that was the wrong person to ask.”
“Don’t tell me this Jace guy got mad because you asked someone where to get snacks? Never mind the fact that it was another guy because that’s stupid, but it probably wouldn’t have been an issue if it was a woman, so.”
Marlowe nods. “And that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
Joe shoves at her hip, not even with a fraction of his strength, but the intent seems to be clear all the same. Marlowe falls back into the pillows. One hand pressed into her forehead. Her laughter is high, bounces from her chest and into the open air before she pushes herself back.
“Sarcasm aside,” Joe huffs, “how does this date lead to winning fantasy football?”
“Patience, young grasshopper. We well get there. Before I was so rudely interrupted, where was I? I was at concessions, right?” Joe nods in affirmation to her question. “Okay, so, Jace got really pissy about me asking another guy where to get the concessions. I didn’t really say much in the moment, because I didn’t even know what to say. So I just left for food. Some girls stopped me asking about my outfit, which Malia put together. We chatted for a few minutes or so. I go to sit back down with a drink each for me and Jace—that he didn’t even have to ask for, I just did that out of the kindness of my own heart—and started to offer splitting the popcorn I got when Jace gets snippy about how ‘females take forever’ or some shit.”
Marlowe pauses, but nods, her hand coming up and the clicking of the bracelets emphasis her gesture, a jab directly in the direction of Joe's face. Which he is sure gives away his disdain. “What the fuck was this guy’s issue?” Joe interjects. “Truly flabbergasted. Who says something like that unprovoked? With a free drink in their face?”
“Exactly how I felt! I don’t know what the issue was. I sincerely believed he thought he was hot shit. But the real hot shit is me. That's neither here nor there.”
“I'd like to argue that’s not the case. You are hot shit. And that's very integral to this story. Because who in their right mind treats you like garbage?”
“Someone not in their right mind,” Marlowe laughs. “We’re getting off track though. The whole situation was just terrible. Jace and I didn’t talk at all during the game. I didn't even extend the offer about my popcorn. We just acted like we hadn't come in together. I started to get to the know the group next to us. They were all friends that had come together and one of the guy’s girlfriends switched seats so she and I could talk and watch the game. Jace left the second the game was over and didn’t even bother to make sure I’d gotten home safe.”
“What the fuck?” Joe feels the furrow of his brows in the middle of his forehead deepen even more. Why would the guy not at least make sure his date get home safe? “Were you guys riding together? Did he just abandon you there? What the actual fuck, Marlowe? That’s fucking insane.”
Marlowe shakes her head. “No, love. We didn’t ride together.” The pads of her fingers smooth over his forehead—a touch soft and sure as she strokes over his skin. “I met him there; I was up in Cleveland for something else. I think it was maybe makeup for someone’s event? Not sure. Hey, no, you’re too handsome to be upset.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have just left you there, even if the date wasn’t going great. But at least check up on the other person, make sure they're safe. Creeps and weirdos are everywhere. You could've been in an accident. Anything could’ve happened.”
Her smile is sad, but soft as she nods. “I know, baby. But c’mon, no more frowning.” The words are echoed by the brush of her palm now over his forehead.
Joe captures her wrist before he brings her palm to his lips. The lines are deep in color like her skin. He presses several kisses up the middle line to the base of her knuckles. “I worry only because I care.”
“I am in front of you today in one piece. I think that counts for something.”
“It does.” Marlowe is, in fact, in one piece in front of him. For that, Joe is thankful. But he can’t let go about how awful she’d been treated. “I’m listening and we still haven't gotten to football. He leaves you there. Stranded after being a petulant child.”
Marlowe shakes her head. Joe knows it’s silly, that his worry is unwarranted considering Marlowe is okay. He just can’t help it. The last three years with Marlowe have felt like the quiet promise of spring—when the world wakes up after the long and cold winter and the air’s lighter too. It’s overkill to say that even since they’ve been married more and more of Marlowe’s blossomed. But it’s true. That the more time they have together the more Joe thinks he seems of who Marlowe really is. It’s not that she was before was fake. She was merely buried under grief, under the weight of loving her sister and the the crushing reality that she’d lost her sister too. A sister that feels more like a best friend the more and more Joe learns about her. Joe loves seeing Marlowe like this, open and unafraid. Sue him for wanting to protect this new version of her, the woman who lost her closest confidantes in life, that nearly put the final nails in her own coffin only to be the same woman that’s enjoying life again, that’s embracing the pain and the joy in both palms. Joe would do anything possible to keep this version of Marlowe alive.
“Yes, yes, after that, Bryson was talking to me about football, since he knows I’ve always loved it. His friends from college host a fantasy league every year. Darnell is the commissioner, even now. That’s who texted. So Bryson asked me if I wanted in. They were doing a guys vs the girls year and since I’d been sort of seeing Jace at the time, Bryson wanted to check with me about joining. At the time, I don’t think Jace had told anyone that I basically told him to fuck off.”
“As you should’ve. Fuck that guy.”
“Well, I don’t think I should, and I definitely won't be considering that. But I get what you mean,” Marlowe adds quickly to the rather pointed stare Joe directs at her. Her grin is bright but mischievous on her face.
It’s Joe’s she’s married to. Everyone knows that now. Yet and still there’s a hot lick of almost possessiveness in his chest. Marlowe is his, and his only. “Dancing a little too close to a fire there, angel.” It’s not a reprimand, just clear indicator of the lines as Joe establishes the boundary that he doesn’t want crossed.
Marlowe understands immediately. She nods, a rapid bounce of her her head, before she takes his hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I’m sorry, Joe. That was poor taste joke; I shouldn’t have said that. I'll be more mindful in the future, promise.”
Joe's gentle as he slips out of Marlowe's hold and finds her cheek, thumb stroking over the fullness of it. It keeps her looking young, to have such full cheeks. But Joe enjoys pressing kisses to it, knows the fuller it is means there's just more space for him to cover in affection. “Thank you, Marlowe. So Bryson asks you to join the fantasy league during that conversation after the terrible date?”
“Of course, baby. And yes, he did. But first, before that, once I got back to hotel, I told Jace that was the last time he and I will go out and to delete my number. I do want to clarify I did not sleep with him because he gave me bad vibes sort from the jump. And really, I am sorry again for that joke.”
“Apology accepted, angel. We’re good.” Marlowe likes to push the envelope at times, and it's a new side that Joe likes, though at times they both still have to find the hard way when there’s too much of a push.
Marlowe holds his hand only for a second, just long enough to press a kiss to his palm and then continues on, “So, Bryson reached out a few months later with an invite to join the league and I did accept. We chatted for a bit on like what it entailed and Bryson said he’d pass my name and number along to Darnell, since he was the commissioner. And that would sort of be the end of it, right?”
“Well, yes,” Joe laughs, “but I get the impression it was in fact not the end.”
“It was not. I instead asked Bryson for Darnell’s number. I’d met Darnell a couple of times. I could tell he was feeling me, and I had a plan for revenge.”
“Revenge?” Joe’s eyes widen around the question. Because Marlowe’s too sweet for revenge, right? Or is that Joe’s own ignorance showing?
Her laughter turns into a cackle. “Oh, sweet boy. Revenge. I texted Darnell and asked how the fantasy league worked, trying to play it coy and explained that Bryson reached out to be personally about it. Darnell seemed shocked because he told me that Jace had asked me but said I wasn’t interested. They were struggling to find someone else to fill the last slot for the girls and because Bryson knew me, he felt like Jace’s response about me turning down the offer sounded fishy. Which is why he reached out to me directly. Now, I don’t often use my feminine wilds for forces that could be considered evil, nor intentionally against such weak prey, but I had to this one time.”
“I beg to differ,” Joe interrupts and then stretches across the gap between them. Marlowe blinks up at him, her face caught between annoyance and amusement. “Like right now, you’re batting those eyelashes up at me. And I know you know what you’re doing to me.”
“You dare call me a harlot?” Her words are painted with a faux indignation that her smile echoes.
“I dare call you a siren. Cold.” Joe pushes in closer before he continues on, “Calculated. Irresistible.” Their lips are just centimeters apart as they share breathes.
“And I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet, my good sire.”
The kiss is short, a press of their lips—all an inhale before Joe eases back. “Continue, you temptress, about your dastardly deeds.”
“Dastardly indeed,” Marlowe exhales. Her eyes are still closed and for a small moment, it’s just the two of them again and the warm summer sun through the windows. If spring is a quiet promise to Joe, here stretched, almost pressing Marlowe deep into the couch cushions, one of his hands skating up her hip, is the thick sweltering buzz that only summer brings. Joe drags the tip of his nose over hers, a slow and soft touch that makes her exhale hard—a ghost over his face that Joe drinks in, the sweet edge of her strawberry candy dancing across his senses. “I agreed to join the league, naturally,” Marlowe starts in a whisper.
Joe kisses her again, all quick and all a peck before pulling them both upright. “Naturally.”
“And I explained to Darnell what happened and he seemed displeased by his friend’s actions, and apologized. I told him that though this was probably unfair to ask, but I did want to know how did draft order work.”
“Oh, no you didn’t,” Joe laughs, pulling the pieces together before Marlowe can present them.
“Oh, yes I did. Darnell agreed he’d let me go ahead of Jace in draft order if I agreed to go on a date with him.”
“Seductress!” Joe cries out as he points to Marlowe, like kids do when someone's in trouble. “That’s what you are! You’ve fooled me, built a marriage upon lies and deception, but now I see your heart is cold, ice cold.”
Marlowe drops her head into his shoulder as she giggles—not the boisterous one, but a soft wheeze and exhale. She’s only there, resting against him, for a moment, yet Joe still takes the opportunity to trace his fingers through her hair—the copper of the honeymoon long gone. The honey blonde from before is back. The grown out pixie cut replaced by a shorter shaggier almost mullet. There’s soft whips of curls, the promise of what’s her natural texture threatening to crop up, but still tamed by the heat of her flatiron. The haircut elevates her style, makes the features of her face stand out even more and Joe loves it more than he thinks he likes the original pixie cut.
“The real kicker,” Marlowe begins as she draws back out from Joe’s chest, “is Jace talked about you endlessly on our first date when I mentioned football. I mean endlessly. Not that I fault him because you are quite skilled, but endless,” Marlowe drops her octave a little to add emphasis to the word, her eyes rolling up and in for a moment too.
Joe snorts, his shoulders shaking as he knows now the vocal tic came from Lady Day. Everyone—Regina, Trey, Marlowe, and even Korey—does it too, a piece of familial legacy passed down generation by generation. “Oh heavens. How could you have survived? Please do go on. I’m intrigued now by your wickedness.”
“Quite simple,” Marlowe hums, with a tap to the end of Joe’s nose. “I drafted you first. I like to think Darnell also got the other people involved, but it could’ve been that no one was sure how you’d be after the knee. Alas, I snatched you up, kept you out of the clutches of evil. I decimated that year. I didn’t get Ja’Marr, I don’t think. But I did manage Tee and Jettas. I beat Jace twice in our face offs, by a landslide each time. Come to find out, no one really liked Jace all that much. He and Darnell grew up together so that's how he get introduced. And according to Darnell, Jace is a distant memory in the friend group at large. I think Darnell still tries to talk with Jace and maybe try and like reason with him on the side. But according to Darnell’s text from today, Jace’s not apart of the fantasy leagues anymore.”
“Did you actually go through with the date? With Darnell?”
“Yeah, right before draft day, he and I went and did putt putt golf. It went okay; miles better than the dates with Jace. But Darnell was a little too religious for me and I was a little too woo-woo for him. We’re still cool though.”
“Hmm, and to think, I wound up married to my hero all these years later,” Joe grins. “Thank you for saving me.”
“With honor, my liege. Thank you for kicking ass that year. I don’t think I can recreate that magic twice though and I still think it'd be weird.”
“I don’t know if it'd be weird per se if you wanted to do another fantasy league. It would make things interesting at home. But like if you want to, of course, you should.” Joe knows he doesn’t need to offer this, that Marlowe’s choice would be sound either way.
“I’d rather not be in the league. I’d commission one, or something if it came down to like Darnell wanting to be in this year. Which is what I’ll probably end up telling him.”
“He doesn’t draft?”
“No,” Marlowe answers, her head shake no adding to the answer. “He prefers not to but will do it if the teams are uneven.”
“Fair enough. I still think it’s crazy that you used Darnell’s crush against Jace to get ahead of him in the draft. That is truly sinister work.” Joe pauses for a moment and then eases in closer to Marlowe again. He glances to the left and then to his right before closing another inch of the space and whispers, “But I am proud,” with a wink.
“The secret’s safe with us,” Marlowe whispers back. “I think I’ve tainted the sanctity of fantasy football enough as is.”
“Fair,” Joe concedes.
There’s a rapid click against the tiles and Joe peers over his shoulder to see Pepsi scurrying in. His eyes are still blinking slowly as if just awakening from a nap. Given how quiet the house was, it’s a high likelihood that Pepsi was asleep on his perch in the sun room. A place he likes to be in the summer. Now with the long days, he’s much content to cause ruckus only in the morning and then stretch himself out in the sun for the afternoon and early evening.
Pepsi continues on until he leaps effortlessly onto the arm of the couch before he saunters up on to the back of of it and plops himself down right between them. Marlowe doesn’t hesitate to reach up and stroke the top of his head gently. Pepsi is still erratic at times, but as he grows older he mellows out just a little bit more.
“I also didn’t take you for that much of a basketball fan to agree to go to a game. You never watch with me.”
Marlowe balks at the accusation. “I do watch it with you. Who reminded you to make a bracket this year? Who’s going to have to remind you about the bracket again next year? Who do you text about it endlessly? Hmm?”
“Okay, so it was you. But only after I begged you. It’s fun to watch you get all into it, huffing at the refs for ‘flagrant technicals’. Is there any particular reason why you don’t watch it more?” Though Marlowe isn’t loud or brash as she watches basketball, it’s clear she knows her stuff. Even in her protest in watching, she’s very clearly paying attention.
“It’s not my favorite sport,” Marlowe shrugs. “But I like it enough to watch it when you beg me about it.”
Joe nods, but already feels himself filing that information away for later. “Still sucks that Jace was such a dick to you.” He stretches out to pet Pepsi too. The cat’s purrs shaking through the cushions and Joe hasn’t realized until now how much his purr shares a similar tempo to Marlowe’s heartbeat. If that’s not fate, Joe’s not sure what would be.
“Yeah, it does. But all roads have lead me here, which isn’t too bad if I do say so myself.” As Marlowe utters the sentence, her laughter oozes out around it.
It’s faux offense that drops Joe jaw. “Isn’t too bad? Excuse me, what am I? Chopped liver?”
“Something like that,” Marlowe giggles, arms already drawing up to protect her against the pending assault of Joe’s fingers against her ribs.
Marlowe believed Joe when he said he remembered everything she’s said. She even believes he remembers everything unsaid too because he never misses a bouquet arrangement for her birthday, all major holidays, Malia’s birthday, Lady Day’s birthday, her mother’s and father’s birthday, nor Korey’s birthday. Joe remembers that he and Papa Cruz share the same middle name so much so that as they discuss children he brings up wanting to continue that legacy, that at least one the kids should carry on Lee as a middle name too. Joe knows how much family matters Marlowe that she’d want to find ways to honor all those that have passed on aside from sleeping under the same stars and beating her the punch. Joe remembers that she likes oat milk and extra chai in her drinks. He remembers that she likes anything chocolate, but doesn’t eat mushrooms. Joe remembers that Marlowe always backs into the driveway and thus up into the garage too, rather than pulling in if she can help it so any time he takes her vehicle he backs it in too.
The thing she can’t say she anticipated is that once the season ends, Joe would produce tickets to a Cavaliers game, the pout already set on his lips. “Please, Marlowe. They’re court side seats. Please, please, please.”
“Joe,” Marlowe laughs. “I’ll go.”
“Excellent. Also, I have tickets for Trey, Regina, and Korey. And tickets for the art museum for all of us.”
“Were they your backup plan to bribe me in into going?”
“If I say yes, does that change your answer?”
A question which is an answer in and of itself. Marlowe’s laughter is mostly disbelief before she speaks, “No, it doesn’t. But thank you, for thinking of them too.”
“Of course, angel.”
Joe slides the tickets onto the fridge, one of the magnets from Marlowe’s most recent venture to Los Angeles holds the stack up. His lips are swift to fall to her temple in a kiss and Marlowe watches on, gazes at the tickets as her hairs on the back of her neck raise. There were plenty of other games to attend, certainly Joe would have plenty to do out in California with the start of his off season, where he would up for at least a few weeks each year like clock work.
Yet, the tickets say Cleveland all the same. All these months later.
Yes, Marlowe knows that Joe remembers everything. Not even because he said so, but because she’s seen it. So she watches him exit the kitchen, his half consumed bottle of water in his grasps too as he eases into the living room. There's no way it's just coincidence, right?
“Can we watch Golden Girls tonight?” Joe asks, voice carrying through the open floor plan. At ease. Composed.
“I’d love to!” Marlowe calls back, wondering if she should mention the peculiar timing and bizarre opportunity to go back to a see Cavs game now or later.
Later—that’s what Marlowe decides she’ll bring it up, when they’re back on the couch and Joe’s resting on her chest again. It’s better to bring all that up later, because ten minutes into the episode, snores cut in through the laugh track. And those snores don’t come from Marlowe, that’s for sure.
Later arrives just a day before the game at the first and only of the rest stop before reaching Cleveland during the four hour drive. Korey’s inside to use the bathroom with both Marlowe’s parents and Marlowe huddles up next to Joe as he pumps gas.
“Can I pick your outfit for the game tomorrow?” Joe asks, face scrunched up behind the whipping of the wind. It’s a chilly morning, but it is supposed to warm up later as the day progress and as the weekend goes on.
“I’d like that.”
“Think you’ll do a whole face?”
Marlowe shrugs at Joe’s question. “It’s just a game. Maybe not.”
“If I had a makeup look that I wanted you to try, would you try it?”
Marlowe hums, hands slipping out of her pockets to adjust Joe’s beanie down over his ears. His face softens with the smile and his gratitude is a whisper that Marlowe catches only because she’s paying attention. “I’d have to see this makeup look. I didn’t bring a whole kit with me.”
“I’ll show you tonight at the hotel.”
“Sounds good.”
“Joe!” Korey wails. She holds up a bottle in the distance—something pink and orange, or maybe it’s yellow—and checks twice for cars before taking off into a sprint across the lot. Her tiny feet stomp as her arms clutch her treasure. The beads threaded to the ends of her plaits click and clack in time with her run. “They had your favorite flavor. And Auntie, I got you a honeybun! PopPop said they were your favorite as a kid.”
“Thanks, bug,” Marlowe laughs as she collects the items—the bottle of Body Armor, the honeybun, and more too—the blue packaging in the mix immediately alerts Marlowe to Korey’s new current obsession being amongst the other items collect as well. “Did you get something for yourself?”
“Yes, they had mini Slim Jims! And Oreos! But I can’t eat the Oreos until after dinner, according to Gma.”
“Thanks for the drink, Korey,” Joe grins, after getting the nozzle replaced back into the rack and pressing no on the receipt for the twenty dollars of gas in Marlowe’s SUV. “We’ll make sure to keep the Oreos safe in the snack bag, okay?”
“Good idea.”
Joe opens the back passenger door for Korey and Marlowe supervises that she buckles herself in well—the car seat converted again for Korey’s latest growth spurt. Though she’s not rear facing, Joe’s still mindful to consult the manual for her current weight each time. A quiet practice Marlowe’s noticed, each time she mentions how big Korey’s gotten, or after they’ve had her for a weekend. Joe can be found pouring over the manual, eyes tracking the words and lips sometimes moving alongside them.
The start of next leg to their drive is fairly easy with Joe tailing behind Trey. Korey sings from the backseat along to the songs that she recognizes, others that she doesn’t but likes pass by in her singing along to melodies she’s just learned and bouncing in her car seat. Though Marlowe anticipated having the full four hours alone with Joe, she doesn’t mind Korey’s addition. Granted, it was a losing fight the second Korey asked Joe if she could join them.
Joe takes his title serious as big brother.
A fact that Marlowe is hopeful will translate over into fatherhood too. In the back of her mind though, Marlowe’s just hoping IVF works. With fibroids and now diagnosed endometriosis blocking one of her fallopian tubes, and Joe adamantly shutting down the idea of any surgery on Marlowe’s part unless it was life saving or live altering, IVF’s their first shot. It’s not that Marlowe’s scared, as much as she is overwhelmed. Both Joe and Marlowe decided after all their testing and all the information had come back, to take a few extra weeks to contemplate their options.
The season had been a whirlwind of doctor’s appointments, test results, and game days. Enough happening on their plates that neither one wanted to make it even more complicated. But now the offseason’s dawned and there’s nothing else to hide behind. They have to decide now. And really, it’s all in Marlowe’s court. Joe had already said his piece, he wanted to try IVF first, before taking on further and more drastic measures like surgery. Marlowe’s case of endometriosis is relatively mild, but still at times rather exhausting. She’s mostly asymptomatic, a rarity she discovered one late night while Joe was away during a game on Reddit and various other forums. The more and more she learned, the more she worried not trying for surgery would be their undoing—that she’d inevitably need to do it.
Some of it is a twinge of bitterness. Malia—aside from the heart defect—appeared to have no issue getting pregnant. Though, Marlowe’s alive and Malia’s not. So, comparing her situation to that of her dead sister’s feels childish.
“Need a snack?”
Marlowe blinks at the question and turns to look at Joe. He’s still staring out the front, still a car link and a half behind her parents. The highway’s thinned out around them for the time being, most people now settled where they need to go at just before 11 in the morning. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“You sure?” The question feels loaded, and Marlowe’s not sure she’d even be able to find some code to explain what’s going through her head in order to answer in front of Korey. The moment fills in thick before Joe continues on, “It’s another hour or so before we stop again for lunch. I know you usually have a mid morning snack around now.”
Marlowe’s not the only one paying attention. Tucking the last little bit of the strands behind his ear, Marlowe returns her hands back to her lap. “I’m sure.”
“Korey, care to share a Slim Jim?” Joe questions, his hands stretched backwards as he poises the question.
“Only because I love you,” Korey laughs and then wrestles with the wrapper to get it opened for Joe.
“The love is appreciated and reciprocated,” Joe beams. He takes one end of the stick between his teeth. “Thanks.”
When they pull into the parking lot of the restaurant to eat lunch, Marlowe thinks she’s in the clear until Joe helps Korey out and asks her to stay with PopPop and Gma for just a few minutes. Marlowe knows she’s gotten away with nothing when Joe turns back towards her. “Got kind of quiet there in that last hour,” Joe poses. It’s a soft lob, like dipping a toe into water to see if it’s cold.
“Thinking, that’s all.”
“About?” Joe probes. His voice is low, mindful that they’re not exactly alone, even if the parking lot is nearly empty.
“Treatment,” Marlowe whispers back. “Those are a lot of meds to take and what if it doesn’t work? I was sort of pissed at how easy Malia had it. Then I thought twice about it, because she’s dead. So how easy was it really?”
“That’s normal. To be worried and maybe even a little upset. I get that. I mean, my brothers certainly weren’t trying to navigate this either from what they’ve shared with me. I wish we didn’t have to deal with it. But I’m here for you. I think Malia would be too, if she were still here.”
The wind sharpens against their cheeks, an exacting and harsh whip as the litter skitters across the asphalt around them. Malia would be there for Marlowe too. She knows that. Even if Marlowe had been momentarily bitter. “What if I do the surgery first? To increase the odds?”
Joe shakes his head. “You’d be down for a few weeks, Marlowe. Then you’d have to go through all the pills and injections after that too. It’s a lot to do back to back, physically. I’m sure mentally you’d crush it. But I do think you’d go a little stir crazy being at home for weeks on end. And then the shots, they said those can sometimes physically take a big toll on people. You and I are busy bodies. We like to do things and being told we can’t do something, well,”
“Makes us want to do it even more,” Marlowe laughs. She’s heard the stories from Robin about Joe and been there through the minor injuries too thus far. Her parents have shared the stories about her to Joe. They’ve seen each other with headaches, or pains here and there still soldiering on.
“Exactly. I don’t like saying no to something you want. It’s like my least favorite thing in the world to do—to be the bad guy against you. But I don’t know, Marlowe. This one time I can’t just sit back. I do think you might be right. That surgery could potentially increase odds. But I’m also weighing out if that physical toll is worth the increase. You’ve only got one body; just like me. But it was me. I made a vow that day in January, to show up every day with you and every day for you. This is me, keeping that vow. Showing up. Being the bad guy.”
“No,” Marlowe hums. She hazards a step closer and thankfully Joe reciprocates with a step of his own. “I don’t think you’re being the bad guy. You’re right. It’s a lot to take on, surgery, recovering, then treatment. I just don’t want this to fail.”
His hands are cold when they press into her cheek. His palms nearly swallow her entire face, but she doesn’t move out of the frigid cold touch. “I don’t want it to either. And I can’t say if it will or if it won’t, but I think it’s our best shot. I won’t back down from this—okay? If it gets scary, or too hard, you let me know, but I’m not going anywhere. We can face this together.”
Joe swims for a second. When Marlowe blinks, the hot sting of tears starts to rise over her face—a sadly welcomed reprieve to the harsh edge of February’s reign. “Please. I don’t want to do this alone.” Marlowe doesn’t want to this spiral, the worry, the injections, the doctor’s appointment, the fretting—she doesn’t want to do that alone.
“Never, baby. Never. I’m right here. Got nowhere else I’d rather be.” Joe tugs her into his chest, arms winding around her shoulders.
Marlowe inhales the crisp fresh scent of winter off him as it mixes the the heavier cologne he dabbed on earlier this morning before they left the house. It is home in a bottle for Marlowe, something that brings her back to earth when it feels like all the rest of the world has fallen away form her. She inhales, presses that smell deep into her lungs until they ache.
“Right here, I swear I’m right here,” Joe promises again, and again, and again in whispers against the shell of her ear.
They stand there, in the freezing winter, until Marlowe feels like she can breath again and her head’s not under water anymore on trying to decide what the right choice is. Because Joe is right. If she had surgery, she’d be unable to work—no work means no income. It would make Marlowe a little stir crazy. There’s less financial concerns between them given Joe’s job but with Marlowe still in the midst of restructuring to handle Nicole’s salary and bring in enough profit to pay herself, having surgery first is a much dicier choice. There was progress. Enough money was coming in to cover Nicole’s salary, but not nearly as much as Marlowe would want to pay her and certainly to enough for Nicole to survive off of it solo. Not yet at least. Things were looking better, more opportunities, more steady retainers, some celebrity work, and doors were start to open for a relaunch of a small makeup line. All of that rides on Marlowe though. On her being physically able to show up and to work. Surgery could certainly jeopardize all of that.
Marlowe takes the tissue Joe hands to her and clears the tears off her cheek. “Can we call the doctor on Monday? To make that first appointment?”
“Yeah, we can. And if Monday comes and you’re not sure, we can take more time too.”
“If I don’t do it then, I never will.”
Joe nods, collecting the damp tissues and tucks them into the tiny trash bag Marlowe leaves looped around the back of the passenger head rest for Korey to drop her trash into. “We’ll call Monday.”
By the time the group returns to the hotel—for the second time, as the first was to drop off their bags before heading to the art museum—Marlowe’s long forgotten about Joe’s request to pick her outfit for the game, or about the makeup until he’s rummaging through the shared suitcase. They’ve packed rather light. Joe’s packed the lightest naturally of them. But Marlowe’s kept it tame too. Each of them have something to go wander around the morning and afternoon before the game, and an outfit for the game itself. Marlowe’s sure whatever she wears tomorrow in the morning will most likely become the same thing she wears on the drive back home too. However, Joe’s tried and true singular option for the game is competing for space against the two options Marlowe brought alongside her travel sized makeup kit.
Joe takes the burgundy ankle booties that Marlowe has—Marlowe had the sneakers she wore today and the boots for outdoor shoe options— and sets them out, before diving back into the bag and pulling out the lime green button up shirt and the black pinstriped vest. The vest’s been reworked slightly and has a few chains and pins added. “Can you try the shirt and the vest on for me please?”
“Someone’s been taking notes from Kyle,” Marlowe teases but slips into them as requested. She’d intended to wear one or the other but not both together.
“Not this again,” Joe laughs. He pulls out her options for bottoms—black cargos, wide legged jeans, and leggings. He’d expressed interest in helping her curate a few outfits prior, all mostly events she’d be attending solo. Marlowe’s caught him a couple times in conversation with Kyle for tips and resources to learn more, though any advice he gets he usually uses with her and not necessarily on himself.
“Yes, this again. Look at you, going to put Kyle out of job. Also, what’s this inspiration for makeup too? There’s a few makeup stores nearby still open depending on what you’re requesting.”
“Oh, can you grab my phone? I saved it on Instagram.”
Marlowe shimmies into the vest and buttons it up before grabbing Joe’s phone. The passcode’s never changed and unlocks with ease after recognizing Marlowe’s face is in fact not Joe’s and prompting for the six digit code. Finding Instagram is easy. Joe’s screen’s aren’t filled to the brim with apps; though it never ceases to make Marlowe laugh when she has to swipe to the third page for Instagram—relegated to an island all on its own from how much Joe still dislikes using it frequently. Marlowe’s careful as she navigate to the saved videos. The first few most recent are hers and can’t help the grin. “Which one am I looking for?”
Joe holds out the wide legged jeans to Marlowe and they exchange items jeans for phone. “Should be the first one. Sorry.”
“No worries. Let me see.”
The video begins to play while Joe holds the phone in his palm. Marlowe recognizes the beat almost immediately. The first few frames are a before, the woman in her bonnet sans makeup as she lip syncs to the chorus, “Still screaming, ‘Fuck my ex!’” A small cut is made as the phone slides across her face and shows her full a full beat at a basketball game. “Know I got ‘em (grr), know I got 'em pressed (yeah)/ Slidin’ down a wall, clinchin' on they chest (ooh) / Thought he was my ball, put 'im through the net.”
The shadows are bright and shimmery, a blue to pink ombré and the lashes are long and clustered on the outer corner. But the irony is not lost on Marlowe, not in the slightest. The work she’d been attempting to do in buttoning up the pants is interrupted by her laughter. “Joe!” she howls.
“What? Her makeup looks good! You’d look sick! I know it.”
“No, the song!”
“What about the song?” Even as Joe asks the question, his lips quirk.
“You’re telling me this has nothing to do about the story I told you regarding Jace, who I’d hardly classify as an ex.”
“This isn’t about him. This is about you. Getting the opportunity to be hot as fuck court side and getting treated like you should’ve been all those years ago. That’s what this is about. Rubbing it in his face is just icing on the cake.”
“So much for this not being about him, huh?”
“Shush.” His cheeks have gone a hair pink—a sign usually linked to exertion, but now Marlowe knows it’s definitely linked to a little bit of embarrassment. “You’re married to me and I’m going to treat you right. You know this.”
“I do. Which is why I think this is funny and ridiculous.”
“We’re done talking about me. This makeup look,” Joe emphasis his point by pointing to the screen. “You can do something like that, yeah?”
“First off, the fact that you have to ask if I can, disrespectful. And second, I can take it to another level.”
“You know I love the Marlowe flair.” Joe presses a kiss to her temple. “And seriously, this is about you. Not about that other guy.”
“Not even a little bit? It already sounds like it might be a little bit about him,” Marlowe teases, holding her thumbing forefinger close together without touching.
It’s quiet for a long moment. Marlowe and Joe both staring at each other, her fingers still hovering over each other. It’s mostly about Marlowe, and then there is some small sliver of Joe that’s certainly fueled by his ego. If she could only get him to admit it. “I plead the fifth,” Joe deadpans.
Another round of laughter erupts from Marlowe—the loud unabashed kind, that sounds more akin to a roar than a laugh anymore. “That’s an answer, Joe.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Can you hand me the boots? Let me see what you managed to put together.”
Joe wouldn’t necessarily classify himself as the world’s most patient guy. He’s got some, of course, but he does not have an endless reserve of it. Yet, he watches with a certain wave of awe as Marlowe records herself before doing her makeup, a few interesting tricks and angles before it punches in and she slides it over her face catching the hotel shower. She then pauses the recording and sets out to work with her brushes and bottles.
It’s fascinating work, watching as she dabs and taps. The brushes click with a sound Joe’s heard many times before. He knows what the powder brush feels like and the sponge. But he watches without a worry about time when it comes to the way she packs in the soft browns before it suddenly shifts into a bright green to match her shirt onto the top of her eyelids. She layers and smudges, and buffs out effortlessly.
Her nails have been cut short, thanks to Brazilian ji jitsu. Joe wonders briefly if she’ll transition to something else during IVF or if she’ll give it up completely only when it’s clear she’s pregnant. Either way, her nails are short now. Joe’s made it clear his job, when he’s around, is to help open packages, sort out the tiny gems for makeup looks, and to clasp together necklaces. Yet, Marlowe moves to do them herself even still. “Hey, I’m right here,” Joe hums when Marlowe struggles for a moment to get a box of gems opened.
Marlowe doesn’t fight him, just hands the clear container over. “I just need the pearls out of that box. Do you mind picking out a like eight in total?”
“I’d be happy to.” Joe leans into the wall and eases the tab open to the container. The box still rattles just a little but thankfully nothing spills out. Joe selects eight pieces in total—two small circles, two in medium size of circle, two in that look like stars, and then two larger circles— and lines them up on the tissue that Marlowe has out for them.
“Oh, this is exciting. Let’s see where these should go,” Marlowe comments when she looks back through. “Small and medium should definitely go on the bottom lid.” As she talks, Marlowe dabs what Joe assumes is some sort of adhesive to the flat side of them. “Oh, or they could be tears. I think I like the tears idea better.”
Joe only hums as he snaps the container back closed. “I want this last bit to be a surprise so I’m gonna finish getting dressed.”
“Sounds good, stink. It’s the pearls and the lashes and then setting spray. I’ll be done here in like another fifteen minutes, maybe a tiny bit longer.”
“Take your time. We will not rush perfection.”
What Joe doesn’t expect though when Marlowe calls for him gently about twenty minutes later, is that he will wish to rush this game. The pearls rest delicately on her skin, one towards the inner corner of her eye, two on the bottom just beneath where a tear might actually track down and the star at the top of the outer corner. The lashes rest at the top and make her eyes look longer, the cut to them somehow steeper and sharper than usual. Her lips are dark, a hint of the burgundy from the shoes coming out but the rest of the look is light, refreshing as she bats those lashes.
Not only does he has to sit through an entire basketball game, he has to do so in front of her family. And Marlowe looks like an angel on fucking earth in front of him that he really wants to ruin.
Joe is a fucking dead man. His own ego has just given him the world’s hardest test and he’s not going to pass it. Most certainly not. But he can’t stand here in at this bathroom threshold with his mouth open wide enough to catch flies either. So Joe blinks, hazarding a small step closer to her.
“You look- holy shit- you look amazing.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
“Let me get a closer look.” He reaches out for her hand and Marlowe stands. Up close Joe can catch more of the light reflecting of the iridescence in the shadows, how her cheeks glow. “Is that—it’s highlighter right? That goes there?” Joe questions, fingers pointing out where there’s an extra depth of something shiny on her face without actually touching it.
“Yes, highlighter.”
“You look like a star, you know? Like an angel.”
Her gaze falls down, away from him. Joe’s careful, using the top side of his index finger to lift her head back up. “Thanks,” Marlowe whispers—a shy and almost too soft sound.
“You’re blushing.” Not a question, but a fact that Joe knows now with time given the way her lips curl how she looks away form him. “What I said is true. You look beautiful. And I’m starting to regret inviting your entire family.”
Marlowe snorts at the last sentence, shoulders bouncing as she does. “That’s what your ego gets.”
Joe knows that now that he and Marlowe are married certain public displays of affection are okay within eyesight of her family. She’s still uncertain about long kisses, and anything more than a hand hold or his arm around her shoulders. Joe hopes that the Cavs pull through tonight because this is quite possibly is last night on earth, knowing he’s got to sit next to Marlowe when she looks this ethereal for an entire night and keep decorum.
He can’t even delude himself into thinking it won’t be that tortuous or that bad. The night’s going to feel long and even more so when Korey beams at Marlowe at how pretty she looks, and how excited she is to go to her first real basketball game after cracking open the hotel door. Korey’s got a motor that can go a mile a minute and Marlowe will always do what she can to keep up with Korey too and Marlowe will never rush her niece in moments like this. Tonight will be a true test of patience.
When Joe looks up from Marlowe to spot the gleam in Trey’s eyes either. “You don’t have to say anything, Trey.”
But say something Trey will do. That’s for certain. “Do you have a will?”
“Yes. My lawyer’s on speed dial. Eight,” Joe answers.
“Can I sit with you and Joe?” Korey asks.
“There’s going to be a lot of people taking pictures and videos of me,” Joe starts before he squats down to Korey’s height. “And I don’t know how you feel about your picture being out there, but I know both your grandparents and your aunt don’t want your face out there like that. I don’t think I’d want your picture to get taken and then be posted on the internet either.”
Korey sighs. “More people are taking pictures of PopPop. I don’t like that. PopPop and Gma said when I’m older I can decide about pictures, but not right now.”
“Yeah, I think they’re doing it just to protect you. We’ll all drive over together and you guys are going to be sitting a few rows back. You’ll still be able to see us, promise. Then after the game we’ll all drive back together. And we’ll be together at breakfast.”
“Can I ride back to home with you and Auntie?”
Joe’s face curls around his smile but he nods, a soft exhale of laughter pressed out of his chest. “Yes, you can ride with us until we get back to your house.”
“Oh, man! I was trying to go back to your home, Joe.”
“Not this time. You’ve got school Monday.”
“Please don’t remind me,” Korey sighs.
“You’re so smart!”
“It’s a little boring because I know a lot of that stuff already.”
“I told you,” Marlowe hums, poking her dad at his chest. “I told you all those practice books were worth it.”
Trey rubs gently at the spot Marlowe poked. “Ouch, maybe you were only a little right. But we’ve gotta a car to catch, right? A game to go see?”
“Basketball time!” Korey cheers before she leads the charge towards the elevators.
Joe manages through the car ride to behave himself. Part of his strategy is to keep one hand on Marlowe’s knee and his attention on Korey. She’ll only be a saving grace for so long, however Joe has to survive by any means necessary tonight. The drive passes without issue and once inside Marlowe walks with her family to their seats.
“Oh, I think here is good to finish the video too, actually, before we go to our seats,” Marlowe mutters mostly to herself but Joe catches it and squeezes at her palm to let her know he’s heard.
The seats are just high enough up that Trey, Regina, and Korey should be mostly absorbed into the crowd, but close enough that they can still see the action. Joe points to the court. “Marlowe and I will be just done there. In those black folding chairs.”
“Oh, okay. Got it. Watch out for the balls.”
His laughter is all most a wheeze. “We will. Lightning fast reflexes, remember?”
“We’ll see,” Korey grins.
“You wound me,” Joe returns in a jest, one hand clutching his pec. “Before Marlowe and I leave, do y’all need anything? Drinks? Snacks?”
“Oh, I think we can handle that from here,” Regina returns over the noise the crowd. “Thanks though.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“At the end of the game, we can meet y’all down there at your seats,” Trey interjects. “It’ll be easier for us to get down than for y’all to get up.”
“Sounds good,” Marlowe answers, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then to Korey’s. Regina gets a full on hug around the shoulders before both Joe and Marlowe shimmy out of the row to allow those who are meant to sit in that row, enjoy their seats. Right before they scurry down the steps, Marlowe tucks over into the corner. Her laughter and bouncing gaze give away her unease. “This is so embarrassing. I never film content like this in public for a reason, you know.”
“Would it be less embarrassing if I was in it with you? Or I could stand guard and make sure no one gets in the way?”
“I’ll survive. But I’ve got like two attempts in me before I give up.”
The beeps are hard to hear over the crowd noise as the timer counts Marlowe in. But she angles the camera to slide back over her face as if it was a continuation from the part earlier just as the timer clicks down from 2 into 1. Joe spies just a fraction of his face before Marlowe slides the camera to capture more of herself, closing in on the makeup—specifically the details she’s added to the eyes. She lip-syncs “Thought he was my ball, put them through the net,” and her left hand raises and both her engagement and wedding ring glisten on her hand as she motions like she’s thrown a basketball.
When Joe thinks the coast is clear, he leans in, lips gingerly pressed to her cheek. Marlowe laughs, “I feel good about that take, but I think you might’ve ruined the ending.”
Like getting too close to a flame, Joe rears back—sudden and a little afraid. “I thought you’d finished, I’m sorry, angel.” Joe slides out even further from her just to be safe, the hold he’d taken around her waist dropping as the inches lengthen between them. “Okay, you can do a second take.”
“Nope,” she grins, slipping her phone back into her purse. “It’ll have to do. Can we get some cotton candy?”
“I don’t mind, really. I didn’t mean to mess up that first take.”
“Stink, I’d like cotton candy. The take is fine. Besides, who doesn’t love more revenge seven years later.”
Only now as Joe slides back in to Marlowe’s vicinity, in the cacophony of the crowd, does he whisper against Marlowe’s ear, “Now you’re talking my language.”
Because it is rather petty, to have done this, brought Marlowe back to Cleveland, to a game, and to dress her up, help her with her makeup—even if that was just picking the pearls—but Joe and Marlowe will always know every inch of her dripped with Joe’s touch. If Jace does happen across the video, the thing he’d get upset about would be the most obvious. Yet, the devil would be in the details—that Marlowe is Joe’s now and forever. Not a damn thing would change that, because he’s going treat her right.
Like taking her to the concession stands. Paying for her cotton candy and both of their drinks. Sitting next to her with one hand arm slung over her shoulders. Joe would treat her like she deserved to be treated, stealing sips of her soda because he opted for water, begging for bites of cotton candy, and feeding the majority of it to her. He’d let her yell as she watched the game, succumb to the energy of the arena, while still making sure she stayed out of the players way too. He’d keep an eye out for stray balls, and he’d let her turn around to spot her family, wave at them from down below while they returned the gesture from up higher.
Joe doesn’t give a fuck if it’s petty, or if it’s rooted in some low simmering jealousy. Not when Marlowe leans into him during half time, “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to.” He’d always be happy to, because he wants Marlowe forever, until they’re buried side by side in a plot in the back of that tiny white church less than an hour from their home.
“Can I steal a sip of your water?”
“Of course,” Joe nods, handing the bottle over to her but only after loosening the cap for her.
“Thanks, Joe.”
Her sip is quick before she hazards a quick kiss to his cheek—nothing long or provocative. Just long enough that Joe knows when the camera's landed on them because the entire arena falls into a chorus of 'Aw'. Something that would normally make him freeze or try and divert the attention with a ridiculous face. Yet, it’s her hand pats his upper thigh does make his brain run blank, a stunned blink overtaking his face. Half his mind torn on savoring the touch and the other half spinning on the fact that she had touched him like that. Before Joe can bring his brain back online, to fully compute how the entire right side of his body feels like it’s been lit with fire, Marlowe’s excusing herself to the bathroom and the camera has cut away from them. Joe watches her leave, her empty soda cup in hand, the stick of cotton candy empty too. He can’t even tell her that he’ll take care of her trash so she can focus just on the restroom before she’s too far to hear him over the noise. It leaves him half reaching out for her, but completely unable to grab her attention.
Joe’s entirely fucked too, watching her go, the stride she has in those heels is confident and assured. He adjusts the bottle just a little in front of himself and risks a quick glance to his phone. Not much will be there, but it’ll past the time. A message shakes his phone just as he pulls it out. Trey’s name reads as the contact but then just below it the message starts, From Korey: and Joe opens the message fully to read it.
From Korey: Is it scary down there? They’re all really close to you. I hope the Cavs don’t loose. But I do like colors of the Pistons better.
Joe is sure Korey dictated the message to Trey, half perched in his lap to make sure he wrote it down correctly too. To Korey: Joe starts in his reply, It’s really not that bad. I’m more worried that Marlowe may inadvertently offend a referee with her colorful commentary. I have to disagree about the color of the Pistons. Cleveland’s red is better.
From Korey: Of course you disagree with me. But it’s okay. I still love you.
To Korey: It’s what big brothers do. Love you too.
“That seat taken?”
Joe knows Marlowe’s voice anywhere. When he looks up, she’s grinning down at him. “Only by my beautiful amazing wife.”
“Lucky lady.”
“I’ll pass that compliment along,” Joe grins and tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. “I see you didn’t get lost nor did you fall into the toilet,” he jokes as Marlowe settles back down into her seat.
“It was one time! Pepsi scared the shit out of me and I didn’t check to see if the toilet seat was down.”
“You still feel into the toilet at home. Also, Korey’s making Trey text for her and she’s talking mad shit.”
Where Joe might’ve assumed he would’ve gotten sympathy, Marlowe only grins at him. At this point, he really ought to know better. “I’ve taught her well. I got a little lipstick on your cheek, do you want me—”
Joe shakes his head no before the question finishes. “Nope, please leave it.” He’d figured there might be a small chance of a stain, but specifically hadn’t asked about it so that she didn’t wipe it off.
“Now, I have to even you out, turn please. I can’t have you walking around with just one lipstick stain. How will anyone know you’re happily taken?”
Joe’s turning before Marlowe’s finished with her laugh. She presses another kiss to his cheek. It’s overkill. Yet that doesn’t stop Joe from wanting it, a way to say he’s hers too. Maybe Joe should examine closer, to see if it’s jealously or some strange possessiveness rooted in Joe’s desire to make sure that Marlowe feels nothing but love. Maybe it’s misguided. Yet, none of that truly stops Joe from reclining back into his seat with a grin on his face, his arm slung over Marlowe’s shoulder and that bottle of water so artfully placed between his legs.
The second half of the game goes by agonizingly slow. With no cotton candy to distract either of them, Joe’s all too painfully aware of every move Marlowe makes. He feels every twitch when she leans forward in her seat, focus narrowing in on the game. Joe’s much to aware of when she leans back, shoulders nestled back under his arm. When Marlowe turns to rest a fraction of her shoulder and back into his ribs, Joe counts the beating of their hearts until they sync.
The lights bounce off the fake pearls dotted over her face. Those lashes are impossibly long, fluttering with every blink. It’s a shame, really, how easily he finds himself crumbling to Marlowe’s beauty. She doesn’t have to even do anything for Joe to lose his breathe sometimes. He ought care more about if a camera’s caught them, if his blatant staring will make the rounds on Twitter and Instagram. But he doesn’t care. Not when just behind the chest squeezing beauty is the glint of her wedding rings. She’s his, but not in a way that Joe is selfish. But his in the way that is a choice. That she chose him and he chose her.
Marlowe is his wife, under vow and oath—in front of all their family and loved ones. He could never understands how anyone would not want to treat her well. Joe only wants to make it right, wants to find every scar she might’ve ever had and kiss them. Show her that he is intentional about his love and devotion for her.
“You’re staring,” Marlowe calls out as she eases back into Joe’s embrace. Her face still tight with a pensiveness, something analytical going happening in her mind—undoubtedly about the game.
“I am,” Joe affirms.
“I can see the headlines now,” she laughs.
Joe reaches out, left hand releasing the bottle and eases her head in his direction with just a brush of his fingers over her chin. “Fuck those headlines.”
It’s a brief kiss—much more than they’ve ever really done in public, but still very tame. The kiss lasts off of five seconds, but Joe savors them. The chemical edge of her lipstick doesn’t compare at all the scented glosses that she favors, but it still is just a hair sweet from the faint remainders of her soda on her breathe.
“Are you by chance looking for trouble?” Marlowe questions around a tuft of laughter. Her thumb comes up to lightly swipe at his lips.
Joe wants to suck the digit, drag the flat of his tongue over the ridges and try to memorize the pattern of her fingerprint. He doesn’t. Instead his thighs clench—all for a moment as he pushes back up in his seat, praying the bottle does not hit the floor. “I am,” Joe nods, and then eases so his back rest into the flat of the chair again.
“And you say my deeds were dastardly.”
Joe merely shrugs, the amused smirk etched in lightly over his face. Perhaps both of them are capable of such cruel ways. “At least I didn’t cheat.”
“It was for a good cause!” Marlowe howls, before she swats at his chest. “Even you agreed with me on that.”
Joe captures her hand in his—an action that momentarily pins her hand to his chest—and then raises it to press a kiss to the top of it. Marlowe turns back to the game, but doesn’t pull her hand back. The crowd roars around them. For what Joe doesn’t know. Marlowe does because she roars with them. It’s not the end of the game, Joe knows that much. There’s still sneakers squeaking on the court. The echo of the ball being dribbled vibrates around them.
He should care more about this game, but for Joe, there is only Marlowe.
There will only ever be Marlowe too. Joe is sure of that. So sure of it in fact that after the hotel door eases closed behind him, he slips an arm around her waist and tugs. Marlowe’s solid against his chest. The shedding of her winter coat leaves only her body heat to seep into him. Joe’s careful, eases his neck down though it’s thankfully not far, and drags the flesh of her ear between his teeth. The jewelry, the dripping gold is a reminder to be gentle, but perhaps that’s the only thing Joe will be gentle about now.
“Do you think I can find trouble now?”
Marlowe tilts her head back. Her grin paints across both their faces—her lips pressed into Joe’s chin as she grazes her teeth over the couple day old stubble. “I think I can pencil that in.”
That’s all Joe needs before he turns her around, pressing in opposite directions at her hips. The makeup’s hardly budged, even her lipstick still looks mostly perfectly. It’s faded just a little, but hasn’t migrated to her chin or across her cheeks at all. In the low lamp light of the hotel room, a habit Joe’s picked up from Marlowe of leaving at least one lamp on in the room, Marlowe still shines.
“You used setting spray, right? For your makeup?”
“I did, yes. It’s a crucial part.”
“Let’s see if I can finally manage out a win then,” Joe hums, cupping her face and closing the few inches between them.
The kiss is unhurried. The echo of lips meeting and parting falls into a rhythm—a 1-2-3, and 2-2-3 that both Joe and Marlowe know all too well. Joe knows that when Marlowe sighs into the kiss, she’ll reach for his hips too. Just like Joe knows that when he finally travels down from her face, one hand is absolutely going to slither it’s way down to her ass and palm the flesh firmly.
Time and repetition don’t make this stale. Joe finds himself instead relaxing into the certainty. Marlowe’s going to melt into his hold like she always does, and he’s going to give into the heat of his belly like he always does. And both of them are going to be satisfied, satiated but greedy. The way it always should be.
The way Joe knows it always will be.
The two of them always in tandem. For every push and for every pull, everyone will know that Joe’s never too far behind Marlowe and Marlowe’s never too far behind him. Like shadows of each other and complete when together. Complete just like when Joe’s eased the button of Marlowe’s pants opened and he slips his palm beneath the layers to her wet core. A rush of arousal that coats his fingers, and a scent deep and heady that drives Joe fucking wild each time it graces his senses. A taste that makes him lightheaded too, when he’s either got his entire face buried into her or when he treats himself to a lick of his fingers.
“Jesus Christ,” Joe groans when Marlowe rubs her palm firm over his aching cock. An ache he didn’t really register because he was too full of her. “Baby.”
Marlowe cups him over the jeans before she gives a gentle squeeze. It brings Joe to his toes for the briefest of seconds with a hiss falling over his lips. Joe can’t help the small squawk that erupts from his chest as Marlowe walks him backwards into the dresser. “Marlowe!” Joe laughs around the thump and rattle of the TV as it starts to settle after being bumped into.
Her eyes are bright and her grin is sinister. “Yes, my love?”
The hold she has around his cock and balls never drops, only turns into a press and then rub as she latches her lips to his jaw. Marlowe peppers a row of kisses down to his neck that Joe swears he’d tattoo the searing heat of her mouth into his skin if he could. “I know I asked for trouble, but I did not expect for me to be on the menu.”
“Chef special,” Marlowe hums. “Do you like it?”
Joe’s not a fool—far from that. His toes are curling in his socks at the methodical stroke of her palm. “Y-yes,” he whispers. The affirmation leaves him a little choke when she squeezes again. “Fuck,” he hums.
Joe’s innards are hot and liquid now when Marlowe drops to her knees. A sight that Joe loves but this isn’t about him. Not like this, not in some way where Marlowe’s serving him. This is about Marlowe getting the treatment she deserves now, and all those years ago too. Joe catches her at her elbow and shakes his head when their eyes lock. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Down south for the winter.”
He shouldn’t, but Joe snorts. Only Marlowe, Joe thinks as he tugs her back up. “And you call me a silly goose. Carry your cute ass to the bed, ma’am.”
“You’re really messing up my migration pattern, I’ll have you know.” Marlowe works herself out of the boots before she plops down into the middle of the bed—the white sheets and comforter make a small swoosh around her descent.
“I’m terribly sorry about that. I can assure you it will happen again.” Joe pulls the sweater up and over his head before he continues on to Marlowe.
Whatever rebuttal she had primed dies on her open lips as she eyes drop down to his chest and arms. For all the remarks Marlowe’s capable of making, Joe’s bare torso seems to be her one weakness. A couple years ago, she sent Joe a picture from one of her game nights of what appeared to be a winning around of Cards Against Humanity—the question of ‘What made life worth living?’ answered with ‘Huge biceps’. It’s a factoid that Joe’s never blatantly used against Marlowe, but he’s always kept it in the back of his mind for moments like this. For when Marlowe’s gaze falls over him slow and steady. For when it’s clear she’s cataloguing something, savoring the sight and certainly adding new weapons to her arsenal of comebacks and quips.
For now, as Joe struts over to her, Marlowe’s usual quick witted nature is reduced into a single brain celled utterance, “Fuck me.”
“That’s my plan.”
The eye roll is vicious but her hands are greedy, stretching out for Joe even when he’s still about a foot and a half from her. “Don’t tell me you’ve been in the gym working on your fitness.”
Nothing can keep her down for long. Joe huffs out a laugh, focusing first with a soft stroke up her forearm. Her skin breaks into immediate goosebumps and it shouldn’t make Joe’s ego flare, but it does. Because he does that to her, with just a singular touch. He takes the touch down to her elbow before skating off and loosening the top button on her vest.
“I know your weaknesses,” Joe hums, and then slides in even closer. His right leg thread between hers and his left leg closing the bracket on the outer edge of her right.
The stance forces Marlowe to look up through her lashes to him, and her full lips are still perfectly parted in a ‘O’ from her awe. Another wave of arousal washes over Joe, makes his cock twitch just a little but he exhales and drops his gaze back down to the buttons. There’s no rush here. None. So Joe can savor this. He can take her apart, one piece at a time, before threading her back together.
But Joe can’t help the mental image, how they’re arranged perfect for his cock to slip over her lips, even a thumb would do too. They can get to that. Yeah, they’ll get to that. If not tonight, there will be plenty of other times. The vest falls with a soft clacking given the pins and chains added to it. The lime green blouse is silent behind it. Marlowe’s fingers skate up his forearm, tracing over a couple veins before she curls his fingers into the band of his underwear and jeans.
The tug can’t bring him closer than he already is, but still she gives into the desire and yanks, nose buried into the small divot of his pelvis. Her inhale echoes and the graze of her teeth is dulled due to the layers. Joe can’t help it, when his hands slip to the back of her head and hold her there, because shit, he loves it, watching her succumb to every impulse, every desire she has for him. A sight that would drive any man crazy really.
Joe adjusts his hold after a moment, to cup Marlowe’s head gentle between both palms and eases her head back. Marlowe finds both his wrist, fingers curled in and around them. Yet, she doesn’t move beyond that. It’s just them—heavy exhales, the hot simmer of desire. Joe really can’t help it now. How perfect her mouth looks wrapped around something. He teases the pad of his right thumb over her lips, skates over them just to test if Marlowe will open up for him.
She does, without hesitation. Marlowe parts her lips, and her tongue darts out just to taste the lines and then it’s gone. “Not so fast,” Joe commands.
Marlowe eases her jaw open and Joe slips his thumb into her mouth, onto the flat of her tongue and Marlowe sucks. Her cheeks cave in and she looks so fucking perfect, there, beneath him. Pliable and eager for him. Marlowe gives a test bob of her head over his thumb and her eyes flutter close briefly.
When she opens them again, after the last of her contented hum shakes out of her chest, her lips part. “I hate you, but not really. I love you. But I swear to god if you keep teasing me,” Marlowe starts.
“What? What happens if I don’t stop teasing you?”
“I don’t even know. No sex for a week or something. The silent treatment. Maybe I make all the chicken a little too dry when I cook for you. Turn the toothpaste so the front faces the wall in the bathroom because I know not seeing the labels drives you crazy. I’d figure it out. Don’t tempt me.”
“Oh, that last one is torture.” A chill runs down his spine just at the thought because the labels should always face out.
Joe cups her jaw and Marlowe responds by chasing down his thumb, a light trace with the tip of her tongue again. “Please,” she whispers, one hand still fisted around the band of his pants. The word falls from her chest broken, pathetic too. It’s a glorious sound to hear. The desperation sings to Joe because just as much as he’s a sucker for Marlowe, she’s one for him.
There’s no need for bravado here. Joe can’t say no to such a angelic sounding request. Yet he’s not stoking his own ego too. “Please what?”
A frustrated groan crawls out of Marlowe’s throat. Her head falls back, leaving Joe with the only choice to press his palm into her neck. All at first to cup and then a squeeze from the sides. Not enough to cut off her oxygen, but enough to tease it, to remind her that he could.
“God, I need you, Joe. Need you to make love to me,” Marlowe purrs.
The words quiver against Joe’s palm. Now the dam breaks. Now Joe’s nothing but his own desire too as he climbs up the behind behind Marlowe. “God, angel. I don’t think you know how fucking hot it sounds when you beg.”
“I think I do a little,” Marlowe laughs, one of her hands brushing over his erection.
“I think you meant to say a lot,” Joe teases as he peels her out of her jeans—painstakingly slow. Because Joe wants to drag this out, wants both of them teeter on that sweet and aching edge for a few moments longer.
The scent of her invades his nose again. It makes his mouth water, makes him realize just how much of drink he needs, how he too is desperate for her. To hell with his plan. He just needs her, just needs a taste. Marlowe melts under him, hips hitching and hands falling into his hair after the first swipe of Joe’s tongue. There’s no need to worry here. Joe’s not going to make this a show, he’s not going to tease anymore. He’s going to consume. Drink down ever drop she gives to him and lap like thirsty dogs do for more. Joe is going to take and take and take. It’s a greedy act, the squeeze of her around his fingers, the rush of Marlowe onto his tongue. He takes everything he can from her in these moments.
Joe could stay here forever, between her thighs, teasing out each orgasm like testing a hypothesis and needing to make sure his methodology is not only repeatable but produces the same result: the quake and quiver of Marlowe’s under him as she cries his name out over, and over, and over again.
“Shit, Joe,” Marlowe whines. Her hands fall to his shoulders, almost like she’s going to push him away. Yet, she thinks twice about it.
Joe eases away, tracing wet kisses across her inner thighs. She needs the moment to recuperate, gain more strength. And Joe loves to watch her, as she body shakes and she’s torn between pushing away and giving in. Marlowe never pushes away. She always, and Joe means always, beckons him up.
It’s a call Joe never wants to miss.
Marlowe lays for just a moment, taking in deep breathes. Her exhales shaky at the start but then slowly even out. Joe kisses at the inner divot of her knees and watches. Marlowe’s fingers crook once, then twice. A siren song without a melody. Joe pushes up, weight shifting to his arms and knees as he pulls himself up her body. Soon, he’ll have the thick wet heat of her wrapped around his cock. But Joe can’t go getting ahead of himself, or Marlowe. So he inhales the scent of her off her neck as she kisses across his jaw. “You remember when you said I needed to warn you,” Marlowe starts, her voice low and breath hot over Joe’s ear, “about when I wanted to top?”
“I remember,” Joe exhales. He distinctly remembers the first time in the old house for her birthday that Marlowe couldn’t even make it upstairs, how she rode him on that couch—which they still have— and Joe was certain he was going to die there at how euphoric he felt. So far, he’s not crossed over into the other life, but each time he gets to have Marlowe like this, he swears he’s getting closer to the day it’ll happen.
“This your warning.”
Joe’s thrown off balance before he can inhale again. One moment he’s hovering over Marlowe and the next his arms are buckling from beneath him. But instead of landing face first into the pillows, Joe’s rolled to his back and his laughter erupts in one part shock and the other because this really might be the death of him.
“Christ, woman, that is not enough of a warning,” Joe pants and prays that his heart rate starts to settle.
It’s a prayer that goes unanswered as Marlowe pops the button on his jeans and throws the zipper down in her haste. “You’re not the only one with some upper arm strength in this relationship.” She says it with a laugh, but her eyes are hungry—blown wide and dark as she peers down at Joe.
“You’re not supposed to use it against me though.”
“Well,” Marlowe shrugs, and then begins to shimmy the rest of his clothing off. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, given your current state of affairs, it doesn’t seem to have brought down the mood.”
It most certainly hadn’t. Joe intimately aware of how the fear was quickly replaced by arousal and how every nerve of him is begging for release. He shakes his head and takes hold of her thighs when Marlowe straddles him after his boxer and jeans are discarded to the floor. “What can I say? It’s hot,” Joe returns, thumbs stroking over the soft flesh of Marlowe’s body.
Marlowe’s response isn’t verbal. It’s just the sly quirk of her lips before she slides down over his length. Joe should be used to this. They’ve shared their bodies too many times to count. But it almost ways feels like the first time, like something in each encounter is entirely new, or maybe it’s not new. Something can be familiar and still adored. Joe reveres Marlowe and her body in the way most people reserve religion. Either way, the grip of her body never ceases to make Joe see stars. Because Marlowe is sacred to Joe. He never takes these intimate moments for granted. Never wants to start doing that either.
Marlowe’s lithe above him, the hard lines and divots around her muscles contracting as she holds herself up and her face a mixture of the bliss and contorted just a little by exertion. It reminds Joe of a predator as it stalks its prey. A consumption that goes both ways—as all things should be here, perfectly balanced.
Her hips are a steady rhythm over him. The headboard tapping softly against the wall but Joe cares less about who might catch the sound and focuses on how Marlowe’s making a mess of him, how she’s going to ruin him but he doesn’t mind in the slightest. He’d never mind that. Not when Marlowe’s a foundation of her own pleasure, the perfectly punched out sighs, the drop of her head on her neck.
“Fuck,” Joe whispers, smoothing his hands over her thighs. The muscles contract under the weight of their work. But Joe loves feeling her like this, when she’s all instinct, all her carnal desire and nothing else. “Just like that,” he encourages.
Joe doesn’t want Marlowe to worry about a singular thing except for how the two of them feel together in this moment. There’s nothing else but them—the meeting of their bodies, the heat of work and passion as it melts together and binds. Nothing left between them but the feeling, hedonism come to life. Nothing but the bounce of Marlowe over him, leaving him hissing. Nothing but the pleasure that pulls his head back against the pillows.
“Jesus, fuck,” he heaves out again, this time though Marlowe latches to his neck, hot kisses searing his flesh. The growl of her pleasure quakes against his throat before her palm comes up to cup it.
There is nothing to do but to succumb, to take and to give over and over again. The edge finds them both—Joe first as he attempts to meet Marlowe’s driving with his own thrusts and then Marlowe her weight supported now by the pressing of her palms against his chest. Her elbows start to buckle with the weight of her orgasm but she manages just barely to hold up her own weight. Head thrown back on her neck and Joe swears there’s never been a more beautiful sight as Marlowe swears above him, body trembling with her pleasure.
The hum of the heating system starts around them and interjects around the rough edges of their labored breathing. Marlowe drops her head into Joe’s chest, their bodies still joined but neither one of them has the strength to worry about it immediately. Joe tracks the pads of his fingers up her spine—a slow line up before tracing the same path back down.
“You okay?” Joe whispers to Marlowe after a couple minutes of silence. The chill against their naked bodies is cut by the heat blowing out, but even Joe can tell the cold’s started to seep in around them—especially for Marlowe as more goosebumps form over her back.
Marlowe nods though, slow as she is to drag her head out from his shoulder and chest. “Yeah, I’m okay, you?”
Joe grins, palms pressed against her cheeks. The action squeezes her lips together and out into a pout. The mascara’s started to run just a smidge, but not a single pearl has moved out of place. That setting spray and whatever else Marlowe did surely did work. “Never better. Though, I have to say I’m a little disappointed that I’ve been bested yet again by your makeup skills.”
Marlowe’s laughter shakes his wrists. “You should give up on getting past my defenses now. You know, quitting while you’re behind and all.”
the face claim y'all have been waiting for.....or maybe not. idk anymore.
p.s. don't look if you don't want a face claim for domme.
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last photo is domme one glass of wine deep after she excused herself to the bathroom and made a new bff for life when she had spare clothing tape and blotting papers in her purse. they had a whole twenty minute kiki and joe was standing right next to the bathrooms when she walked out.
"i should've known you made a new friend," joe laughed.
"are you saying you missed me that much?" domme teased.
joe rolled his eyes but grazed his fingers down her forearm before threading his fingers through hers. "only a little."
they left the event but not before domme said goodbye to her new friend, fingers under her chin. "i will blow your phone up, so you better text me back."
joe could only grin from behind her, knowing that she meant those words as a promise.
i promised something as a thank you because @babyemos delivered and @hoodharlow finds the gems. anyways. don't call this a comeback.
yes, i'm technically breaking the rules about domme being reader insert by explictly making references in this, but in my head domme's always been black.
cw: does deal with cops/law enforcement, so if that's not your jam, please don't read
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Domme’s not gotten a speeding ticket in five years. Five fucking years.
None of that undoes the blue and red lights behind her, of course. If she is to blink, they’d still reappear in the rear view mirror. Five fucking years down the drain. “Mommy, I really have to go,” Roslyn whines from the backseat.
“Mom, those are police,” Jack adds on.
Like I can’t see that. But Domme needs to keep her cool. “They are, honey.” All Domme needed to do was make it three streets and then she’d be home. Three more streets and then been able to get Roslyn to the bathroom and checked in Joe.
I just want to let you know that I am home. I feel awful though. Between my nose, stomach, and head, this feels bad. Going to quarantine myself so I don’t spread it to you or the kids just to be safe, that’s what Joe’s text read while Domme waited in the pickup line for Jack. Roslyn’s preschool releases second but Domme always picks her up first since she’s the furthest out and Jack’s school is the closet to home.
Joe’s not the type to complain about being sick. Ever. Not seriously. When they first got together, he’d hardly mention it, except to get sympathy—extra cuddles, more kisses. But it was never anything serious when Joe came down with something. He’d certainly gotten more cautious about it with the kids, never wanting to get them sick if he could help it of course. So, sue Domme for feeling a little panicked when Joe mentioned not just a snuffed nose and a headache but his stomach too. Sue her.
That information lingered even as she picked up Roslyn, and marinated in the back of her head as she navigated the traffic from daycare to home. Nothing prepared any of them for the hour and a half long wait they’d be in due to a crash. And the second they started moving again, Roslyn, with her infinite wisdom of waiting for the last second, mentioned needing to use the bathroom.
Two exits. That’s all it was. So Domme eased down on the gas when she got the chance and no sooner than she could give it a little gas, there go those blue fucking lights.
“Mommy has to stop. Roslyn, but I will get you to the bathroom first. Promise.”
Domme prays she can reason with this officer as she pulls to a stop at the front edge of the gas station. Please let me to my baby to the bathroom. That’s it.
The creeping evening sun settles just a tiny be further down the horizon—winter’s most cruel trick. But Domme waits, hands on the steering wheel, her car parked and engine knocking as it settles down with the loss of power.
The cop appears in her rear view and Domme waits for the officer to motion for the window once he's at her vehicle. She keeps one hand on the wheel and carefully reaches with her left hand to press for the window tor slide down. “Evening,” the officer starts.
“Good evening, officer. I know you probably pulled me over for speeding, but I have to kindly ask, I have my two kids in the back and one of them has to use the bathroom. Could I please get them inside first?”
“This won’t take that long,” the officer states. His gum pops with the words.
“I respect that. But she’s four, sir. We were in that traffic due to the multi lane accident. Can I please take her inside just to use the bathroom? I’ll leave my keys in the car. Please?”
“Like I said—,” he starts again only to be interrupted.
“Mommy! I really have to go!” Roslyn howls from the backseat.
“I can take her, Mom,” Jack offers. “If that’s okay?”
“Mommy, please!”
“I know, baby,” Domme offers gently back to Roslyn. “Please, officer?”
The officer’s huff relays his annoyance. The smack of the gum becomes louder and cackles with each pop as his teeth gnash into it. “Make it, quick,” he snarls, reaching in through the window to pop open the door.
Domme wants to demand he not, that he let her get out on her own accord. But she’s got Jack and Roslyn, and Joe’s at home sick, and she can’t risk her or her kids becoming another statistic. So she keeps her hands visible as she eases out, unclips her keys from the loop in her pants and drops them into the middle console of the truck.
The officer nods and Domme continues on, undoing Roslyn first and talking Jack through how to undo his car seat too. Roslyn whines in her arms, “Mommy. Please!”
“I know, baby, I know,” Domme hums. Her heart races in her chest as she watches the cop from her peripherals. He leans against the driver side door of the squad SUV, lights still circling red and blue behind them. God, just let us get through this safely. Please.
The restrooms are clean, a major relief when Domme pulls all three of them into the family stall. Jack turns to face the awfully tacky green walls and Domme helps Roslyn out of the pants and onto the toilet, a paper cover as a thin and finicky barrier.
“Mommy, are you crying?” Roslyn questions as she works the elastic up her legs.
“Mommy’s fine. Jack, do you have to go?”
“I’ll try.”
Domme and Roslyn trade places, the two of them facing into the corner now. The sting is hot and sharp. But Domme inhales for three seconds and exhales for five. Inhale for three. Exhale for five. A combination that manages to keep the tremble of her body just to her bottom lip and not her entire hands.
“Done,” Jack calls out over the roar of the toilet flush.
“Okay, let’s go wash our hands.”
The hinges squeak as Domme holds open the door. Roslyn climbs up the steps first towards the sink. “Water,” she recites as she reaches for the top of the faucet. It’s much too far, so Domme flicks it on for her. “Soap,” she says next after getting her hands wet. Roslyn moves her tiny fist over and the soap dispenser hums before dropping a much too large dollop into Roslyn’s waiting palm.
Roslyn recounts each step to hand washing, even goes so far as the sing Happy Birthday to the entire bathroom before she takes the paper towel from Domme. Jack is a swifter interaction. He washes his hands seamlessly and then Domme follows suit. With her shoulder, Domme presses into the door and the trio spill out into the gas station, the flourescents seemingly even harsher other than in the bathroom. The electricity buzzes in her ear as she walks both kids through the store and back out into the bitter winter cold.
The officer’s head turn is sharp and Domme gasps, but tightens her hold around Jack and Ros’ hands. One way or a fucking another, we make it through this alive. They have to make it out fucking alive.
Roslyn is buckled in first and Jack is seated second. They’re both quiet, nothing too terrible or Jack, but it unreasonably quiet from Roslyn. “All better?” Domme asks to both of them. To which, she only manages to receive a nod from her kids.
“You were doing 12 over,” the officer spits. “37.”
Domme’s still outside of the car, standing just outside the driver side door but not fully back into the vehicle. Twelve over doesn’t make sense. Sure Domme sped on the highway, but the residential areas around here are all 30. Domme knows she’s got a lead foot. “Brookshire is 30, I thought?”
“25. You saying I don’t know the fucking speed limits around here?”
“No, no. I’ve lived here for a decade. It’s always been 30.”
“Well, it’s fucking 25 now. Get back into your car. I need license and registration.”
Her parents always taught her respect—to use ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, to address elders in public, to speak when walking into a room. But cops are a whole different beasts, unpredictable, and hard to hold accountable. So Domme nods, slips back into the truck and pulls out her license and registration.
The cop snatches it from between her fingers and storms back to his vehicle. In her rear view mirror, Domme watches. The way he calls it in over the radio, taps away at the computer inside. The car is eerily quiet but Domme’s thoughts are loud—Brookshire has always been 30 and she knows it. Domme knows the speed limits everywhere because she wants to avoid this exact scenario. And if the speed limit changed, there should be signage.
Yet, she doesn’t recall seeing any signs.
“Slow down and watch the signs.”
She blinks, takes in the ticket, her license, and her registration. She signs as needed—to acknowledge she’s gotten the ticket and that she will appear in court for it—and then waits. She eases into a parking space, hands shaking now. The tears have blurred her vision. They sting too. There’s relief of course, that nothing happened, that she can get her kids home safe and sound. But there’s the frustration too—that she can’t remember if there was a sign or not, that the cop was a fucking asshole.
“Mommy, you’re crying. Do you want me to ask the phone to call daddy?” Ros questions.
“No, no,” Domme hiccups out. “You don’t need to do that. Sorry, Mommy’s going to be okay in a second. I’m so sorry you have to see this.”
“You sure?” Jack tacks on. Not maliciously, just uncertain, probably even a little scared too.
Domme nods. “I’m sure. Mommy just needs a second, okay?” The sniffle is loud and echoes as she inhales, palms coming up to her face to wipe her tears. They’re alive, and that’s all that fucking matters. For the moment.
“It’s going to be a dino nuggets, fries, and broccoli dinner day,” Domme warns as she eases into the garage. It took an extra ten minutes for her to get her bearings and get back on the road. Joe texted twice in the time since she got pulled over—which have both sat unanswered aside from her initial heads up about the traffic.
“Dinosaurs!” Jack cheers from the back seat.
“Nuggets!” Ros adds on.
The air fryer hums in the background. Both kids sit at the dining table working on coloring pages with a quick assortment of fruits and veggies in front of them to snack on. And in the ten minute gap that Domme has, she sneaks down the hall to the back of the house, where Joe is.
The guest bedroom door is shut, when it’s normally slightly ajar, and Domme knocks twice. “One second,” Joe calls out, his voice rougher than usual. It falls silent for another few beats and then the door creaks open, his blue eyes immediately assessing, the furrow of his brow threaded in deeply. If not for the black mask, Domme knows she’d spot the frown pulling at his lips. “You okay?”
Her head shake ‘no’ is immediate. Because her heart is still racing—the veins thump hard at her neck that she can feel them. “I got a ticket. With both kids in the back and I’m not okay. Not right now.”
“Hey, come here. Come here.” Even though they’d both be more concerned about him being sick, Domme can’t help but give into the command. Joe cracks open the door wider and his arms widen. All Domme has to do is step in. And step in, she does, face first into his chest. Her arms tighten around his waist. “What happened?” he asks.
Joe settles his arms around her shoulder and like a window braced for a storm provides a sense of security, the weight of his arms crack open her chest. Domme shakes in his embrace, shoulders jumping with the silent racking of her tears. “Hey, you’re okay, baby. You’re home. Safe. The kids are safe. Because I can hear them bickering over crayons. It’s all okay.”
It’s less bickering and more like Jack having to demand that Ros pick one crayon at a time so they can share the colors an even amount. But none the less, it’s thoroughly their children. And they are safe. All of them.
“There’s not a sign. I swear there isn’t. He got me for 12 over but there’s no sign! I swear, Joe. I swear there isn’t.” Domme doesn’t know if this is a plea to herself, a plea to Joe, or a cry to the universe. It’s a good thing right now she’s not questioning it too much. But the words come up like vomit, like she has to let them out, let Joe know she hadn’t knowingly put the kids in that kind of situation. She’d never do that.
“I know, love. I know you wouldn’t. It’s all okay now.” Joe’s arms tighten around her, a squeeze that manages to cut through the shakes. “It’s all okay now.”
From the kitchen, the air fryer finally dings. Neither one of them as moved, Domme still pressed face first into Joe's chest, Joe's arms wrapped around her shoulders. The sharp tinny sound causes both Jack and Ros to cry in excitement, “Nuggets!”
Domme knows she needs to head back up, plate their food, talk about their days. And she will. She knows she will. “Don’t even think about offering to cover dinner. Just give me an extra thirty seconds here, okay? Please.”
“I can give you a whole extra minute, baby," Joe hums in agreement.
_____________
“See! There’s no sign!” Domme huffs and she jabs a finger as she rolls to a stop.
Joe nods and continues to hold the phone up for a few more seconds and then lowers it back down. “There isn’t. You’re right about that.”
With both kids at a birthday party, and Joe mostly recovered from what turned out to be a combination of allergies and food poisoning, Domme took the same route from two days ago. Her normal exit to get back home. She pointed out where she’s certain the cop came out from, seeing as everyone who lives in the city knows that the particular exit is a speed trap, and they followed like normal onto Brookshire where supposedly after a little Googling a new speed limit sign is supposed to exist.
Yet, no such signage is up.
“Why is it okay to give a poor woman a heart attack with her two kids in the backseat when you don’t even have proper signs up?”
“I take it then that you’re going to try and fight this in court.”
“I think so. Besides, that bastard had an awful attitude.”
Joe snorts from the passenger seat. “I’m glad I’m not recording anymore.”
Her chuckle is short as she eases back into the parking lot of the gas station. Thankfully, there are no police lights behind her now. “Yeah, me too. Roslyn’s tiny bladder I think was nearly my undoing.”
“Can you really blame her? You speed all the time.”
“I resent the fact that you think I’d blame my child for my own actions. I was speeding but she nearly had a meltdown in the backseat while the cop was getting his rocks off with his awful attitude.”
Joe’s hand is warm. His thumb traces at the tendon on the right side of her neck while the rest of his finger engulf her neck, and press at the left side. Domme settles into the touch, head turning to face him. “Jack mentioned to me that you started crying too. After you got the ticket.”
“He’s such a tattletale.”
“No,” Joe laughs, blue eyes dancing with a flood of delight. “He loves his mom, like he should. Just like I raised him too. I think it scared him a little too. Seeing you like that. You’re normally unshakable.”
Her lip trembles and the sting follows suit, crops up for a second before she blinks it away. “I didn’t want anything to happen to them. Cops—it’s not easy, you know? For me, for us and cops.”
He hums before he nods. “I know. They shouldn’t do that, target you or people like you, or make you feel unsafe. But I know they do. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“No,” Domme hums and places her hand, now that the truck’s parked, onto Joe’s knee. “It’s not your fault. You were puking up your guts.”
“My guts were coming out of both ends actually. It was bad. Remind me to never try a new restaurant without consulting you first.”
Joe ordered lunch for himself, a splurge he indulges in only occasionally. But his selection of restaurants was one place with pretty gnarly reviews about people’s experiences and the aftermath of such visits. Unfortunately, Joe is another victim in the tally.
Domme’s laughter is exhaled, a sharp tuft of air from her nostrils. “All you have to do is read the reviews, baby.”
“Too much effort,” Joe laughs. “Besides, one of the guys on the team said they’d eaten there before with no issues. I thought I was safe.”
“You were so far from safe, unfortunately.”
“But we’re not talking about my brush with the other side, we’re talking about you. The cop, if you are serious about taking this court, will be there. And I just, I don’t want you to be taken by surprise about that.”
That, Domme, hadn’t considered. Her last ticket was a small infraction, she paid it without thinking much about taking it to court, knowing that at the time the infraction could’ve been much larger. But this, this is about the principle of the matter. That the cop was an asshole, and that there is no sign. So God only knows how many people are getting tickets because of it.
“Would you mind coming with me? To the hearing?”
“No, of course I don’t mind.” Joe offers it softly, but the words still drip with something like almost offense. “Why would I mind that?”
“Breaking News: Joe Burrow appears in local city courthouse.”
“Fuck that. I don’t care about the headlines. I care about my wife and our kids. Not what some reporter’s going to write about me. Breaking News: Joe Burrow is an involved father and supportive husband. And if I’m ever not either one of those things, you have my permission to leak it to the press.”
“I wouldn’t dare dream of airing our dirty laundry out to the press.”
“I figured as much. But you have the option. If you want it.”
Domme never wants that. She doubts she’d ever need the option, but she laughs all the same. Even as Joe tugs, eases her gently closer and closer over the middle console. The kiss is sweet, several pecks that still manage to make her spine shiver. “Now, as a reward,” Joe whispers, his lips brush against her. “Mike and Ike’s and a Dr. Pepper or do we split that pint of ice cream at home?”
“A reward for what?”
“Being brave. Being my wife. Being a kick ass wife at that. Being a stellar Mom. Whatever you want it to be for really.”
“Dr. Pepper and candy please. Dairy makes you gassy.”
“It does not,” Joe protests.
“Oh, it absolutely does.”
“No, it doesn’t. And it never will.”
“If I do recall, two weeks ago you got pizza for the kids and had how many slices?” Domme questions, easing back as Joe drops his hold around the back of her head and neck.
Joe drops his head into the headrest, a groan climbing up his chest as he does. “Roslyn was supposed to take that to her grave! She promised.”
“She’s four, my love. And she loves to embarrass you at least to me. All it took was two slices, and I quote, ‘Daddy made the whole house stink.’”
His laughter bounces around the car, a sharp wheezing sound as Joe slips his eyes closed. His chest moves with his amusement, shoulders shaking up and down. “She said that? I did not make the whole house stink! Just our bathroom. Which is up a whole flight of stairs!”
“The whole house, my love. The whole house.”
_______________________________
The courthouse is freezing.
Domme and Joe sit as bookends to the kids, Jack snuggled up to Domme and Roslyn working her way into Joe’s lap. Both kids have refused to leave their sides or their jackets given how frigid it is. It’s almost boring to be here, except for the fact that at the stand is the asshole officer. Every time a new case is called up—there’s only but a handful of them that have deemed it worthy enough to come speak to the judge and plead their case—Domme settles her gaze to the cop on the stand, how he sits erect. Uses ‘Your Honor’ like it might be an article rather than a honorary address. How he doesn’t swear. How he looks almost a little too perfectly put together.
A power trip from someone rather insecure, from the looks of it. How he’d been rude and short with her, hardly wanting her to take Roslyn to the bathroom. Not that a child urinating on themself would matter to him, she thinks. He hardly seems like the type. This particular judge is older—thinning hair at the top, glasses that are constantly pulled off his nose. His voice shakes and he greets everyone with a smile as they come up to speak.
There’s a woman in her mid forties who was caught speeding trying to get to her mother in hospice and missing her mother’s last breathes because of said ticket. There’s the older gentleman who was taking his wife to her dialysis appointment driving too slow, but all their children and grandchildren live out of state so he’s the only one around to take his wife to the doctor. There’s the freshly licensed 18 year old, who seems a little too cocky about being in court, but the fine is dropped for him though he will get a couple points added to his driver’s license—which the judge does allow him to take a driving course which at the time of completion will remove some of the points off his record.
Hearing each case only further sentiments for Domme just how much of an asshole this cop is to everyone. Domme’s name is called next and she inhales, throat quaking now with the slamming and erratic beating of her heart. Joe reaches around the kids and squeezes her knee. And Jack Jack doens’t let her go. “Can I go up there with you? I was there too.”
“Stay here with Papa Bear, I’ll be okay.”
“Please.”
Domme sighs, and nods, not wanting to delay this any more than she needs too. So if Jack wants to stand with her, then she’ll allow it. At least he’ll see her fighting back, standing for the right and moral thing, rather than taking the abuse.
“Oh, a plus one,” the judge grins. “Going to stand with your mom today, son?”
Jack nods. “Yes, sir. If that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that’s okay. How are you doing today, Mom?”
Terrified, Domme wants to say. But she doesn’t. “I’m doing okay. And you?”
“Oh, still kicking,” he laughs and then shuffles some papers around on his desk. “Alright, so I see here that you were pulled over for doing 12 over. Why, young lady, that’s one heavy foot you’ve got.”
“My husband warns me of the same thing,” Domme offers, a tad awkward, but it seems to win over the judge as he laughs.
“Okay, yeah, smart man he is. Alright, Officer McLaughlin, run me through what happened.”
The officer recounts, almost without an inch of a facial expression, how he caught Domme coming out of the stop sign, watching her come up to speed, and then over it and then pulling her off. The only true emotion bleeds through when he recounts how Domme asked to please get her kids inside to use the bathroom, how ‘one of the two children stated with urgency about needing to use the bathroom’, and how ‘he accepted the reality that the child could not wait.’
By the time, he’s done talking Domme’s blood is boiling all over again. His recounting flattening the whole interaction. How it fails to account for how he’d opened her door, how she’d admitted to speeding, how he didn’t care at all. “And, uh, Mrs. Burrow, can you tell me a little bit more? I read your statement prior. But uh, it seems a little damning and I like to think you’d want to set a good example for your kids.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Domme starts exhaling to push out the last of the nerves. “I do want to set a good example. Yes, I’ve been know to speed. Yes, I was speeding that day. My husband who as at home sick that day, and my daughter needed to use the bathroom urgently, and I know I shouldn’t be doing over the speed limit. None of those things warrant breaking the laws we have set. The traffic jam that day lasted for over an hour. I checked in about the bathroom twice before we got moving again, but it wasn’t until we were on the exit ramp that I was made aware that my daughter needed to relieve herself. I did a little research and it appears that Brookshire went from a 30 to a 25 back in September, and then two weeks after that change went into effect, a crash happened and the speed limit sign was damaged a a result. As of last week at the end of January, the city’s failed to put a speed limit sign back up. I went back to the stop just two days after the ticket and there was no sign even then. I have printed out copies of the articles I found—from newspapers and did send in the video from the drive back through after Officer McLaughlin pulled me over.”
The bailiff approaches and the judge nods. “Yes, yes, let’s take a look at that video while he’s grabbing those articles.”
The TV at the side of the room goes from the deep black to the bright blue. The sound crackles and the video plays that Joe took, the newspaper with the date shown before it pans back up. Domme narrates the turns and Joe was careful to get the street names in the shot. The stop sign comes up—in the hazy distance the gas station appears and Domme’s voice starts to float in before it cuts.
“Now, Officer McLaughlin, you mentioned that there’s a sign prior to this moment?”
“Y—yes, Your Honor. It’s westbound of Brookshire, about half a mile down from this particular intersection.”
“Mrs. Burrow, this is just after the exit right? The way this video is taken?”
Domme nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge nods again, one arm of his glasses pressed to his lips. “So the only way to have seen the other sign is to have been coming up Brookshire already. Not coming off the exit. Let me take a look at these articles.” He shuffles for a moment after getting his glasses back onto his face and then snorts. “Highlighted and color coordinated. Very studious of you, Mrs. Burrow.”
It’s what she does best, paying attention to the details. But Domme doesn’t answer, can’t answer as she watches the judge reviewing everything in front of him. “Mrs. Burrow, what’s your son’s name? If you don’t mind sharing with the court.”
Jack Jack looks up to Domme, eyes widening. She nods and he turns back to fact the judge. “My name’s Jackson, sir. But please call me Jack.”
“I like that, Jackson. Strong name. Now, Jack, were you there the day your mom got pulled over?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did your sister have to go to the bathroom real bad?”
Jack nods. “Yes, sir.”
“And was it you that offered to take your sister into the gas station to use the bathroom while your mother was trying to ask Officer McLaughlin to take her?”
Another yes. “Yes, sir. I did ask.”
“And was your dad home sick?”
“Yes, sir. Mom told us when we got home that he was sick and qu- Mom, what’s the word again?
“Quarantine.”
“Thank you,” Jack returns with a squeeze to her hand. He turns back to the judge and continues on, “Mom told us when we got home that Dad was sick and quarantining away from us so we didn’t get sick. Turns out, he just ate some bad food. But it sounded dicey there for a minute.”
The judge’s eyes widen. The bailiff has to catch himself before he laughs and the entire room hisses with sounds like muffled laughter. “Oh, goodness. Was your mom worried at all? About your sister and your dad?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Thank you, Jack. I appreciate your honesty.” The judge turns his gaze back towards Domme and peels his glasses off his face. “Mrs. Burrow, you’re one step removed of being an actual First Lady to this city. I’ve seen the grace and compassion you extend to the community; it’s clear that you are well loved by your family too. A sick husband, a child who’s less than comfortable at the moment, thorough research, a lack of visible signage, a pretty clear traffic record within the last five years, and your highlighted and coordinated clear and concise evidence leaves me no choice but to extend that same grace and compassion back to you. I’m waiving this ticket in its entirety for you.”
Domme’s bones almost liquid with the relief, her shoulders drop, and the tears start. But she listens as the judgment continues on, a smile gracing his face, “I do have to warn you, though, please check your shoes and remove all lead from them and your feet before you leave the house next time. I do not want to see you in this courthouse again, though, I think I might have had the coolest courtroom today given you and your husband’s presence. Alas, that’s a title I only want once. This ticket will be forfeited. The infraction will be struck from your record. I will have the city look into that speed limit sign as well. Have a great rest of your day.”
The gavel clacks and Domme’s voice shakes as she gives her gratitude and collects Jack Jack into her arms. “Tha-thank you, Your Honor.”
_____________________
“Jack Jack, buddy, did you have to sell your old man out in front of the entire court?” Joe teases as he gets Jack buckled into the car seat.
“You told me not to lie to the judge!”
“You did good, bub. You did good.” Joe presses a kiss to his forehead and eases the car door shut. Inside and settled into the driver’s seat, he takes Domme’s knee against his palm and squeezes. The action brings her awareness from the parking lot out the windshield to him. “I’m proud of you. For fighting back, speaking your truth. And most importantly, not calling that cop outside his name in court. Because I think you should have. He seems like a huge dick.”
Domme snorts at the last sentence but nods. Her fingers are still a tad cold as they curl around his. A shiver Joe would take any day of the week and twice on Sunday if he could. “Thank you for being there and risking the headlines for me.”
“It’s why husbands do.” Because surely, anyone that loves someone like Joe loves Domme would risk it, would want to be there for their partner.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s what you do and I love you for that.”
She lifts his hand, lips pressing a kiss to the now faint scars along the back of his hand and along his wrist. Each kiss is soft and a leaves the faintest streak of her lip stain behind on his skin. When she’s done, Domme places his hand onto the gearshift, but they both know that he’ll be placing it back onto her knee the moment he gets the car into gear.
But Joe does wait, knows that it will not take long for reporters to begin their articles—to talk about how he showed up to court, how Domme was there for the speeding ticket, how Jack felt so compelled to go with her, how Joe’s unfortunate run in with food poisoning could’ve been a crucial part in Domme getting out of the ticket. None of them will be able to capture how afraid she was, how certain she was that there hadn't been a sign, but how utterly terrified she’d been about actually taking that to court. He prays too no one runs Jack’s name, that both Jack and Roslyn can cling to some aspect of anonymity just a little while longer too.
In the following days, most of the headlines are about the comments the judge made about Domme’s work within the community an a couple are funny jabs at Joe’s expense—The Burrows appear in court following speeding ticket; how a ‘dicey’ bathroom situation might’ve saved the day. But by the end of the following week, the news is dead in the water and hardly discussed. It’s just enough time Joe thinks and he cracks open the package—one he received the weekend prior.
Ros leans into his side. “What’s that?”
“It’s for a joke. A prank,” Joe explains. “They’re flags.”
“And cones?” She questions, pointing to the bright orange bleeding through the white and black checkered flag.
“If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret.”
Ros laughs. “I’m no good with secrets.”
“Tell me about it,” Joe teases. “I can’t believe you told Mom I made the whole house stink after two slices of pizza.”
“Well, you did!”
“That’s besides the point. You said you wouldn’t tell. And then you did.”
“It was funny,” Ros counters with a shrug of her shoulders.
There’s really no point in arguing with a four year old so Joe leaves it there. “C’mon. Mom will be home soon. I need some help.”
Joe leans into the railing of the porch. It’s just after 5 but the darkness is thickening up. Domme’s brunch plans always turn into afternoon plans. Not that Joe minds it in the slightest. He just knows if Domme mentions brunch on a Saturday, it really means he’s the entire afternoon is just him and the kids. Most often, one of them has some kind of activity—a play date, a birthday party, a friend’s recital that they want to attend. At the very least, it’s never boring. Though with Jack Jack and Ros, nothing is every really boring.
Headlights break through the growing dark and Joe turns to Jack Jack, who nods and taps at the phone in front of him—the tripod angled to catch the action but short enough for Jack Jack to man it himself even with the winter gloves on. Roslyn stands huddled next to him their driveway is lined with the orange cones and Joe is quick to get to the edge of the mailbox before Domme gets to the house.
Joe begins waving the checkered flags at Domme’s approach, signaling that she’s reached the end of the race and gives one sharp honk of the horn before she eases up the driveway. The passenger side window is rolled down just as she gets the entire car into the driveway, but not fully up it. “Joseph Lee Burrow, you think you’re so funny. Don’t you?”
Joe shrugs. “I think I’m hilarious. Now please return this vehicle to the pit stop for maintenance.”
Researchers are announcing that a 53-year-old man in Germany has been cured of HIV.
Referred to as “the Dusseldorf patient” to protect his privacy, researchers said he is the fifth confirmed case of an HIV cure. Although the details of his successful treatment were first announced at a conference in 2019, researchers could not confirm he had been officially cured at that time.
Today, researchers announced the Dusseldorf patient still has no detectable virus in his body, even after stopping his HIV medication four years ago.
This is such stunningly good news. To be reaching a point where you can actually imagine AIDS getting treated like cancer. That AIDS could be cured in my lifetime on a large scale.
