hi mal!!! first of all i wanna tell you that i love your writing 💕 secondly, im really craving some angst with a happy ending 🙃 could you write joe + reader having an argument (abt whatever you want!) pleaaaassee? tks!
ON THE FENCE JOE BURROW
pairing: joe burrow x reader
summary: loving the franchise quarterback was easy. being kept at arm’s length... not so much. he was careful when it came to PDA and you were okay with it — until you weren’t.
word count: 11.4k
authors note: thank you anon you are so kind!! angst with a happy ending is my favourite thing to read though i reckon i’m more of a fluff writer so this was a nice change. thank you for the request and i hope you enjoy <3
warning: angst, hurt comfort. one use of y/n. happy ending.
YOU KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE ONE OF those nights the second you walked into the restaurant — the soft lighting, the too-many conversations layered over each other, the way every couple seemed effortlessly paired off and linked together.
Hand holding. Leaning shoulders. Fingers tracing knuckles. Casual touches shared like oxygen.
And Joe? Joe walked a step ahead of you. Not rudely. Just… like he forgot for a second that you were there with him, not behind him.
He held the door open without actually looking at you and let a couple of his teammates clap him on the back as you both stepped inside. You offered small smiles, polite hellos. You didn’t expect Joe to grab your hand or press a kiss to your temple — you never did — but you thought maybe he’d stand close enough that your arms brushed.
Instead he slid into a seat at the long table and left just enough space between you that a stranger could’ve squeezed between your chairs.
You sit down, smooth your dress, tell yourself it’s fine. It’s always been like this. He’s kind and attentive when it’s just the two of you, but out here, in the open, distance seems to form around him like a shield.
Conversation erupts around the table. Forks clink. Laughter rolls like a wave you keep trying to swim into, but you never quite reach the shore. The girls are sweet, chatting with you about work and weekend plans, and you do your best to stay present. To not glance at Joe too often. To not notice how he hasn’t touched you at all.
Not a hand on your knee. Not a lean-in whisper. Not even one of those quiet looks you two share when something funny happens. And the worst part? Every other couple feels like a reminder.
Sam has his hand on his girlfriend’s thigh, tracing circles without even noticing he’s doing it. Logan is whispering something into his wife’s ear that makes her laugh and swat his chest. Even the rookies keep their girlfriends tucked close, shoulders brushing, bodies angled toward each other like second nature.
You feel like an extra at your own table.
Then dessert comes. Everyone reaches across plates, passing spoons, sharing bites. Joe leans forward to grab a small dish of crème brûlée — and for a fleeting second, his arm grazes yours. Not intentional, just proximity. You shouldn’t feel that small spark in your chest at something so accidental. You shouldn’t crave something as tiny as that. But you do. You always do.
When the check comes, Joe stands first, tossing a couple bills down to cover the tip. He rakes a hand through his hair, says something to the guys, and barely looks back to see if you’re following.
You walk behind him again. Like a shadow trying to keep up with someone who shines everywhere but next to you.
The night air is cool when you step outside, but your chest is hot with the kind of heaviness that comes from swallowing disappointment for too long. You don’t say anything on the walk to the car. Neither does he.
Joe unlocks the doors with a short chirp of the fob, and you slide into the passenger seat while he circles to the driver’s side. The interior smells faintly like leather and that cologne he only wears on nights he knows there’ll be cameras. He starts the engine, adjusts the rearview mirror, and pulls out of the parking lot without turning on the radio.
You rest your head against the cool window, watching the restaurant get smaller in the mirror. The laughter from inside still feels lodged somewhere under your sternum — all those easy touches and warm gestures shared by people who didn’t seem to have to think about it. You don’t know whether you’re annoyed or hurt or just tired. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.
Joe taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He does that when he’s thinking. But you can’t tell whether he’s thinking about you, about football, or about absolutely nothing at all.
Streetlights pass in streaks across your face. You feel them more than you see them.
“Did you have enough to eat?” he asks after a few minutes. His voice is mild, casual, like this is any normal drive home after any normal night.
“Yeah,” you answer, barely louder than the hum of the engine.
He nods, eyes on the road. He doesn’t ask anything else.
You trace circles on your knee with your thumb, the same way he used to do without realizing it. You wonder if he notices he stopped. You wonder if he ever noticed he did it in the first place.
Cars drift past in the opposite lane, their headlights flashing briefly through the cabin. Joe’s profile is lit up in quick, clean slices — jaw, cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looks calm. Comfortable, even. Like tonight didn’t scratch at anything inside him.
You, on the other hand, feel scraped raw.
A red light slows the car to a stop. He drums his fingers again, then glances at the dashboard clock. “You okay?” he asks, not turning his head all the way, just shifting his eyes toward you.
You force a small nod. “Just tired.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Long day.”
The light turns green. The car rolls forward. The conversation ends there — as if it was ever really a conversation.
You catch your reflection in the dark window. You don’t look angry. You don’t even look sad. You just look… muted. Like someone turned the saturation down on everything you usually feel.
By the time the hotel appears, glowing faintly off the highway, your throat feels tight from all the words you didn’t say. Joe pulls into the lot, parks, unbuckles. You follow his lead.
The walk inside is another stretch of quiet hallways and soft carpet. He checks in with a quick nod to the receptionist, collects the keycards, and hands one to you without meeting your eyes for longer than a second.
The elevator doors slide open, and you both step inside. That’s where the night swells. Where the silence finally feels like pressure instead of air. And when he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that careless, unbothered way…it hits you that he really, truly doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see you. Or maybe he does, but he’s hoping you’ll be too tired to say anything.
You stare straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors, counting each floor, willing your heartbeat to slow down.
You feel stupid for how disappointed you are. Stupid for noticing every inch he put between you tonight. Stupid for letting it sting.
When the doors open, Joe steps out first, swiping the keycard, pushing the door open with his foot.
“You coming?” he asks casually, already tugging off his jacket. You nod even though he doesn’t turn around to see it.
Inside, the room is dim and warm, but nothing about it feels comfortable. You kick off your heels, placing them neatly beside your suitcase, trying to ground yourself.
You hear Joe rummaging around in his overnight bag. A zipper. A sigh. The soft thud of him sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes.
And then he says it — the thing that tips everything over.
“Tonight was fun,” he says lightly. “Good to get out.”
You freeze. Fun? He barely looked at you all night, and he thought that was fun? You swallow hard. “Was it?”
Joe glances up, confused. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”
You take a breath. Not the kind that steadies you — the kind you pull in before you break something open. “I just…” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “You barely even talked to me.”
He blinks like you’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. “What? I talked to you.”
“No, Joe.” Your throat tightens. “You talked near me.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. You can tell he doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”
That does it. The spark in your chest catches. “I’m not being dramatic,” you say, stepping toward him. “You ignored me the entire night.”
“I didn’t ignore you,” he argues, his voice sharper now. “I was talking with the guys. It was a team dinner. What do you want me to do, hang all over you?”
“No,” you say quietly but firmly. “I want you to act like you like me.”
He stares at you, confused, almost offended. “I do like you.”
“Then why does it never look like it?”
Your words hang between you. Joe tosses his hands up, frustrated. “You know how I feel about showing affection in public. I told you that when we started dating.”
“I know,” you say, your voice softening but your hurt still there. “I don’t need you to make out with me in public or post me everywhere. I’m not asking for that. But Joe… sometimes you act like we’re just—” Your voice catches. “—like we’re friends. Or cousins. Or something I’m not.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I’m private. I don’t like giving people something to talk about.”
“And what do you think they’re talking about now?” you ask quietly. “Because to everyone else, it looks like you can’t even stand next to me.”
His nostrils flare slightly — the kind of small, involuntary reaction he gets when he feels cornered. “I’m not going to change who I am just because you’re feeling insecure.”
The word hits you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. “Insecure?” you echo.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, but he did, even if he didn’t intend for it to land like a punch.
You look down at your hands, trying to keep your voice steady. “Joe, do you have any idea what it feels like to date someone who treats you like a secret every time you’re in public?”
“I don’t treat you like a secret.”
“You kind of do,” you whisper. “Maybe not on purpose. But that’s how it feels.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”
You let out a long, tired breath — the kind that drains out weeks of swallowing feelings. “I want you to love me out loud,” you say softly. “Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… visibly. A little touch. A look that says we’re together. Something. Anything. Just so I don’t feel like I imagined the way you treat me behind closed doors.”
Joe’s expression shifts — defensiveness mixing with discomfort, confusion, guilt, irritation. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. “Can we not do this tonight?” he mutters. “I’m exhausted.” He says it so casually — like your hurt is just another task on his to-do list. A thing he can postpone. A thing that can wait.
Something in you snaps. Not violently. Not dramatically. But in the quiet, heartbreaking way a rubber band finally gives after being stretched too far. Your voice comes out tighter, sharper than before. “So that’s it? You get to shut down the conversation because you’re tired?”
Joe’s head lifts a little, eyes narrowing. “I’m not shutting it down. I’m saying now isn’t the time to have a whole meltdown about one dinner.”
One dinner. You actually laugh — a stunned, breathless sound that feels more like disbelief than humor. “Are you serious right now?”
He throws his hands out. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. You know how I am in public. You know that hasn’t changed. And now suddenly you want something different and that’s not fair to me.”
Your chest burns.
He’s not yelling, but his voice is rising. He’s frustrated. Defensive. Talking at you, not to you. “You agreed to this. You said you were okay with keeping things low-key. And now you’re blowing up because I didn’t… what? Feed you cake at the table? Put my arm around you so the whole team could stare?”
“Joe,” you say, your voice trembling, “it’s not about cake. It’s not about PDA. It’s about being treated like I exist when other people are around.”
He scoffs under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”
There it is again.
“Stop calling me dramatic,” you snap, louder than you mean to, louder than you’ve ever used with him. Your throat feels raw, your eyes hot. “God, Joe, do you even hear yourself? I’ve been feeling like this for months. Tonight was just the point where I couldn’t pretend anymore.”
He shakes his head, muttering something like, “Here we go,” and it makes your chest twist.
“You think this is nothing,” you fire back. “You think this is me being needy or insecure or changing the rules on you. But I’m telling you — I feel alone when I’m with you. I feel invisible next to you. And I shouldn’t.”
He crosses his arms — relaxed, detached, like he’s weathering a storm he finds mildly inconvenient. “Are you done?” Those three words hit harder than anything else tonight.
You look at him — really look at him — and realize he’s not fighting for you, not trying to understand you, not even meeting you halfway. He’s waiting for you to stop talking so things can go back to normal for him.
The sting that floods your chest is cold and sharp and immediate. You swallow hard, shaking your head slowly. “Unbelievable.”
You don’t trust your voice after that. You don’t trust yourself not to break open completely. So you turn away — slow at first, then quicker — and head for the bathroom.
“Seriously?” Joe calls after you, but you don’t respond. You shut the door behind you with a soft click, not a slam. A slam would mean anger. This is something worse — disappointment so deep it quiets you.
The bathroom light is too bright. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache, trying to steady your breathing, trying to figure out where your voice went.
On the other side of the door, you hear nothing. Not footsteps. Not movement. Not him coming after you. The silence slices right through you.
You breath in through your nose, out through your mouth, fighting the heaviness swelling in your chest. You don’t want to cry — not over this, not over him brushing you off like you’re a passing inconvenience. But your body doesn’t always listen. Your eyes burn anyway.
You turn on the tap, letting the water run, trying to muffle the shaky quiet of your breath. The mirror reflects the version of you you didn’t want to become — the one who tries so hard to appear unfazed, even when your splintering inside.
A knock never comes. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t say he’s sorry. Doesn’t try at all and that hurts in a way the dinner never could.
You finally shut the water off and press your fingertips to your eyelids, grounding yourself before stepping back.
With a quiet sigh, you peel off the nice dress you’d worn to the dinner, the fabric falling in a soft heap on the floor. You pull on an oversized T-shirt, the familiar cotton comforting against your skin, loose and forgiving. In the mirror, you wipe away your makeup with slow, deliberate motions, the streaks of mascara and foundation tracing faint lines down your cheeks like a map of the evening’s weight. You brush your hair out of your face, tug your pajama shorts into place, and take a moment to just breathe, letting the mundane routine of preparing for bed feel like something steady in a night that’s been anything but.
You stay in the bathroom a few minutes longer, waiting — stupidly — for something. A sign that he cares enough to check on you. That he realizes he said the wrong thing. That he realizes he didn’t say nearly enough.
Nothing.
Eventually, a muted rustle from the bedroom breaks the silence — the faint creak of the mattress as he sits. You can picture him: leaning back, scrolling on his phone or rubbing his hand over his face, convincing himself you’re the one who blew things out of proportion. You take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.
The room is dim now, one lamp turned off. Joe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking up only when the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes skim over you the way someone glances at a scoreboard — brief, calculating, not emotional.
“You done?” he asks again, this time quieter, but the phrasing is the same. The lack of softness is the same.
It hits you harder than the first time.
“I wasn’t having a tantrum,” you say, voice soft but steady. “I was trying to tell you something important.”
He runs a hand down his face, exhaling in frustration. “And I heard you. I did. You feel ignored. You want more from me in public. I get it. But blowing up over one night doesn’t exactly help your case.”
The way he says “your case” makes it sound like you’re presenting evidence in a trial he has already decided to dismiss.
You blink, slow and disbelieving. “Is that really all you took from what I said?”
Joe shrugs — shrugs — and it makes something cold settle deep inside you. “Look,” he mutters, “I’m not trying to fight anymore. I’m tired. You’re upset. Let’s just… drop it for tonight.”
You stare at him, feeling a mix of anger, hurt, and something that feels dangerously close to clarity. “Drop it,” you echo. “So we can pretend everything’s fine tomorrow?”
He doesn’t answer — which is an answer.
The quiet stretches again, heavy and deliberate. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, weighing down the words you’ve fought to get out. You want to scream, to throw something, to make him see—but you don’t. Not yet. You take a step toward the door, then another, pacing the small space of the room. Every movement sharp with frustration, every breath a reminder that tonight, you’re alone in feeling everything.
“You really think ignoring this fixes it?” you finally snap, your voice breaking through the thick, stale air. It’s not a shout, but it’s sharper than the quiet he seems so comfortable in.
You stand there, chest tight, fists unclenching slowly as the adrenaline drains out of your arms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t respond. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, maybe out the window, maybe to the corner of the room, but it isn’t on you. The fire that had flared in your chest slowly fizzles, leaving behind only a hollow ache. You let out a long, shuddering sigh, shoulders sagging, and finally step toward the bed.
Sliding under the covers, you tuck yourself in, the cool sheets doing little to calm the warmth still lingering from your frustration. You reach over and click the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into soft darkness. You turn your back to him, pulling the covers a little higher, trying to shut out not just the room, but him entirely.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters after a few long, tense seconds. Not angry, not frustrated—just a flat statement, meant to puncture the tension. You don’t respond. You shut your eyes stubbornly, wishing sleep could pull you away from the ache in your chest, from the echo of everything you tried to say and everything he didn’t hear.
Minutes pass. You hear the faint scrape of him shifting on the bed, the rustle of clothing, a zipper. Then, soft footsteps across the carpet. He’s getting ready, you realize. The sounds are methodical, almost clinical—his routine—and they irritate you even in the darkness.
Eventually, the soft patter of his steps returns. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. You keep your eyes shut, pretending not to notice him. There’s a pause, a shuffle, then the warmth of him sliding in beside you.
His shoulder presses lightly against yours, tentative but deliberate. You stiffen for a second, resisting the instinct to move closer, resisting the pull you know you’ll feel anyway.
The mattress dips slightly as he adjusts, the sheets rustle, and finally, the subtle weight of him settles in. You remain silent, stubbornly still, turning your face slightly toward the pillow, keeping your eyes shut. You can feel his presence, the steady warmth, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Eventually, your own breathing begins to slow, tension easing fractionally, the edges of anger softened by exhaustion. The room is quiet, except for the soft cadence of two hearts trying, in their own stubborn ways, to exist beside each other.
THE DAYS AFTER THAT NIGHT SLIPPED BY like a slow tide, each one carrying the same quiet weight. By the time you and Joe returned to Cincinnati, leaving behind the hotel room and the city lights of New York where the dinner had been, the residual tension felt heavier somehow—closer to home, harder to ignore.
You both moved through your routines, careful not to stir up the unsettled waters that had formed between you. The fight—or argument, or whatever you wanted to call it—was never mentioned again, though its remnants lingered in every glance, every pause in conversation.
Joe left the house earlier than usual, pulling on his practice gear and tossing a quick, distracted nod in your direction before disappearing into the crisp morning air. You watched him go, a small twinge tightening in your chest, and turned back to the quiet house, feeling the emptiness more acutely than ever. By the time he returned, long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, you were already out the door, caught up in errands, and longer shifts at work that left your feet sore and your mind buzzing, but at least distracted.
The house smelled of stale coffee and his lingering cologne. You kept your interactions to the minimum—“hello” in the morning, a shared nod in the evening, meals eaten in separate corners of the room. Even the bed felt different now, stretched wide with an absence that made you conscious of every inch between you.
And yet, in the quiet, you noticed him. You noticed the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking, the subtle sighs that carried a weight you didn’t dare ask about.
You knew he wanted to fix it—could see it in the half-hearted attempts at conversation, the lingering looks that he quickly averted—but he didn’t know how to start. How do you approach someone who won’t meet you halfway, who has built walls from habits and privacy and stubborn pride?
You, on the other hand, didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want to be the one to reopen the wound, to appear needy, desperate, or too much. So you kept busy, pouring energy into work, laughter with friends, errands that made the hours pass faster. But even in the most crowded rooms, in the brightest laughter, there was a hollow spot where his presence belonged.
Some nights, you’d lie awake, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, imagining him next to you, so close yet so far. Did he toss and turn, thinking of you? Did he feel the distance as sharply as you did? Most likely. But neither of you would close it. Neither of you would be the first to admit it.
You were curled up on the living room couch, a half-eaten sandwich resting on your lap, the TV muted as your eyes followed the captions of a show you barely paid attention to. You hadn’t wanted to sit at the dining room table where Joe was spread out with his laptop and notes doing some film study, dissecting every angle like it mattered more than you sitting two feet away.
The sound of the enclosed living room door opening was subtle but familiar, a soft creak in the house. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. He appeared in the doorway, hesitation written into the set of his shoulders.
Something about his posture—head slightly lowered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie—made it look like he had swallowed his pride to even ask for whatever he was about to ask. You weren’t sure if that made you feel better, seeing that vulnerability, or worse, because it reminded you how long it had taken to get him to show up in a way that mattered.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Not quiet enough to be soft, just… careful.
You lifted one eyebrow. “Hey,” you replied, keeping your attention on the screen even though your heart rate had jumped a little.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So… there’s this thing,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you recognized instantly. “A joint bachelorette/bachelor party, one of the front office people is throwing it… a few of the guys are going, and, uh… I wanted to know if you’d go too.”
“Oh. Sounds… thrilling,” you said, voice dripping enough snark to make the point without having to look at him.
He sighed, a long, low sound that filled the quiet room. “Never mind,” he muttered, starting toward the door, like he had already given up before you even spoke.
“Wait,” you groaned before your brain could stop you. Your chest was still tight from the argument you’d had days ago, the silence that followed, the way he’d sat on the edge of the bed as if nothing had happened—but there was something in the way he lingered near the doorway now like he was trying to offer some tiny olive branch that made your irritation falter.
You exhaled slowly, half frustrated, half begrudgingly amused at yourself. “I—I’m going,” you said, voice low but steady.
He froze, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at you, eyes narrowing in cautious hope.
“I’m not going to cancel last minute. It’s been on the calendar for weeks now, Joe. I wasn’t going to just… not go.” Your tone was softer now, but firm. You could feel your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.
He scratched at the back of his neck again, looking almost sheepish. “I… I didn’t think, after… everything… that you would still want to go.”
You shook your head, laughing without humour. “I’m not doing this for you,” you said, the words clear and precise. “I’m doing it because I already said I would. Because I already planned to."
He hesitated, leaning against the doorframe for a second, taking a measured breath. Then he gave a small nod and muttered, “Right. Okay.” His voice was quiet, subdued—not the usual confident tone that filled rooms, but softer, uncertain.
You turned back toward the muted screen, letting your fingers hover over the remote for a moment before pressing the button to raise the volume. The show’s dialogue filled the room, but it barely registered; your sandwich sat forgotten, dry and tasteless, like the last few days had been.
Joe stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, arms crossed loosely, like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or wait. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to — your silence said enough. Finally, with a resigned exhale, he stepped back, letting the door click softly behind him as he left.
And that’s how you find yourself standing in front of the mirror a few hours later, spinning slowly in the short cheetah-print dress you’d chosen for the “Y2K” theme the soon-to-be newlyweds had insisted on. It’s bold, it’s fun, it’s unapologetically you — the kind of outfit that makes you feel like you can own the night.
You smooth the fabric over your hips, tug lightly at the hem, and tilt your head, checking your reflection from every angle. Your hair falls in loose waves, a little wild, a little careless, perfect for a night where glitter and loud music matter more than the quiet tension at home. Your makeup is fierce without being overdone — a golden shimmer on your eyelids, a sweep of bronzer along your cheekbones, and lips that demand attention without saying a word.
This is good, you tell yourself. This is your chance to reclaim the night, to shake off the residue of cold silences and unspoken frustration. Joe can sulk in his corner, live in his private bubble of avoidance, but you won’t let that ruin the vibe. Tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about letting loose, laughing until your ribs ache, and reminding yourself that you can still enjoy yourself.
You slip into heels, feeling the familiar pinch at first, then the rise in confidence that always comes with them. A quick glance at the clock tells you you have just enough time to grab your bag, slide on your jacket, and head out without feeling rushed.
Your phone buzzes — texts from the WAG groupchat with many already at the club, a mix of emojis and impatience. You smile, a genuine curve of lips that Joe hasn’t seen in days, and grab your bag.
You pad down the stairs quietly, hoping to slip past him unnoticed, to make it to the car without any unnecessary exchange. Optimism, as it turns out, is not your ally tonight.
There he is at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the banister with his phone in hand, looking impossibly composed. When he looks up and sees you, something shifts — an imperceptible tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He looks… good. Too good. Every detail, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way his shirt fits across broad shoulders, makes your chest tighten with a mix of irritation and something more complicated that you don’t have the patience to name right now. Everything about him seems to bother you, from the confidence he carries to the way he tilts his head like he’s assessing, judging, savouring.
He doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze travel slowly over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the hair, the way you’ve made an effort that apparently, tonight, he notices. You stiffen under it, thinking he’s going to comment — compliment, tease, anything — but he doesn’t.
Eventually, he clenches his jaw like he’s forcing himself to let words stay locked away, and with a deliberate calm, he asks, “You ready to go?” He avoids your eyes fully, letting his flick briefly toward the stairs before settling back on the floor, like he’s testing your patience or his own resolve.
You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and nod, letting your fingers brush lightly against the strap of your bag. “Yeah,” you answer, voice quiet but firm.
He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head. The movement is casual, but there’s a tautness beneath it, a restrained energy that hints at all the words neither of you have said over the past days.
Outside, the cool night air greets you. You both slide into the car, him in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger, the engine humming to life as if it’s its own quiet witness to the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
Streetlights flicker across his face as he pulls out of the driveway, carving shadows along his jaw, highlighting the faint crease between his brows. You can tell he’s thinking — overthinking, maybe — but not saying a word, and that restraint grates at you more than any argument ever could.
He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping a slow rhythm you can’t decipher. You don’t look directly at him, instead turning your gaze to the window, watching the city shift from quiet residential streets into the neon-soaked buzz of nightlife.
At one red light, you feel his eyes on you. Not a quick glance — a look. You keep facing forward, but you can feel it, the weight of his attention, the unspoken words pushing at the space between you. When the light turns green, he’s the first to look away.
As you get closer, he slows the car, merging into the lane leading toward the private entrance the team uses for events. There’s already a small crowd outside — players, spouses, girlfriends, coworkers — dressed in a chaotic collage of Y2K nostalgia. Low-rise everything. Sparkles. Denim. Butterfly clips. Neon mesh tops. It should make you laugh, but the knot in your stomach is still too tight.
Joe pulls into the valet line, exhaling once through his nose, like he’s bracing himself. He puts the car in park but doesn’t immediately open the door. For a second, you think he’s going to speak — maybe offer some kind words — but he doesn’t. His fingers flex once on the steering wheel, knuckles going pale.
“You… good?” he asks finally, eyes fixed on the windshield. The question is simple, nearly emotionless, but you hear the quiet strain beneath it.
You force a small, controlled smile. “Yeah. I'm good,” you say, and even you can hear the lie tucked under it.
He nods like he believes you, or like he’s pretending to. Hard to tell which. Then he steps out, walks around the car, and opens your door. He doesn’t offer a hand — he hasn’t in days — but he waits, the slightest courtesy lingering in his posture.
You step out into the night, the thumping bass from inside vibrating through the pavement. Lights flash from the entrance in bursts of pink and blue. A group of your friends spot you from across the sidewalk, waving dramatically, already cheering your arrival.
You finally smile — a real one — and wave back.
Joe watches the interaction quietly, something in his expression softening for just a moment before he quickly schools it back into neutrality. “Have fun,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.
You glance at him, unsure whether he means it or if it’s just something to say. But you nod anyway. “You too,” you offer, even though you’re not sure he will.
Inside, the club feels like stepping into another universe — one made of bass, glitter, and bodies moving under hazy pink lights. The air thrums with nostalgia; every corner is drenched in some version of early-2000s chaos. Your friends latch onto you immediately, pulling you into their circle with excited shrieks and compliments shouted over the music. Someone hands you a drink, someone else fixes a butterfly clip in your hair, and for a moment you let their warmth pull you out of your own head.
Across the room, you catch a glimpse of Joe with the guys — all of them in their own version of the theme, some ironically, some embarrassingly committed. He’s got a backwards cap on and a white tee stretched across his shoulders, the kind that shouldn’t look as good as it does. He stands slightly behind the group, nursing a drink, nodding along to whatever conversation they’re having. He laughs once at something Ja’Marr says, but it’s short, controlled, like he’s too aware of where you are to fully relax.
He doesn’t come over. Not once.
But every few minutes, when you shift or laugh or tuck your hair behind your ear, you feel him looking. You turn your head — just enough to catch the tail end of a glance he pretends he wasn’t giving, eyes sliding away as if he’d been focused on anything else.
You stay close to your girls — smiling, laughing, sipping slowly. You’re polite when someone compliments your outfit. You dance a little when your favorite old-school song comes on. You’re doing everything you can to seem light, easy, unbothered.
And you’re almost convincing yourself… until you head to the bar.
When your group makes its way toward the bar, you slide onto an open spot, elbows against the counter, letting the cool surface kiss your skin. You ask for another drink — something fruity, something sweet — and while you wait, someone steps up beside you.
He’s got that slick confidence some men wear like cologne: too strong, too obvious, impossible to ignore.
“Didn’t think anyone else could pull off a dress like that,” he says, tone smooth and practiced.
You blink, brows lifting. His gaze drags down the length of your legs like he thinks he has the right. You shift your weight subtly, turning your body a little toward your friends.
“Thanks,” you answer politely, offering a small, tight smile — the kind that clearly means that’s enough.
He doesn’t take the hint.
“So… you here alone?” he asks, leaning in. He positions his elbow on the bar like he wants to trap you between it and his shoulder.
“No,” you say gently, keeping your tone friendly but final. “I’m with friends.”
He nods once but doesn’t look away — instead he scans the room lazily, then returns his eyes to you with a grin that’s just a little too confident. “But no guy with you?” he presses. When you don’t answer immediately, his grin widens as if he’s just solved a puzzle. “That’s good news for me.”
Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek. “I’m actually—”
“Taken,” a voice cuts in — low, steady, and unmistakably sure of itself. “She’s taken.”
You freeze because you know that voice. You know it in the way your pulse jumps, in the way the air around you shifts, in the way your body recognises him before your mind catches up.
You straighten instinctively, rising from your seat before you can even think about it — not out of fear, but because your whole body reacts to that voice like it’s been waiting for it, like gravity itself just shifted and pulled you upright.
And then you feel it fully — the weight of his presence closing in around you, familiar and grounding. An arm slides around your waist — slow at first, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to. His palm spreads across your hip, fingers settling with a kind of certainty that sends heat rushing up your spine. He steps in behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his chest at your back, the familiar scent of him curling around you even through the noise and sweat and neon lights.
Joe.
You don’t turn. You can’t yet. You’re too aware — of his body bracketing yours, of the protective tension in his grip, of the way his presence sinks into your skin like a memory your heart has been starving for.
The guy beside you flicks his eyes between the two of you, unimpressed. “Didn’t look like it,” he says, smug and dismissive, like he thinks this is a game he’s still winning.
You feel Joe go perfectly, dangerously still. Not rigid. Not angry. Just controlled in that razor-sharp way he gets when something digs right under his skin and hits bone. His hand tightens slightly on your waist — not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the message in the pressure: stay with me.
The guy’s smirk barely has time to settle before something shifts — in Joe, in the air, in the space around you. You feel it like a warning, like the moment right before lightning hits: charged and inevitable.
In one smooth, decisive motion, he turns your body toward him, guiding you with the hand still warm and firm at your waist. His other hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, then cupping your jaw with a care that contradicts the tension coiled through the rest of him.
You look up — and his eyes are already on you, intense, darkened, full of something he hasn’t let himself say out loud these past few days. Something he’s been swallowing, avoiding, burying under schedules and silence.
He doesn’t give himself another second to reconsider. His thumb strokes your cheek once, and then he kisses you. Not tentative. Not a whisper of a kiss meant to prove a point.
It’s deep and immediate and hungry — a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand holds your jaw firmly, angling your mouth toward his as he presses into you like he’s been craving this, craving you, for far too long.
Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer, slotting your body fully against his. The noise of the club dims, blurs, disappears under the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
It’s a kiss that burns, and brands, and warns.
But he doesn’t stop. Even when your lungs start to burn. Even when your fingers tremble against his chest. Even when the reason — the guy, the stupid smug stranger — is long gone, swallowed by the crowd. Joe keeps kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to make up for days of silence in a single breath. Like he’s terrified that if he lets you go now, he won’t get another chance.
And for one wild second, you let him. You forget the bar. The club. The people around you. You forget why he stepped in at all. But then reality snaps back like a rubber band against your skin.
Your palms push flat against his chest, shoving him back just enough to break the kiss. He stumbles half a step, brows knotting in confusion, breaths ragged. You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth, grounding yourself, anchoring yourself.
“What the hell?” you spit, breathless and furious.
His eyes widen a fraction — not offended, just startled — like he hadn’t even considered that you might be angry. Like the possibility never crossed his mind. “What?” he says, chest rising and falling. “I—”
“You don’t get to do this to me, Joe.” Your voice fractures in the middle — anger, sadness, confusion, all tangled.
His brows tug together, helpless, almost pained. “Do what?”
A scoff tears out of you as you shake your head, something hot and bitter burning in your chest. Of course. Of course he doesn’t get it. Of course he swoops in, touches you like he owns you, kisses you like he’s been thinking about it nonstop — then acts surprised when it hurts.
You turn sharply and walk away, needing space, air, anything that isn’t him. The crowd swallows you immediately, bodies brushing past, lights flickering across your vision.
“Hey—” You hear him behind you, voice strained. “Hey, wait—”
You don’t. You keep moving, pushing through bodies, weaving between dancing strangers.
“Y/N.” This time it’s firmer. Closer. Footsteps follow. Faster. He’s right behind you now, matching your pace like he refuses to let the distance grow.
“Would you just—” You feel his fingers curl gently but insistently around your arm, tugging you back toward him. “Stop.”
You whirl around, fury crackling through you. “Don’t—” you hiss, breath shaking. But he’s already stepping closer, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that makes your heartbeat stutter painfully in your chest.
“Look at me,” he says, low, steady, the command threaded with something raw. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t give him that. But your eyes lift anyway.
His eyes lock onto yours, searching, tense, unblinking — and then his voice drops, softer but no less intense. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please. Just… tell me what’s wrong.”
You yank your arm out of his grip, breath shaking as it escapes your lungs in something closer to a laugh — a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”
His jaw flexes. He braces for it.
“You had no right to do that,” you snap, voice rising before you can stop it. “In front of everyone, Joe. In front of my friends. In a club full of people. Like you suddenly get to claim me when we haven’t even—” You cut yourself off, chest heaving.
“We never revisited that conversation,” you say, quieter but more lethal. “Not once. You shut down. You avoided me. I tried to give you space, tried to understand the way you are — how you freeze up when things get too public, how you hate eyes on you, how you get weird when anything feels too exposed. I respected it. I followed your lead.”
His brows pinch, because he knows that’s true. Because he felt it too.
“And then you go and pull this stunt?” you demand, voice cracking. “You can barely speak to me for days and then kiss me like that in the middle of a room full of people. You don’t get to go cold and then suddenly act like—” Your throat tightens, burning. “Like you want me,” you whisper. “Like you want all of me. Because you can’t just switch it on and off. You can’t keep doing this to me.”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
You shake your head, breath trembling. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me? The way you look at me some days, like I’m the only person in the room? And then the next day you act like you barely know me? I’m trying to make sense of it, Joe. I really am.”
Your voice breaks completely. “Because behind closed doors? When it’s just us?” You swallow hard, blinking back heat from your eyes. “That’s the version of you I… I love.”
He goes absolutely still, like the air has been sucked out of the space between you.
“I love that man,” you say, anger and heartbreak tangling in every syllable. “The one who lets me in. The one who touches me like I matter. The one who doesn’t run. The one who—” Your voice drops. “The one who kisses me like that.”
Your hands lift helplessly, falling again. “But I don’t know which you I’m getting anymore. I don’t know what you want from me. And it’s driving me insane.”
He stands there, breathing like he just ran a mile, chest rising and falling as your confession echoes between you — raw, trembling, disbelieving even to your own ears.
And then, finally, he moves.
Not toward you at first. Just a step back, like your words punched the air out of him and he needs space to take it in. His hand drags through his hair, slow and rough, like he’s trying to physically pull his thoughts together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are different — wide, unguarded, stripped of every wall he usually hides behind.
“Jesus,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “You think I don’t want you?”
You flinch, because the hurt is still hot, still burning through your ribs. “Of course you do,” you mutter, voice cracked, bitter. “In private. When no one’s looking. When it’s easy.”
He shakes his head immediately — sharp, almost desperate — like the thought alone guts him. “No. That’s not—” He stops, jaw tight, breath unsteady. “I’m bad at this. I know I am. I know I pulled away. I know I didn’t say enough. I know I didn’t say anything. And I should’ve. I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down.”
He swallows hard, shoulders rising with a breath that sounds like it hurts. “The truth is you… you scare the hell out of me.”
You blink, taken off guard. “What?”
“You do.” His voice is rough, thick with honesty he’s clearly terrified to give. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. And I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to—” His throat works. “I didn’t want to screw this up so I told myself to slow down,” he continues, eyes never leaving you. “To back off. To take a breath before I did something stupid. But then I saw that guy leaning into you, and I—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if the memory alone ignites something hot in his chest. “I lost it. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan it. I just—"
He takes another step toward you, close enough that the bass of the club vibrates between your bodies. "I needed him to know you weren’t available. And I needed you to know that I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightens again, this time for a different reason. He sees the tears gathering at your lashes — anger, confusion, affection, all of it — and his voice softens. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm.
“I’m so damn sorry for making you doubt any of this. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just… I’ve been trying to play it safe. And every time I’m around you, I get so far past ‘safe’ I can’t see straight.”
You look away for a second, swallowing down the remaining hurt. “You still kissed me in front of everyone,” you say, the last edges of your anger clinging to your words. “You put me in a position you know you’d hate. You blindsided me.”
He nods — not defensive, not dismissive — but with the weight of someone who knows he deserves that. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I can’t take that moment back. But I swear to you, I didn’t kiss you to make a scene. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for days and I was too scared to do it when it mattered. And tonight, I… I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
You hold his gaze, searching, still wary.
He steps just a little closer — close enough for his voice to fall softer, steadier, honest in a way that makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to confuse you,” he says. “I don’t want to be hot one day and cold the next. I don’t want you wondering where you stand with me. I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you the way you want me.”
Your breath shakes, because the moment feels too big, too raw, too close.
“I want this,” he says, finally, clearly, like he’s saying something he should’ve said days ago.
"When things get real for me — really real — I get in my head. I overthink. I freeze.” A humourless laugh slips out of him. “You said that earlier. And you’re right. I do. I hate eyes on me. I hate people knowing too much. I hate the idea of anyone watching something I haven’t figured out how to protect yet.”
His eyes flick briefly down, then back up. “And you’re the one thing I want to protect the most. Which makes me… an idiot.”
You huff out a shaky breath. “Joe—”
“I’m not making excuses,” he cuts in gently. “I’m telling you why I screwed this up so badly. Why I panicked. Why I pulled away even though it killed me.” He pauses, searching your face like the next words matter more than anything he’s said tonight. “I’ve never loved someone the way I love you. Not even close.”
The words settle between you, warm and trembling and undeniably real. You’re still hurt. You’re still unsure. But you’re also listening and he sees that — sees your breathing slow, the anger easing but not gone, your eyes softening even as your walls stay up.
He takes one final half-step closer, barely brushing your space. “You’re allowed to still be mad,” he says, voice low. “Just… don’t walk away from me yet. Not tonight.”
You drag a hand through your hair and look away because it’s too much — the heat of his body against yours, the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your hurt. It hits you harder than the alcohol ever could. Too intense. Too real.
And suddenly the anger you’ve been clinging to like a shield doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It softens at the edges, cooling into something molten and heavy in your chest — heartbreak and hope twisted together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Your throat tightens. You swallow. Once. Twice.
“I’m still mad,” you say eventually, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the music.
“I know.”
“But I’m not walking away.”
He exhales shakily — relief, disbelief, something softer beneath it — like he hadn’t let himself hope for that answer until this second.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay,” you echo.
Neither of you move, and for a long moment, the tension hangs — taut, fragile, a wire stretched between two people who know the stakes and are terrified of snapping it.
You feel the weight of your own indecision. Every instinct tells you to retreat, to step back and reclaim the space that’s suddenly been invaded by something more than words, more than anger, more than anything you thought you were prepared to handle tonight. But another part — a part that hasn’t stopped hoping, that hasn’t stopped wanting him despite everything — keeps you rooted, trembling in place.
Finally, he does something small. Simple. Almost imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. He extends his hand toward you, palm up, fingers slightly curled as though asking permission rather than demanding.
It’s not a surrender. It’s not a promise. It’s an olive branch — a fragile, trembling offer of something neither of you knows how to define yet.
Your hand hovers in the air, unsure if it wants to meet his or withdraw entirely. Your chest rises and falls, and you glance down at the space between your fingertips, the world shrinking to the narrow stretch of air separating you both.
It’s tempting. Dangerous. It’s hope wrapped in apology and a little fear, and it makes your pulse jump in a way that’s entirely unfair. You’re not sure if you trust it. You’re not sure you trust him. But you also know that something inside you — something stubborn, something that refuses to let go — wants to reach out.
You lift your hand slowly, almost involuntarily, letting your fingers brush against his. It’s tentative, a test, a quiet truce. And when his hand closes gently over yours, warm and firm, it’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but it’s a start.
Your fingers barely settle into his before he’s already moving — slow, steady, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might spook you, but certain enough that you feel the quiet resolve threaded into the gesture. His hand wraps fully around yours, warm and grounding, as he guides you through the crowd.
The people around you blur into shadows and color as he leads you, weaving between dancers and bodies and the pulse of the bass. He stays close — closer than he needs to. His arm brushes yours with every step, his thumb tracing absent-minded, almost nervous circles against the back of your hand.
It’s a contradiction in motion: soft, hesitant touches paired with a grip that refuses to let you drift even an inch farther than he wants you. You feel it with each step — that shift in him. That decision. That choice.
When you reach the booth where your friends are still gathered, laughing and talking over music, Joe slows but doesn’t let go. If anything, his hand tightens on yours, like instinct takes over before thought can catch up.
Your friends look up — first at you, then at him — and confusion flickers across a few faces because Joe Burrow doesn’t do this. He doesn’t wear his feelings where anyone can see them.
Tonight though, he stays.
He slides in behind you, hand drifting from your fingers to your waist, settling there with a familiarity that is very much not subtle. His thumb presses into your hip bone, slow and possessive. You swear you feel heat bloom under your skin. Then, as the conversation around you picks up again, he leans down — like it’s nothing, natural — and rests his cheek briefly against your temple.
You go still because that? That’s not a Joe move. Not the Joe everyone else knows, at least.
His hand doesn’t stay still long. It slips lower, fingers brushing along your hip, then the curve of your thigh when you shift. When you move closer to your friends, his hand returns to your lower back, guiding you without pushing. When you lean forward to grab your drink, his palm finds your waist again, sliding under the hem of your top just enough that you feel the heat of his skin against yours. It’s not once, not twice, but constant.
He’s glued to you — physically, emotionally, magnetically — like his body refuses to accept even an inch of distance. And every time he touches you, it feels a little less like a claim and a little more like a confession he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.
Your friends notice. How could they not?
His arm around your waist as you talk. His fingers brushing your knuckles when you take a sip. The way he leans down to say something only to you, his breath warm against your ear. The absent slide of his hand along your hip when someone else steps close to you in the crowded booth and he instinctively pulls you nearer.
It’s jealous, possessive, needy. It’s devotion edged with fear — the kind that says don’t go far, I’m still figuring out how to deserve you.
He doesn’t even pretend to go back to his boys. They glance over once or twice, eyebrows raised, but Joe? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. He sits with you — stays with you — like this is where he was supposed to be all along.
For the first time… he lets himself be yours in public. And God, you can feel it. Every brush of his fingers. Every protective shift of his body. Every subtle press of affection he gives without even realizing who’s watching.
It sends warmth sweeping through you — slow, dizzying, undeniable. It builds slowly like heat rising beneath your skin, like something thick and honey-sweet settling low in your stomach. Because the longer he stays pressed against you, the more undeniable it becomes: Joe isn’t hiding you — not tonight, not anymore.
He doesn’t let go of you when the night winds down. Not when your friends begin gathering their things, not when you slide out of the booth, not when he guides you toward the exit with a hand on your lower back like he’s afraid the crowd might swallow you again.
Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, but his touch stays warm on your skin.
His car is parked a block away, and even then — even with fewer people, fewer eyes — Joe sticks close. His fingers find yours again, not tentative this time, not searching. Certain. Firm. Like he’s made a decision and the only thing left is to follow it.
He opens the passenger door for you and you settle into the seat as he rounds the car and slides into his own. For a moment, the only sound is the engine turning over and the muted rush of traffic in the distance.
Then his hand falls onto your knee.
His palm rests there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb makes a slow pass over your skin, a subtle stroke that sends a pulse straight up your spine. He doesn’t look at you when he does it, doesn’t announce it, doesn’t wait for your reaction. He just… keeps it there. As if he’s been waiting all night to touch you in a way that isn’t frantic or apologetic or desperate — just real.
The city lights flash across his face as he drives — sharp lines softened by the dark, jaw tight with concentration, eyes fixed on the road. But every few seconds, that thumb moves again, a slow, rhythmic sweep side to side that feels more like reassurance than anything he could say out loud.
You feel your muscles unwind, inch by inch. The anger’s gone. The ache is still there — a bruise beneath the ribs — but what’s rising in its place is quieter, warmer. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.
By the time he pulls into your driveway, the tension between you has softened into something fragile but steady — a truce held together by touch and the promise of trying again. He squeezes your knee once before letting go. And as the engine cuts off and the silence settles, you realise you’re no longer bracing for the next hurt, just waiting to see what comes next.
The night isn’t healed, not by a long shot, but it’s no longer breaking. It’s beginning.
YOU DON’T BREAK OPEN ALL AT ONCE. You settle back into each other slowly — in the quiet, in the in-between moments, in the subtle ways your walls start lowering without either of you calling attention to it.
You start noticing the little things first: the way he reaches for your hand when you leave restaurants, fingers lacing through yours like muscle memory finally allowed to be muscle memory again. The way his palm settles on the small of your back at events, guiding you through crowds like you’re something he refuses to lose track of. And sometimes — when he thinks no one is watching, or maybe when he’s finally stopped caring if they are — he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
Nothing big. Nothing loud.
Just steps.
Steps you don’t rush him through, steps he takes on his own, steady and sincere. You’re proud of him for that — not for being perfect, not for performing, but for trying. For choosing closeness even when he still gets nervous about being seen.
And tonight, that quiet confidence he’s been building, the small gestures that have made your days feel warmer, they trail behind him all the way to the stadium.
The anticipation, the way your chest tightens at the thought of seeing him in action, it all laces itself into the nerves that curl low in your stomach. It’s game day, and even though you’ve gotten used to his routines, even though you’ve learned how to exist alongside his world without breaking it, you still can’t help the familiar, fluttering worry that comes every time he’s out there, fighting, giving everything he has.
The hum of the stadium seeps through the glass, low and steady, vibrating faintly under your fingertips as you sit perched on the window sill, knees pulled up to your chest. Your phone rests in your lap, screen glowing softly, fingers unconsciously tugging at your nails.
You hadn’t seen him yet this morning. You’d sent him a quick good luck message earlier that morning; he’d liked it, a tiny acknowledgment that warmed you despite the distance.
You were familiar with the rhythm he needed: solitary mornings, quiet preparation, the sort of headspace that let him focus on what he does best. The night before had been just as you liked it — him at the kitchen table, eyes on film study, coffee cup warm between his hands, and you on the living room couch, book in hand, quietly near but co-existing seperately.
Your gaze drifts out the glass, scanning the field, and there he is — Joe, phone in hand, and definitely not doing warmups. Your brow furrows. That’s strange, you think. He’s always out early, getting his stretches in, warming up his body and mind.
And then your phone dings, vibrating softly against your thigh. You glance down, picking it up, and the notification makes your chest flutter:
Joey 💞 Come to the sideline today?
Joey 💞 I want to see you before the game.
You look back up, catching him glancing up at your suite, scanning the window like he knows exactly where you are. You shake your head, smiling despite the nerves curling in your stomach, even though you’re sure he can’t see you from here.
Excusing yourself from the cluster of familiar faces in the suite — Robin, Jimmy, his cousins, childhood friends, old teammates — you make your way toward the elevator, heart hammering in that anxious-but-excited rhythm you only get with him.
You don’t come down to the sidelines often. The suite is your safe space — private, quiet, free from cameras, free from people watching your every gesture. And, admittedly, you worry about what your nerves might do to him if you’re too close on game day — about how your anxiety might project onto him, about how easily it could distract the calm, controlled focus he fights to maintain.
You push the caution aside, letting your feet carry you forward, toward him, toward the pre-game moment you both somehow need.
The elevator doors open, spilling you out into the pulse of the stadium. The noise hits you in waves — cheers from early-arriving fans, the sharp whistles of staff moving across the field, the clatter of equipment being readied. Lights glare, people bustle, cameras flash somewhere in the distance, and the smell of turf and sweat hangs heavy in the air.
You navigate through the flurry, careful not to collide with staff or players warming up, until you reach the barrier that separates spectators from the field. You lean against it lightly, knees brushing the metal, scanning the chaos for him. Your chest hammers as your eyes dart across the sideline, catching movement, a familiar silhouette.
There he is — Joe, standing a few yards away, talking to a couple of guys in his pre-game huddle, phone tucked under his arm. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you, and your chest tightens just slightly with nerves, your hands fidgeting at the barrier. Then your eyes meet, and something in the world stills. You give him a half-wave, a small, tentative gesture, and his lips twitch upward in recognition. That little smile, that familiar spark, makes your pulse jump.
He excuses himself from the group, weaving through the sideline with casual confidence, and you brace yourself for what you think will come next: maybe a quick hello, a soft touch on the shoulder, a brief hug. The type of acknowledgment that keeps the balance between public and private, the kind of gentle connection that doesn’t draw attention.
But then — everything changes.
He locks eyes with you, moves with determination that cuts through the cameras, the flashing lights, the shouting crowd. He doesn’t hesitate. By the time he reaches you, he’s closing the space entirely, both arms wrapping around you, and your knees go weak from the sheer force of it. Before you can even process it, before your brain can tell your heart to slow down, he kisses you.
Not a quick peck. Not a polite gesture. A full, certain kiss, the kind that’s been building between you for weeks, months even, now unleashed without restraint, without apology. The noise of the crowd, the cameras, the world around you — it all disappears. The cheers ripple across the field, cameras flash, teammates glance your way, and the broadcast catches the moment for everyone watching at home, but none of it touches the quiet intensity of the moment you’re trapped in.
You freeze for a heartbeat, stunned. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, melting into the warmth of him, into the certainty of his presence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely untethered in the best way possible.
His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper against your ear, voice low and raw, “I don’t care who sees anymore.”
And just like that, he’s jogging back toward the field, slipping into warmups, but not before planting another quick, sharp kiss on your lips — enough to make the crowd react, enough to set your heart racing in a way that will linger for hours. Your cheeks burn, warmth spreading from your chest outward, and even as the adrenaline races through you, a calm settles behind it.
The flashes, the cameras, the world watching — it doesn’t matter. Because tonight, in front of everyone, he chose you. Chose you without hesitation, without reservation, without the usual carefulness that keeps him guarded.
And as you pull yourself upright, gripping the barrier with one hand, your phone forgotten at your side, you realise something crystal clear: you finally have him out loud. No more holding back, no more careful distance, no more private gestures kept behind closed doors.
Your Joe, in front of everyone, just chose you and you know with an unshakable certainty that he’ll never hold you at arm’s length again.
thank you for reading! here's more: joe burrow masterlist
summary: Your honeymoon was supposed to be all sun, sand, and quiet moments together — just the two of you unwinding after the whirlwind of your wedding. But Joe had other ideas. Between unexpected plans and unforeseen foes, it only took one small, unforgettable spark for them to remember exactly why they had said “I do” in the first place.
warning: contains smut / explicit sexual content. part 2 of before forever (their wedding) but can be read as a standalone.
You clutched your bouquet, now a little wilted, and glanced up at Joe. His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair ruffled from hours of dancing, and yet he still looked impossibly handsome — golden and glowing even under the hotel’s warm lights. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and just like that, the noise of the day melted away.
Your dress was still damp at the hem from where he’d carried you into the ocean — a spontaneous, joy-drunk plunge that had left you both breathless and laughing, water glittering around you like liquid stars. His tux jacket hung over his arm, just as soaked, the salt clinging faintly to your skin. It didn’t matter. It felt perfect — real, unfiltered, like the night had been too good to stay dry.
When he pushed open the suite door, you were greeted by soft amber light spilling from elegant mid-century fixtures, casting long, gentle shadows across the room. Somewhere in the background, a record crackled to life, the warm hum of music weaving into the quiet like it had been waiting just for you.
The space was impossibly luxurious — the kind of suite that money alone could buy, the hotel’s finest, reserved for only the most special of occasions. Plush velvet seating, rich wooden accents, and a private balcony that caught the last glow of the evening sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sparkling skyline that Charleston, South Carolina boasted, a tapestry of lights that danced like stars.
It was decadent, intimate, and completely yours, even if only for one night before the private jet whisked you away to the Bahamas for your honeymoon.
The first thing you did was kick off your heels with a sigh of relief, flexing your toes against the plush carpet. “Finally,” you groaned, laughing as Joe raised an amused brow.
“Need help with the rest?” he asked, that familiar teasing lilt in his voice.
You shot him a mock glare, but it was softened by the sparkle in your eyes. “Not yet, Mr. Burrow. Let’s settle down first.”
You padded over to the table and noticed a chilled bottle of champagne waiting, two glasses beside it, along with a neat little note that read: Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Burrow. You smiled at the sight of it.
“They make it sound so official,” you murmured, voice tired but light.
Joe laughed, the sound low and content. He replied, “That’s because it is,” drawing you close by your waist. “You’re stuck with me now.”
You tilted your head up, teasing. “Oh no, what a tragedy.”
He kissed you — slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like promise and the soft sweetness of the night still clinging to your lips. When you pulled away, he grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, like it was the only truth he knew.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. “I’m a mess.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “my favorite kind.”
He made his way to the table. The soft pop of the cork echoed through the room, and the sound made you grin — it felt like another small celebration after a long, beautiful day. He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours as he raised his own.
“To my wife,” he said quietly.
The word sent a flutter through you. You’d heard it all day — in toasts, in congratulations — but hearing it from him felt entirely different.
You clinked your glass against his. “To us.”
You both sank onto the edge of the bed, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet space between you. Joe loosened his tie a little more and took a slow sip of champagne, his throat moving as he swallowed, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the bubbles hit his tongue.
He sighed softly, the kind of sound that came from contentment — that deep, quiet peace that settled in when everything felt exactly right. You watched the muscles in his jaw relax, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the faint pink still lingering at the tips of his ears from all the dancing and laughter earlier.
He didn’t notice your lingering gaze or the dazed smile on your lips. You were studying him like you were trying to memorize the shape of this moment — his tux shirt still damp at the cuffs, his hair curling just slightly from the humidity, his wedding ring catching the light with every small movement.
For the first time all night, it hit you in full — this was your husband. The man sitting beside you, smiling and glowing and completely unaware of how utterly gone you were for him, was yours.
You bit your bottom lip without realizing it, pulse quickening as heat began to pool low in your stomach. The day’s nerves and excitement were melting into something quieter, deeper — a different kind of anticipation.
Your eyes flicked to his lips first, then up to his eyes, and before you could stop yourself, your body leaned in, pressing forward. The movement caught him entirely off guard — a quiet laugh of surprise escaping his throat as your lips brushed against his. He responded instinctively, lips capturing yours in a soft, heated kiss.
His hands reached for the champagne glasses, lifting them carefully and placing them on the bedside table, never breaking contact. With his hands free again, he traced along your shoulders and arms, finally gripping the back of your hair — and finding it in the updo you had done for the wedding.
He groaned quietly, half-frustrated, half-amused, and gently tugged one of the hairpins free. Your hair tumbled loose around your shoulders, warm and soft against his fingers. His eyes darkened as he captured your lips again, the kiss deeper this time, fingers threading through the now-falling strands as if he had been waiting for this moment for years.
You shifted carefully, keeping your lips locked with his, letting your body guide him back until his back met the soft sheets of the bed. The movement was fluid, natural, a continuation of the rhythm you had already set. He let out a low, approving hum as you settled over him, your knees on either side of his hips, weight balanced just enough to keep the kiss intense but unhurried.
His hands rose naturally, one brushing along the curve of your waist, the other lingering at your back, as if grounding himself in the closeness. You tilted your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen the kiss, letting your hands roam over his chest.
Your hair fell to the side, tumbling over your shoulders and creating a soft, silken curtain that framed the space between you two — a private little bubble that felt impossibly intimate. You shifted your hips ever so slightly, testing the rhythm of the moment.
Joe’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt the delicious friction of your movement against him. His hands gripped your waist, firm and guiding, urging you into a slow, teasing rhythm that left him groaning low in his throat.
"Fuck baby," he murmured, head tilting back just slightly, voice thick and husky with need. Every syllable was heavy, loaded with the kind of quiet desperation and reverence that made your pulse quicken in response.
His fingers dug into the soft curve of your ass, grabbing handfuls of your dress to keep you grounded as he rolled up beneath you, matching every subtle grind, every teasing movement with precision and need. The sound you made — soft, breathy, and achingly needy — sent a rush of heat pooling even deeper in his stomach, making his pulse spike and his chest tighten with the delicious tension of wanting you, wanting this moment, wanting you entirely.
You paused mid-motion, a frustrated huff leaving your lips as the damp fabric clung stubbornly to your skin. The lace and silk refused to cooperate, sticking to your thighs and twisting at your waist as you tried to shimmy it off. You were breathing harder than you wanted to admit, both from the effort and the remnants of heat still simmering between you. Your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips, grounding you as you tugged uselessly at the fabric.
Joe’s gaze, hazy and heavy-lidded, flicked to the bedside table for just a second — but that was all it took. The clock’s glowing red numbers blinked back at him, sharp and unrelenting. He blinked, then blinked again, the time finally registering. “Oh… wow,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief.
The haze in his chest cleared just enough for practicality to push its way through the fog of want. The realization landed hard; it was late. Much later than he had realised. The kind of late where the night was already surrendering to dawn, where the hours of sleep ahead could be counted on one hand. But beneath the logic, a quiet battle waged within him, his longing for her tugging against the weight of responsibility.
He couldn't shake the image of her eyes that evening, the glow in them when she laughed at the reception, or the way she clutched his hand during the toasts. He wanted to savor every moment, every touch, every whisper in the night.
The promise of the Bahamas, however, lay heavily over his thoughts, the meticulous plans he wanted to honor, and the fear of missing them.
He pushed a slow breath out, glancing back at you — still struggling with the uncooperative dress, hair falling messily around your face, skin flushed and glowing in the soft light. You were beautiful, even in frustration, maybe especially then.
His hand gently pressed against your forearm, stopping your hands mid-struggle. “Hey,” he said softly but firmly, his eyes locking with yours.
He pushed himself upright, ignoring every instinct telling him to pull you back down against him, and leaned back against the headboard so you were face-to-face. The dim amber light of the suite framed both of your faces, highlighting the faint smudges of makeup on your cheeks, the tiny glistening beads of water still clinging to your skin from the ocean. His eyes softened as he studied you, every inch of desire and adoration unmistakable.
“Believe me,” he started, his voice low and husky, “I want nothing more than to rip this dress off you right now.” He ran a hand gently through your damp hair, careful not to tug too hard. “But we’ve got an early flight tomorrow. We need to sleep… at least a little.”
You let out a small, disappointed “Oh…” as your hands froze mid-fiddle, the frustration clear on your face. He noticed immediately, the tiniest furrow appearing between his brows.
“I want to take my time with you,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Every inch of you, every moment. But I can’t do that right now.” His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as his eyes held yours with unwavering intensity.
“When we’re in the Bahamas,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost a promise, “there will be nothing to distract me. Nothing to rush us. I’ll have all the time in the world to show you exactly how much I want you… how much I’ve always wanted you.”
His words sent a shiver down your spine, the mix of longing and patience making the heat between you pulse even stronger. You leaned in, capturing his lips again, slower this time, tasting the promise of what was to come.
The kiss was tender but heavy with unspoken desire, every second stretching, every brush of lips a reminder that this night was yours to savor — and that tomorrow, somewhere over the turquoise waters of the Bahamas, you’d have all the time in the world to give yourselves over completely.
He rested his forehead against yours, breathing in sync, hands still holding you close. “Sleep now,” he whispered against your lips, “so we can make every single second there unforgettable.”
You groaned, pressing your face against the side of his neck and nuzzling into the warmth there. “Can’t we just… cancel?” you murmured, your voice muffled but heavy with faux indignation.
The salt and faint scent of the ocean still clung to your skin, mixing with the subtle notes of his cologne, making it impossible to pull away even if you wanted to.
He chuckled low in his throat, a sound that made your chest tighten with warmth. “Cancel what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly so you could feel his lips brush against your hair.
“You know…” you whined, letting a playful pout tug at your lips. “What’s the point of marrying a rich guy if I’m still up at some ungodly hour, dragging my exhausted self onto an early flight? I mean, seriously — we could be sleeping in, eating breakfast in bed for hours, and instead…” You blew a loud raspberry into the soft skin of his neck, and the sensation made him jolt slightly before breaking into laughter.
He wrapped his arms tighter around you, holding you against his chest as he laughed, the sound filling the quiet room. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, breathless between chuckles. “Only you could complain about flying private to the Bahamas.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, giving a little shove to get off him, though not without a giggle. “Fine, fine,” you said, pushing yourself up from the edge of the bed. The cool carpet pressed against your bare feet as you wobbled slightly, a little unsettled from what could have been.
Before he could argue or protest, you snatched the half-full champagne glass he’d left on the table and drained it in one smooth motion, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. The effervescence made you laugh quietly to yourself as you set the glass down, the cork of the night’s celebration still lingering in your senses.
Padding across the suite, the plush carpet soft under your bare feet, you slipped into the bathroom. The mirror reflected your tired but glowing face — makeup smudged slightly, hair still damp and loose from the ocean plunge, and from him running his fingers through it earlier, leaving it soft, tousled, and impossibly tempting.
It was time to freshen up and to strip away the remnants of the wedding day.
As you peeled off the dress, your skin tingled from the cool air of the bathroom, goosebumps rising in the quiet after the heat of the night. You reached for the makeup remover, taking your time to smooth away the lipstick smudges and mascara streaks, your reflection slowly returning to just you, soft and flushed and entirely alive.
Once your face was clean and your hair damp but freed from the last traces of the wedding day, you turned the faucet and let the shower run hot, steam curling up around you like a warm, protective cocoon.
The water cascaded over your shoulders, tracing down your arms and back, washing away the salt and the sweat. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth seep into your muscles, relaxing every inch of your body that had carried the weight of nerves, excitement, and adrenaline all day.
Your hands moved through your hair, massaging your scalp as the water dripped down, carrying away the faint scent of ocean and perfume. Steam fogged the mirror and clung to the tiles, creating a private world where nothing existed except you, the water, and the lingering memory of him — the feel of his hands on your skin, the warmth of his breath against your neck.
By the time you stepped out, wrapped in the soft hotel towels, your body felt lighter, your skin tingling from the contrast of heat and cool air. You paused for a moment, leaning against the sink, letting the post-shower glow sink in, and allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile.
You could hear the faint shuffle of Joe moving around the suite, probably unpacking or just pacing in his own restless way. The sound made your chest flutter; you were already itching to be near him again. Carefully, you wrapped the towel a little tighter around yourself and strolled back toward the bedroom, each step deliberate, teasing, knowing he would notice.
When you pushed the door open, he looked up from where he was leaning against the edge of the bed, shirt half unbuttoned, hair still damp in places from the earlier ocean dip. His eyes lit up immediately, a slow grin spreading across his face as he took in the sight of you — towel wrapped around your curves, hair still slightly damp and clinging in the most perfect way.
“Damn,” he muttered, voice low, breath catching. “You’re killing me, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Mean's I'm doing something right."
You move toward the duffel bag your bridesmaids had sent to your room. You opened the bag, expecting something cozy, something practical. Instead, your eyes fell on an array of skimpy lingerie and silk night dresses, each one more ridiculous and suggestive than the last.
You groaned, tossing one piece back into the bag with a sharp, playful curse. Tonight was not the night for elaborate outfits — you’d save that for the honeymoon, when no one but Joe would see.
The thought of it sent an involuntary warmth pooling low in your stomach. A flicker of anticipation, of temptation, that you quickly tried to stamp down. Not tonight. Tonight, you both needed sleep more than anything. The day had been long, beautiful, and overwhelming, and if you gave in to that pull now, you’d never make it onto the morning flight.
You took a steadying breath, pushing the bag aside with a wry smile just as you turned — and froze.
Joe stood there, a half-smile tugging at his lips, holding one of his shirts out to you like he’d known exactly what you needed. Quietly, you accepted it, unfolding the fabric to reveal a taco cat printed right across the front. You pursed your lips in amusement, shaking your head but saying nothing, the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
He gave you a small, knowing grin and then headed to the bathroom to get ready himself, leaving you alone for the first time since you’d arrived. Dropping the damp towels to the floor, you slipped into the oversized shirt, the soft cotton engulfing you and falling just above your knees. It was cozy, familiar, and entirely his — a perfect little comfort after the whirlwind of the day.
As the room quieted, the adrenaline from the wedding and reception finally began to fade, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. A soft yawn escaped your lips, stretching your jaw and tugging a laugh from the deep corners of your chest. You realised just how tired you were.
You decided to crawl into bed, tugging back the covers and sinking into the soft, cool sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and hotel linen. The moment your body met the mattress, a deep sigh slipped from your lips — the kind that came after a long day of holding yourself upright.
You nestled deeper into the pillows, the hem of Joe’s shirt brushing against your thighs as you curled on your side. You told yourself you’d just rest your eyes for a moment, maybe until he came out.
You wanted to wait for him — to share that quiet moment before sleep, the first night of your marriage. There was something sacred about it, something you didn’t want to miss, no matter how heavy your eyelids felt.
The muffled sound of running water came from the bathroom, along with the faint rhythm of Joe humming under his breath — some tune from earlier in the day, maybe the song that had played during your first dance. The memory made you smile softly against the pillow, your chest warming even as your limbs grew heavier.
Half an hour later, the sound of the bathroom door opening stirred the air. Joe stepped out, steam following him, his hair damp and curling at the edges. He rubbed a towel over the back of his neck as he walked toward the bed, ready to tease you about something — maybe your earlier complaints about the flight, or the taco cat shirt you now wore. But when his eyes landed on you, he stopped mid-step.
The room had gone quiet again except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. You were fast asleep, one hand curled loosely near your face, the other clutching a corner of the blanket. The shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and your breathing was slow and steady, peaceful in a way that made something in his chest ache.
He smiled — that small, unguarded kind of smile reserved only for moments like this — and set the towel down on a chair. Moving quietly, he turned off the last of the lights, the city glow outside spilling in through the curtains. Then he slipped into bed beside you, careful not to wake you, his hand finding yours beneath the sheets.
This — the quiet, the calm, the soft weight of your hand in his — felt more intimate than anything that had come before. He leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple, his breath catching when you instinctively shifted closer, sighing in your sleep.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Burrow,” he whispered against your hair, the words barely audible, but full of warmth and quiet disbelief.
He settled in beside you, his arm draped lightly across your waist, and within minutes, his breathing evened out to match yours. The city lights flickered against the walls, the night deepened, and for the first time all day, everything was still.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the gauzy white curtains, spilling gold across the room and warming the tangled sheets. The world outside was already awake — the distant rush of waves against the shore, the faint chatter of gulls echoing in the distance.
You stirred first, blinking against the light. For a moment, the quiet felt dreamlike, suspended somewhere between sleep and reality. Then it hit you: You were married.
A smile pulled at your lips before you even opened your eyes fully. You turned slightly, the movement enough to rouse Joe, who let out a sleepy groan into your shoulder.
“Morning, Mrs. Burrow,” he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep.
You turned your head toward him, a sleepy grin tugging at your lips as you blinked up at the ceiling. “That's my name now don't wear it out,” you murmured back, your voice soft and still raspy from sleep.
He cracked one eye open, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. His hair was a complete mess, sticking out in all directions, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow — somehow, he still managed to look infuriatingly good.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in the oversized shirt, the tousled hair, the way the sunlight caught the faint sheen of your skin.
“God, you look way too good for this early,” he said, voice still husky.
You laughed quietly, the sound breaking the stillness of the morning. “You’re biased,” you teased, rolling onto your side to face him fully. “Also, you look like you fought the pillow and lost.”
He grinned, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Worth it.” Then, leaning closer, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds as his thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your hip beneath the sheets.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The world outside seemed to move on without you — cars passing distantly, the muffled hum of the ocean breeze drifting through the open window. Inside, everything was still.
You finally broke the comfortable silence with a quiet sigh, your voice still husky from sleep. “What time’s the flight again?”
He groaned dramatically, his face disappearing into the pillow. His voice came out muffled. “Too early. Why did we do that to ourselves?”
You smiled, your fingers finding their way into his hair, tracing through the soft, slightly tangled strands. “Because you insisted on maximizing time in the Bahamas,” you reminded him, your tone equal parts teasing and affectionate. “You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘We’ll sleep on the plane.’”
He peeked up at you through one half-lidded eye, his lashes still heavy with sleep. A smirk ghosted across his lips. “Still the right call,” he said, his voice low and raspy. “I just didn’t think I’d feel like I got hit by a truck.”
You let out a soft laugh, stretching out beside him. The sheets rustled, still warm from your shared body heat, and the faint smell of him — that mix of cedar and leftover cologne — lingered in the air. You rolled onto your side to face him, brushing a thumb over his jaw. “You did help yourself to one too many sips of our complimentary champagne,” you teased.
He smiled against your touch, tilting his head to press a lazy kiss to your fingertips. “I was celebrating,” he mumbled, voice low and fond as his lips trailed toward your shoulder. “You make it hard not to.”
You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Smooth,” you muttered, voice soft with affection. “You always know exactly what to say.”
He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with that same warmth that had followed you through every moment of the night before. “I mean it,” he said, his tone quieter now, more earnest. “Last night… everything about it — about you — was perfect.”
Your chest tightened, heart stuttering in that gentle way it always did when he looked at you like that, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You’re gonna make me cry before I’ve even brushed my teeth,” you whispered, laughing softly as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
He smiled and leaned in again, his nose brushing yours. “Then I’m doing something right,” he murmured before kissing you — slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like morning sunlight and promises.
When he pulled away, you were both smiling. The clock on the bedside table blinked 6:12 a.m., a quiet reminder of reality creeping back in. You groaned. “Okay, we really do have to get up, don’t we?”
Joe let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the bed. “No. We could just… stay here. I’ll call the airline, tell them my wife refused to move.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, smirking. “You’d throw me under the bus that fast?”
He cracked one eye open again, grin lazy. “Absolutely. They’ll understand. Have you seen you in the morning?”
You grabbed the nearest pillow and swatted him with it, laughter bubbling from your chest. He caught it easily, tugging you down into him instead, your giggles fading into a quiet breath as he wrapped his arms around you again.
“Five more minutes,” he murmured into your hair and you oblige.
Five minutes later — though it felt like barely one — Joe finally peeled himself away from the sheets, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “You win.”
You stretched lazily, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the curtains before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Took you long enough,” you teased, though you couldn’t help smiling as you watched him stumble toward his suitcase. His hair was sticking up in about five different directions, and the sight made you laugh softly.
It didn’t take long before the suite was a flurry of quiet movement — zippers opening, drawers closing, the soft hum of the shower running again for a quick rinse.
You slipped into your dress — white with soft green florals, long and flowing, the fabric drifting around your ankles with every step, catching the morning light like liquid silk. It cinched perfectly at your waist and dipped into a deep V at the front, elegant yet effortlessly summery. You slid on a few gold bangles, their faint chime filling the air as you fastened the last clasp, then finished the look with a pair of simple gold hoop earrings that swung lightly with every movement, completing the relaxed, sun-ready vibe you were going for.
Your hair, freshly brushed and still slightly damp from the night before, fell loose around your shoulders. You eyed your reflection critically, fingers fluffing the strands. “If the humidity ruins this before we even land, I’m blaming you,” you called over your shoulder.
Joe looked up from where he was buttoning his shirt — a soft linen one, the kind that made him look effortlessly put together. “You think I control the weather now?”
“You control everything else,” you said, slipping into your sandals. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
He grinned, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You look beautiful,” he says, sincere enough that it made your stomach flutter.
You smiled, brushing a bit of imaginary lint from his chest. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Burrow.”
They gathered the last of their things, the hotel staff already whisking their luggage away with quiet efficiency, giving them one last nod and smile before shutting the doors behind them. Joe’s hand found yours as you stepped into the lobby, the polished marble gleaming beneath your feet.
Soon enough, a sleek black Chrysler rolled up, its glossy finish catching the light. The driver stepped out, opening the doors with a small bow before gesturing for you to enter. Joe helped you in first, sliding in beside you, and then climbed in, closing the door with a soft click. The city passed by in a blur — cobblestone streets, palm trees swaying, and the distant sound of seagulls — as the car made its way to the private airstrip.
In no time, the plane came into view, gleaming under the morning sun. The pilot waved from the cockpit steps as the crew prepared the jet, checking everything with meticulous precision. Joe’s hand found yours again, squeezing gently as you both took a moment to soak it all in.
Soon, you’d be over the turquoise waters of the Bahamas, leaving Charleston far behind, with nothing to distract you from the start of your honeymoon.
The cabin was quiet, soft hums of the engines vibrating through the sleek interior as you both settled into your plush seats.
The engines hummed steadily as the plane lifted into the clear morning sky, sunlight spilling across the cabin and glinting off your bangles. You get comfortable in the seat, stretching your legs. You let out a soft sigh, the weight of the wedding and early morning start finally melting away.
Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the seatbelt signs flicked off, and you let out a quiet sigh of relief, stretching your arms above your head. The movement was slow, languid, and felt almost indulgent.
You slipped out of your seatbelt completely, padding over to Joe, who was lounging with a book in his lap, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement as he glanced up at you.
“I’m bored,” you announced, flopping onto his lap without warning. The sudden weight made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm as he wrapped an arm around you, holding you snugly “Let's watch a movie, it'll pass the time,” you suggested, playful but persistent.
He glanced up from his book, eyes softening, and without hesitation, he set it aside. “Which one?” he asked, that familiar, easy acceptance in his voice — the way he always let your preferences guide the moment, never questioning. He just… followed your lead, willing to pause his own world to make yours a little brighter.
You gave him a look that said the answer was obvious. “Crazy Rich Asians. Duh. It’s like the ultimate airplane movie.”
He paused, like he was weighing his options, then let the answer tumble out with a half-smile. “I prefer action movies on planes. Like Bullet Train,” he said, casually.
You arched an eyebrow and a slow, mischievous grin spread across your face. “The one with Aaron Taylor-Johnson?” you prompted, feigning innocent curiosity.
His eyes narrow on you in mock offense. The amusement in them was obvious, but there was also that little flash of possessive humor that always made you melt. He shook his head, theatrical and deliberate. “Nope, Crazy Rich Asians it is,” he declared, and before you could argue he reached down to the table in front of his seat, and with a press of a button, a sleek screen rose smoothly from the console.
His seat shifted backward, flattening partially, giving the both of you plenty of room to settle in comfortably. He handed you one of the Bluetooth headphones, and you tucked it over your ears. With a little adapter he set up between the two headsets, you could both hear the audio from the TV in perfect sync — the sound crisp, private, and just for the two of you.
The opening scene of the movie played, the cabin bathed in soft sunlight, and you let yourself sink completely into the thrill of being newlyweds.
Hours passed in a comfortable blur. The plane hummed steadily as the two of you alternated between watching movie after movie, headphones snug and synced, sharing quiet commentary, laughter, and the occasional nuzzle. More than once, both of you dozed off mid-scene, heads leaning together, breathing even and slow.
What felt like a million films and several naps later, the plane finally began its descent.
The engines shifted, a gentle vibration through the cabin, and the sunlight outside deepened, hinting at the tropical paradise waiting below. The plane’s wheels kissed the runway, and with a smooth roll, you had arrived.
You stepped off the plane, sunglasses perched atop your head, phone in hand, blinking against the brilliant sunlight. The air was warm, sweet, and impossibly clean, carrying the scent of saltwater and sun. Joe trailed just behind you, easily lifting your carry-on and his with one hand so you wouldn’t have to sweat in the heat, his other hand casually brushing your back as if to remind you he was right there.
After clearing the small private terminal, you realised that most of the luxury resorts were on their own islands, separated by teal channels of water, so the plane had only brought you to the main hub. From here, a sleek speedboat awaited, polished and white, engine quietly humming. A driver greeted you, motioning for you both to step aboard. The boat cut smoothly through the water, each wave glinting like glass in the morning sun, carrying you toward your private villa.
Joe stayed close the entire ride, letting you take in endless blue horizon. It was surreal, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the sparkling water surrounding you.
When you reached the island, Joe helped you step onto the dock carefully, hand tight in yours, as a resort attendant in crisp white attire greeted you both with a warm smile.
“I’m Michael,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ll be showing you around the resort and your villa.” You shook his hand politely, craning your neck to take in the sprawling island — dense palms, winding paths, and glimpses of the sparkling ocean beyond. “Everything’s a bit spread out, so the buggy will make it easier to get a sense of the place.”
The buggy hummed to life and carried you deeper into the heart of the island. Michael pointed out the spa tucked among coconut palms, the main restaurant perched with panoramic views of the horizon, a fitness pavilion hidden among trees, and villas tucked into private coves. Joe listened intently, nodding at details, occasionally asking questions, while you were caught entirely by the sweeping, untouched beauty surrounding you — soft sand visible through gaps in the greenery, turquoise waves glinting in the sun, and the occasional path lined with tropical flowers.
Finally, the buggy slowed and stopped at your villa, set alone on its own stretch of white sand. Michael stepped out first, gesturing with a flourish toward the villa. “Here we are. Enjoy everything — it’s all yours.”
Joe helped you down, arm wrapped lightly around your waist, and as the sliding doors opened, sunlight flooded the villa’s light wooden floors and open-plan interior. Low couches faced expansive glass walls that offered an uninterrupted view of the beach and ocean beyond. A dining nook for two sat quietly off to the side, and a modern, fully stocked kitchenette gleamed in the corner — though you both knew it would remain untouched, the attentive resort staff ready to cater to your every whim.
Joe’s eyes never left you, filming snippets on his phone as you wandered through the villa like he was documenting a tour. You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips, your attention swept by every detail: the king-sized bed draped in crisp linens, floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a private deck, and the soft white sand stretching out to meet the turquoise water.
You explored every corner — the outdoor shower tucked discreetly in its own enclosure, the hammock strung between posts perfect for sunny naps, and the ladder leading gently into the shallow water for an easy swim. Each discovery made you gasp quietly, and Joe followed along, filming intermittently, nudging you to look here and there, his grin wide and uncontainable.
Finally, he lowered his phone and joined you on the deck, standing behind you and letting his arms wrap around your waist. “This place is unreal,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, as the waves lapped gently at the shore. You leaned back into him, brushing your hands along the wooden railing, the soft wind carrying the scent of the ocean and blossoms.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke — just stood there, taking it all in, letting the warmth and quiet of the island sink into your bones. Eventually, though, the exhaustion of travel and the lure of the cool, linen-draped bed pulled you both back inside.
Soon enough, you found yourself sprawled across the king-sized mattress, flicking lazily through the TV channels, curiosity outweighing any real intent to watch. Everything felt so still, so peaceful — the faint crash of waves outside, the hum of the ceiling fan above, and Joe beside you, sitting cross-legged and thumbing through the glossy resort brochure like it was a playbook.
He was muttering to himself under his breath, reading about excursions, spa packages, and private dinners on the sand. You caught glimpses of his focus between channel changes — brow furrowed, lips pursed, as though he was planning your entire week before you’d even unpacked.
“You realise we’ve been here for like… twenty minutes, right?” you teased, smiling without looking away from the screen.
“Yeah,” he said, flipping the page. “Just want to get the lay of the land.” His voice was teasing, but the smirk that followed made it clear he meant it — he loved knowing the details, loved being the one who had things figured out before you even asked.
Silence settled between you for a moment, the kind of easy quiet that only came when you were both too comfortable to fill it. Then your stomach betrayed you, grumbling loudly enough for Joe to glance over, eyebrow raised in amusement.
You hadn’t eaten much since landing — just a handful of snacks on the plane and a shared granola bar before the boat ride. The thought of real food sounded heavenly.
“There’s a restaurant nearby,” Joe said, scanning the brochure again. “Buffet style — and it’s complimentary with our package. Says here they’ve got Mediterranean dishes tonight.”
You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Mediterranean, huh? That's one way to my heart.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and teasing. “Also…” He paused, flipping the brochure around. “…I booked us a private candlelit dinner tonight. Figured it would be… interesting. You know, with it being our first night and all.”
He shrugged casually, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, but you could see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his ears tinted pink, that he actually cared.
“That sounds really exciting, Joe,” you said softly, reaching over to brush your fingers against his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
He glanced at you, eyes warm and a little sheepish, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I just wanted tonight to be special,” he murmured, and you could tell the casual tone was hiding how much he actually put thought into it.
With a soft exhale, you stretched, rolling off the bed and heading toward the vanity. You were already dressed — a light sundress that had survived the flight better than expected — but your hair was another story. You brushed it out, fingers working through the tangles, then smoothed some leave-in cream through the ends until it looked effortlessly put-together.
You walked out of the bathroom, still running your fingers through your freshly brushed hair, and found Joe standing by the window, bathed in the golden afternoon light. He’d swapped his travel clothes for something lighter — a crisp linen shirt and tailored shorts — the kind of effortless look that made him seem like he belonged here, sun-kissed and relaxed.
He was fiddling with a pair of cufflinks, brows knit together in mild concentration, and for a moment you just stood there, watching him. The light caught in his hair, the sea breeze drifting faintly through the open doors, and you couldn’t help the small smile that curved your lips.
“Here,” you said softly, crossing the room. “Let me.”
He glanced down at you, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and let you take over. Your fingers brushed against his wrist as you secured the silver cufflinks, the quiet intimacy of the gesture settling between you. When you finally looked up, your eyes met his — warm, easy, full of that quiet affection that didn’t need words.
“Perfect,” you murmured, smoothing his sleeve.
“Think so?” he teased lightly, voice low, but his gaze lingered a little longer than usual.
“I know so,” you said, voice soft but certain, the corner of your mouth lifting into a knowing smile.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air felt thick with sunlight and salt, the quiet rhythm of the waves rolling in through the open doors. Then Joe leaned in, closing the distance with a slow, unhurried kiss — gentle but grounding, the kind that made time stretch for just a second longer than it should.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “Come on,” he murmured, reaching for your hand.
You slipped your fingers into his and followed him out through the open doors. The early afternoon light poured across the deck, the path toward the restaurant wound lazily through palms and white sand.
When you reached the restaurant, its sheer size surprised you — a sprawling, open-concept space shaded by thatched roofing and surrounded by glass walls that let the sunlight spill in.
The moment you stepped inside, a wave of cool air-conditioning hit you square in the face, a welcome contrast to the humid warmth outside. You let out a soft sigh of relief, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead as Joe chuckled quietly beside you.
It was lively but relaxed — the low buzz of conversation mingling with the soft instrumental music playing overhead.
The buffet stretched along the back wall — colorful, inviting, and clearly curated with care. Guests moved leisurely between the stations, plates in hand, the faint aroma of roasted herbs and lemon filling the space.
Joe looked around, impressed. “Guess they weren’t exaggerating,” he muttered, resting a hand lightly at the small of your back as he guided you toward the nearest counter.
You followed him, glancing around in awe as you walked. The chefs behind the stations smiled and nodded at passing guests, their movements precise and practiced, flames flickering under sizzling pans. The sight — and smell — of fresh herbs, grilled seafood, and roasting meats made your stomach grumble again, a little louder this time, and you laughed, feeling completely at ease.
Joe handed you a plate as you approached the buffet, his own plate already half-filled with a careful selection of dishes. You piled a little of everything — roasted vegetables, marinated olives, and a small portion of grilled fish — before moving to the side to let others pass.
You followed him to the table, and as soon as you reached it, Joe moved his chair so he was sitting beside you instead of across. Just that small adjustment made you soften instantly — the brush of his shoulder against yours, his hand resting lightly on your thigh, the quiet reassurance in that casual, intimate gesture.
You took a bite, the flavors fresh and vibrant, and leaned slightly against Joe as he sampled his own plate. He watched your reactions carefully, eyes soft, lips twitching in a quiet smile every time you nodded or hummed appreciatively.
“Not bad, huh?” he asked, watching you take another bite.
“Seriously, this is amazing,” you replied, savoring the flavors. You reached for his hand across the table, fingers intertwining easily. “I could get used to this.”
Joe chuckled, leaning closer. “Me too,” he replied, his eyes scanning the horizon outside the glass walls, then back to you. “Starting our honeymoon the right way.”
You leaned back in your chair, taking another bite and letting the flavors settle. Joe’s plate was nearly empty in no time, and he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Think I’m going for round two,” he said, patting his stomach lightly.
“Okay,” you replied, smirking as he stood and left, letting you focus on your own plate. You savored each bite, trying not to rush, but eventually finished, wiping your mouth with a napkin. He still hadn’t returned. Furrowing your brows, a small frown tugging at your lips, you decided to get up — a second helping might not hurt, anyway.
You made your way to the dessert section, eyes scanning the sweet spread, when you spotted him a little further down near the noodle bar. He was deep in conversation with another man, roughly his age, gesturing animatedly with one hand while the other rested casually on the counter. His face was engaged, smiling, nodding, the kind of charisma that made him immediately likable. You rolled your eyes, not the least bit surprised — Joe had always been the kind of person who made friends in ten seconds flat.
Deciding not to interrupt, you grabbed a few small desserts — a slice of fruit tart, a scoop of gelato, and a chocolate mousse — before heading back to the table. Joe eventually returned, balancing a new plate of food, eyes lighting up when he saw you.
“So,” you said with a teasing tone, sliding the desserts toward him, “made a new friend, huh?”
Joe settled back into his chair, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks as he replied, “We were… talking about the range of foods at the buffet, and somehow it spiraled into sports.” He shrugged, a little sheepish, and you just raised an eyebrow, silently accepting the explanation.
How two grown men went from roasted vegetables to octagon fights and basketball games in ten minutes was beyond you. Regardless, you listened quietly to the occasional snippet of his retelling, smiling at the way he animatedly recounted the conversation.
Eventually, both of you were completely stuffed, plates cleared, and you made your way back to the villa. At one point, you took a wrong turn somewhere among the winding paths and tropical foliage, laughing as Joe tried to navigate with the map from the brochure. After a few moments of mild panic and lots of teasing from you, you two finally made it back, the villa rising into view like a promise of comfort.
You slipped off your sandals the moment you stepped inside, padding barefoot to the bedroom and hopping onto the king-sized bed. “I could go for a dip,” you said, sitting up and brushing damp strands of hair from your face.
Joe’s voice came from somewhere deep in the villa, muffled but warm. “Yeah, sure. I’ll join you in a sec.”
Smiling to yourself, you cracked open the suitcase your bridesmaids had packed and peeked inside, silently hoping it wasn’t another repeat of the skimpy duffel bag from the previous night. Thankfully, it was a treasure trove — light daywear, breezy dresses, and accessories scattered neatly.
You rifled through the fabrics and settled on a cute swimsuit, a cheetah print set dotted with delicate pink flowers.
Before stepping out, you made sure to carefully apply sunscreen, smoothing it over every exposed inch of skin — better safe than sorry under the fierce Bahamian sun. Deciding to keep your hair dry, you tied it up loosely with a pink flower clip, and kept a pair of sunglasses on.
The ocean could wait. Right now, it was just you, and the mini pool outside. Sliding open the doors, the warm afternoon sun hit your skin, the water sparkling invitingly.
You sank in, closing your eyes behind your sunglasses as the cool water embraced you, letting the soft sounds of the island — the breeze, distant waves, and faint rustle of palms — wash over you.
A thought crossed your mind as you floated lazily: where was Joe?
Just as the thought flickered across your mind, the sound of soft footsteps on the deck caught your attention. You opened one eye, and saw Joe emerging from the villa, shirt casually unbuttoned over his swim trunks, sunglasses perched on his nose, hair still slightly damp from a quick shower.
He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you in the pool, the sunlight glinting off the water and your skin, a small, appreciative smile tugging at his lips. “Mind if I join?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, though the way he looked at you made it clear he already had the answer in his head.
You laughed softly, floating a little closer. “I think I can make an exception,” you said, eyes narrowing playfully behind your sunglasses.
With that, he stepped closer to the edge, dipping a toe in first, testing the temperature before sliding into the pool beside you, the cool water lapping over his skin. He leaned back, letting the sun warm his face, and reached for your hand. Fingers intertwined easily, the simple touch grounding you both in the quiet bliss of the island afternoon.
“Finally,” you murmured, resting your head back against the edge of the pool, “I was starting to wonder where you ran off to.”
“I had to sort out a few things,” he said, grinning, then ducked his head under the water briefly before popping back up, shaking droplets from his hair. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.
The circular pool was cozy, barely wide enough to stretch out, which meant you were practically on top of each other, shoulders brushing, legs occasionally tangling in the shallow water. The intimacy of it made the warmth of the sun and the cool of the water feel even more electric.
You floated closer, tilting your head to watch him as he rested against the edge, sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Did you remember sunscreen?” you asked, voice light but tinged with mock concern. “You’re always burning up, and I don’t want to see lobster Joe on our honeymoon.”
He lifted a hand lazily, giving you a half-smirk. “Yes, Mum. I put it on.”
You roll your eyes at his attitude and reach up, going to ruffle his damp hair, fingers tangling playfully in the wet strands. Before you could finish, his hand shot out, catching your wrist with a gentle but firm grip.
“Hey,” he murmured, tugging you just a little closer until your bodies were practically pressed together, the cool water doing nothing to cool the warmth radiating between you. Your breath caught, eyes meeting his.
You felt that familiar heat pooling low in your stomach, a slow burn you’d been mostly ignoring.
You had never had sex in a pool before, and the idea of it sent an unexpected thrill shooting through you. This trip was all about exploring, and breaking away from the ordinary… and right now, you could feel yourself teetering deliciously on the edge of the new and the forbidden.
The last few weeks had been a blur — the wedding night had been a quiet, restful affair by choice, both of you prioritising sleep over celebration. But now… now there was nothing in the way.
Just you and him.
The thought lingered for only a heartbeat before your desire took over. You leaned forward, lips meeting his in a soft, deliberate kiss.
The kiss deepened almost instinctively, urgent but tender, a slow pull that made your knees bend without thought. Joe’s hands moved beneath you, guiding you gently so you were straddling him, the curve of his body fitting perfectly beneath yours. The water splashed slightly around you, droplets catching the sunlight as your lips stayed locked, his thumbs brushing along your sides in a touch that was both grounding and electrifying.
Your hands threaded into his damp hair, tugging lightly as he leaned into you, lips parting slightly in a shared rhythm.
You pulled back just long enough to let your lips trail down his jawline, brushing over the sensitive skin of his neck. Joe made a low, distracted sound, his hands still resting idly at his sides, and you let out a soft, exasperated sigh.
Frustration mingled with desire, and without thinking, you grabbed his hands, guiding them firmly to your breasts. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and you gave him a pointed look before leaning in again, lips pressing hard against the hollow of his neck.
Joe’s breath hitched softly, a low groan escaping him as your lips continued their exploration down his neck. His hands, now resting on your breasts, were tentative at first, then firmer, as if testing the boundaries — or perhaps matching the heat building between you.
You pressed closer, letting the water lap gently around your hips, tilting your head slightly so your lips could find the sensitive spot just below his ear. His fingers tightened slightly.
You pulled back a little, lips hovering near his jaw, and finally met his eyes. Your own were dark with desire, pupils dilated, chest rising and falling unevenly from the heat of the moment. But instead of the usual intensity you expected from him, you caught something else — a hesitant, almost sheepish look in Joe’s eyes.
Your brow furrowed. Something wasn’t right. His hands, which had been so sure moments ago, now drifted awkwardly to his sides, fingers brushing the surface of the water rather than the curve of your body.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice low but firm, searching his face for answers.
He swallowed, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. You could see it in the way he avoided your gaze for a fraction of a second, the slight tension in his jaw, the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders. It was subtle, but enough for you to know that this wasn’t just shyness or teasing. Something was holding him back.
You kept your tone gentle but insistent. “Joe… talk to me. You’re not… you’re not matching me right now. What’s going on?”
Joe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair as he shifted in the pool, eyes serious in a way that immediately made you tense. “Promise me you won’t be mad,” he said, voice low and hesitant.
You blinked, caught off guard by the unusual weight in his tone. Something was different — this wasn’t his usual playful mischief. “Joe…” you began, your voice softening, “I could never be mad at you.” You reached a hand toward him, though he didn’t move closer, and his expression flickered with guilt.
He hesitated, then finally admitted, “I… I signed us up for a dolphin cruise.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “A dolphin cruise?” you echoed, a mix of surprise and confusion creeping in. “Okay? What does that have to do with what we're doing right now?"
His eyes flickered nervously, and he mumbled, “Because… it’s today. In… an hour.”
Your stomach sank, jaw tightening as the reality of the situation hit you. You felt the sudden weight of disappointment, frustration prickling at your nerves. Slowly, you unstraddled him, face tightening into a grimace. You had thought you’d spent the first day of your honeymoon together, completely unplanned, utterly lazy by the pool — just existing, savoring the quiet intimacy of being alone. Now that plan was suddenly ripped away.
“Joe,” you said, voice firm but controlled, “why didn’t you think to ask me before signing us up for something?”
His words tumbled out quickly, almost defensively, as though trying to justify himself. “Benjamin said today was the only day this week they were doing it, and I really wanted to see the dolphins. It… it would look good on your Instagram…” He trailed off, weakly.
“Who the hell is Benjamin?”
“Uh… the guy I met at the restaurant,” Joe said sheepishly, realizing how it sounded.
You groaned, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt, feeling a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. Cockblocked on my own honeymoon? you thought bitterly, shaking your head as you waded toward the edge of the pool. The heat from frustration burned hotter than the Bahamian sun, and you needed space.
You hoisted yourself out with a huff, dripping onto the deck as you walked away from him. Joe remained in the water, watching you with an unsure look, letting out a resigned sigh.
“Where are you going?” he called after you.
“To get ready for the dolphin cruise,” you replied coolly, disappearing into the villa, leaving a very conflicted and slightly guilty Joe in your wake.
You weren’t mad about the idea of a dolphin cruise — in theory, spotting dolphins sounded like a fun, fleeting adventure. And yes, Joe was right: it would look great on Instagram. But that wasn’t the point. The problem wasn’t the activity itself; it was the way the day had been abruptly taken from you, from the slow, lazy start you had imagined, the quiet moments you thought you had both been craving after weeks of wedding chaos.
With a sigh, you pulled open your wardrobe, scanning through your options. Normally, you would have gone for a light, flowing dress — something pretty and breezy, perfect for the afternoon sun — but practicality won out.
You settled on a white two-piece set: wide-legged pants paired with a top tied together with a thin string. Comfortable enough for movement, light enough for the heat, but still polished.
You slipped on your everyday sneakers, closed-toe for safety on the dock and boat, then added the finishing touches. A wide-brimmed hat shielded your face from the sun, your favorite Versace sunglasses perched just right, and a small, structured handbag completed the ensemble. A quick spritz of sunscreen across your arms and neck ensured you wouldn’t burn before you even set foot outside.
Throughout the getting-ready process, the two of you hadn’t spoken much. Joe hovered nearby, asking a few practical questions — “Do you want me to grab the tickets?” or “Do you want a water bottle?” — and you responded in short, clipped answers, tense and tight. Your movements were deliberate, almost rehearsed, and you could feel the weight of unspoken frustration settling in the air between you.
Joe’s usually easy, teasing presence felt restrained, his brows furrowed slightly as he watched you move with a careful precision. You noticed the way he shifted from foot to foot, hesitating before speaking, trying to gauge your mood. And though you didn’t say anything, every glance exchanged carried more meaning than words could capture.
Finally, with your outfit complete, the two of you were ready to leave, the silence only broken by the soft swish of the sliding doors as you stepped out toward the dock where the cruise would be waiting for them.
The walk down to the dock was quiet, the early afternoon sun warming your shoulders and the soft breeze tugging at the edges of your hat.
Joe fell into step beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours as if testing the waters, but you pulled your hand away, letting out a soft huff as you picked up the pace. Joe glanced at you, eyebrows knit slightly, before falling in step again without comment.
When you reached the boat, it was modest but elegant — a sleek vessel designed for sightseeing, the kind that promised two hours of gentle cruising and dolphin spotting. The deck was open, letting in a steady breeze. From the outside, it looked serene, peaceful — almost meditative.
You boarded quietly, letting Joe take the lead while you scanned the space for a spot. The boat was sparsely populated, and after a quick glance, you found a quiet corner with an open view over the railing.
Joe followed behind, his footsteps soft against the deck, but he stopped just short of standing too close — leaving a small, deliberate space between you. His hands were shoved loosely in his pockets, his sunglasses reflecting the wide expanse of blue ahead.
You rested your elbows against the railing, the metal warm beneath your skin, and gazed out at the water. The breeze lifted strands of your hair, carrying with it the scent of salt and sunscreen.
You took a deep breath, letting the scent of saltwater fill your lungs, and for the first time since the morning’s tension, you felt a small spark of calm.
Joe looked like he was about to say something — his lips parted, his posture shifting like he was finally going to bridge the small, tense gap between you. But before a single word could leave his mouth, a too-familiar voice called out from behind.
“Joe! Hey, man!” You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose as Joe turned around. Of course. Benjamin.
He appeared with that same easy grin he’d had at the restaurant, wearing a loud tropical shirt that only made him more noticeable. He clapped Joe on the shoulder, launching straight into conversation before either of you could respond.
Joe shot you a fleeting glance, conflicted, clearly torn between staying with you and not wanting to appear rude.
You clenched your jaw and made the decision for him. “I’ll give you guys a minute,” you said quietly, your tone polite but clipped. He started to protest, but you were already moving, slipping away before he could finish.
Inside, the cruise’s cabin was cool and softly humming with the sound of the engine. You found a cushy seat near the large glass windows and sank into it, pulling your hat a little lower as you stared out at the view — or, more specifically, at Joe and Benjamin, still deep in conversation on the deck. Their laughter carried faintly through the glass, each grin and hand gesture making your irritation twist just a little tighter.
You weren’t exactly angry anymore — just… done. Sulking, maybe.
That’s when a voice interrupted your thoughts.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
You blinked and turned, caught off guard. Standing beside you was a woman — maybe mid-to-late twenties — with striking auburn eyes and hair that gleamed red-gold under the cabin light. Her expression was open, friendly, the kind of warmth that immediately softened your defenses.
“Uh, no,” you said, shaking your head. “Go ahead.”
She smiled and slipped into the seat beside you, smoothing her sundress as she sat. For a few quiet seconds, the two of you simply looked out the window together. Then she nodded toward the deck, her eyes following your gaze.
“That one’s yours, right?” she asked lightly, pointing with a knowing grin toward Joe, who was still chatting animatedly with Benjamin.
You hesitated for half a second before answering, trying not to smile. “Yeah,” you admitted, fighting the familiar warmth that crept up your chest whenever he was mentioned. “That’s mine.”
“Nice,” she said with a teasing little smile. Then she pointed again, this time toward Benjamin. “And that one’s mine.”
You blinked, head snapping toward her. “Wait — Benjamin?”
She laughed, nodding. “The one and only. I’m Iris.”
You couldn’t help the surprised laugh that escaped you. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was,” she joked good-naturedly, leaning back in her chair. “We’re on our delayed honeymoon. Got married months ago, but life had other plans. So here we are, finally making it happen.”
You smiled despite yourself, some of the tension in your shoulders easing. “That actually sounds… kind of perfect.”
“Kind of chaotic,” she corrected with a laugh, glancing toward the deck where the two men were still talking like old friends. “But, you know. I can’t complain.”
You smiled at that, the edge of your irritation softening as you leaned back in your seat. “I get that,” you said. “I feel like Joe and I barely managed to make this trip happen as it is.”
“Right? Between work and planning and everyone telling you what a honeymoon should be like…” Iris rolled her eyes dramatically, making you laugh. “Sometimes it’s just nice to… show up.”
Her energy was easy, grounding. The kind of person who felt like sunshine — genuine, a little chaotic, but impossible not to like. You found yourself talking more freely than you expected — about the island, the flight, the wedding, even the buffet from earlier.
Iris shared her own stories, full of little anecdotes about their ceremony back home and the travel mishaps that had delayed their original plans. Somewhere in between the laughter and shared commiseration, you almost forgot why you were sitting there in the first place.
Then — bang bang bang!
Both of you jumped at the sudden noise. You turned toward the window to see Benjamin outside, grinning and gesturing wildly toward the horizon. Through the glass, you could just make out the words he was mouthing: Dolphins!
You and Iris looked at each other for a beat — then, without another word, you both shot up and ran for the deck.
The air outside was sharp with sea spray, the sun glinting off the rolling waves. A small cluster of people leaned over the railing, cameras and phones already up. You and Iris squeezed in beside them, eyes scanning the water — and then you saw it.
A sleek gray body arced gracefully out of the ocean, droplets catching the light like diamonds before it disappeared beneath the surface again. Another followed, then another — a small pod, moving together in fluid, mesmerizing rhythm.
A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Oh my god, they’re right there!”
Joe was grinning beside you, phone in hand, his excitement infectious. “See? Told you it’d be worth it!”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile, leaning over the railing as another dolphin surfaced, close enough that you could see the glint of its smooth skin beneath the water. Iris was cheering beside you, her laughter mixing with the sound of waves and camera shutters clicking.
For a while, time felt suspended — just the gentle hum of the boat, the cries of seabirds overhead, the rhythmic splash of dolphins dancing through the sea. Someone handed out cool drinks, and you sipped yours with the wind tugging at your hair, sun glinting off your sunglasses. Joe caught your eye once, a quiet look passing between you — one that wasn’t quite an apology, but close.
You took plenty of photos, even a few with Iris, who insisted you’d “thank her later.” By the time the boat finally turned back toward shore, the sun had begun to dip, streaking the water in shades of gold and rose.
Back at the dock, everyone said their goodbyes. Benjamin clapped Joe on the shoulder one last time, promising to “catch up before they left the island,” while Iris hugged you, insisting you two had to grab drinks if your schedules lined up. You promised you would, genuinely meaning it.
Then, with the bustle of passengers filing off the boat fading behind you, the two of you began the quiet walk back to your villa. The sound of your footsteps mingled with the soft rush of waves, neither of you saying a word. The silence wasn’t angry anymore — just heavy, thoughtful, the kind that fills the air when there’s more to say than either person knows how to start.
The villa was quiet when you got back — the kind of quiet that came after a long day, the kind that wrapped around you like a soft blanket. The air smelled faintly of salt and hibiscus, and the horizon was painted in streaks of coral and gold as the sun began to dip.
You kicked off your shoes near the door, half expecting Joe to say something, but he only gave you a small, almost sheepish smile before disappearing into the kitchen. You lingered for a second, a strange warmth sitting low in your chest. You’d probably have Iris to thank for that — her easy laugh, her calm energy, the way she’d managed to make everything feel lighter somehow.
Maybe that was why you weren’t mad anymore. Or at least, not as much.
You drifted out onto the deck, sinking into one of the wooden chairs. The cushion was still warm from the day’s sun. The ocean stretched endlessly in front of you, the waves glowing with the last light of the evening. Somewhere inside, you could hear Joe moving around — the soft clink of a glass, the fridge door shutting — and for the first time today, the sound didn’t bother you.
You exhaled slowly, resting your chin on your knees. The thing was… you’d had a lot of time to think. And maybe, if you were honest, the whole reason you’d been so irritated wasn’t just because he’d signed you both up for the cruise without asking. Sure, he should’ve checked — it was your honeymoon too. But that wasn’t what sat in your chest like a weight.
It was the rejection. Twice.
Both times, you’d told yourself it wasn’t a big deal — that it was just bad timing, that you were reading too much into it. But the memory still clung stubbornly, like the faint sting of saltwater on your skin.
You’d heard your friends talk about their honeymoons — the laughter, the room service breakfasts, the nights that bled into mornings because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
You weren’t asking for much, not really. Just… closeness. Connection. Something that made the word honeymoon feel like what it was supposed to mean.
But Joe — sweet, careful, overthinking Joe — had pulled away both times. Not unkindly, not coldly. Just… hesitated. Said it wasn’t the right time, that he wanted things to feel right. He had his reasons.
And you’d told yourself it was fine, that maybe he was just nervous, or tired, or maybe it was all the pressure of it being perfect. But sitting there now, the breeze brushing over your skin, you couldn’t help but wonder — was he just not as worked up as you were? Did he not feel it the same way you did?
You didn’t want to be mad anymore — not here, not now. It was your honeymoon. The thought of wasting another moment sulking in silence felt ridiculous, even if your pride still ached a little.
You’d spent half the afternoon mulling over what went wrong, what you could’ve said differently, but at some point the exhaustion of overthinking had given way to something simpler — the quiet decision to just let it go.
When you finally stepped back inside, Joe was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling absently through his phone. His shoulders lifted when he noticed you in the doorway, his eyes flicking up with that same cautious look he always got when he wasn’t sure which version of you he’d be met with.
“I’m heading down to the beach,” you said, your tone calm but open, the smallest olive branch hidden between the words. “You wanna come?”
For a split second, he just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his face softened — the corner of his mouth twitching upward, relief flickering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You turned away before he could see the small, determined glint in your eyes. Because truth be told, you were done tiptoeing around whatever this tension was. You didn’t care what had been holding him back before — tonight, you were going to close that distance.
You’d have him.
In the bedroom, you stood before the mirror, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a golden sheen over your skin. You reached for the dress you’d packed “just in case” — pink, long, floral, with a daring slit and a neckline that dipped lower than most of your wardrobe. The top clasped together with a delicate golden butterfly, the kind of detail that made the whole thing feel softer, almost romantic.
Underneath, you wore your pink lingerie set — the one you knew drove him a little crazy.
You hadn’t planned to swim anyway; the beach just an excuse to get out. You’d just sit on the sand, maybe let the waves kiss your ankles, let him see you.
When you looked at your reflection one last time, a slow, knowing smile curved your lips. If tonight went the way you planned, this honeymoon might finally start to feel like one.
It was dark now — the kind of soft, velvet darkness that made everything feel closer. The stars had begun to dot the sky, countless and impossibly bright. You’d been sitting there for a while, legs folded neatly beneath you on top of the blanket, the fine grains of sand brushing your ankles with every shift.
You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, the fabric warm from your own body heat, and tried not to think about what came next. There was still the dinner reservation — that private, candlelit table set for two down by the shore. You’d pictured it earlier, imagined how romantic it might be, but now… you weren’t sure how you were supposed to sit across from Joe, make small talk, act composed, when every cell in your body was thrumming with want.
The need sat low in your stomach, hot and insistent, mingling with the tension that had been building all day. It wasn’t just about desire; it was about connection — the kind that had felt so out of reach lately. You wanted him close. You wanted to stop thinking and just feel again.
You were still lost in that thought when you heard footsteps crunch softly behind you. You didn’t turn right away — you knew it was him before he even said a word. Joe always moved like that, slow but certain, giving you space until you decided whether or not you wanted him to take it.
A moment later, he lowered himself onto the sand beside you. The blanket shifted as he sat down, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours before he leaned back on his palms. For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried weight — the kind that lingered in the air, thick with all the things left unsaid.
For a long moment, you just stared ahead, trying to decide whether to say what was clawing at the back of your throat.
“Do you secretly hate me or something?” you asked finally, eyes fixed on the shoreline.
Joe’s head snapped toward you, confusion creasing his brow. “What? No, of course not — I married you.”
“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” you muttered under your breath, your tone sharper than you intended.
He blinked, straightening slightly. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong with you?”
You turned to him then, eyes flashing. “What do you think is wrong with me, Joe? You’ve barely touched me since we got here. You keep pulling away or changing the subject or — I don’t know — booking dolphin cruises like we’re retirees in Florida!”
“Sweetheart—”
“No, don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me. We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon, Joe. Honeymoon. You know, the one where you can’t keep your hands off each other? The one I’ve heard all my friends talk about like it’s this week-long fever dream? I thought—” Your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, shaking your head. “I thought you wanted me as much as I want you.”
You didn’t realise how hard your heart was pounding until you felt the silence that followed, heavy and fragile. Joe didn’t say anything — not right away. Then, before you could draw another breath, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss caught you off guard, your words dying instantly against his mouth. You made a muffled sound, hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt. But after a second, you broke away, breath uneven. “Are you even listening to me, Joe?”
He didn’t answer — just kissed you again, deeper this time, like he’d been waiting all day for the chance. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw as he drew back just enough to meet your eyes.
“I heard you,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough. “And you’re right.”
“No, I don’t think you—Oh?” you started, only to stop when his lips brushed your throat, his words registering in your brain. "I’m right? You’re not gonna fight me on this one?”
He murmured against your skin, his breath warm, “Why would I fight you? You’re right. And I’m sorry.” His hand lingered on your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw as his lips pressed soft, lingering kisses along your neck.
He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, frowning again in that impossibly endearing way, and murmured, “I’m sorry… I really am. I never wanted to make you feel like I wasn’t here for you, or like your needs didn’t matter. I wanted to, I really did—but between the timing, the trip, everything that’s been going on, I… I messed up. There’s no excuse. I should have put you first, above everything else, and I didn’t. I know that, and I’m sorry.”
You froze for a moment, caught off guard by the raw honesty and weight in his words, your chest tightening. He leaned in closer, breath warm against your ear, fingers brushing lightly along your arm as if testing the waters. “Can I… show you how sorry I am?” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “Will you… let me do that?”
Before you could respond with words, his hand began trailing down slowly, deliberately, toward the place where you needed him most. Your breath hitched, and you found yourself nodding wordlessly, giving him permission without needing to speak.
Joe's fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of your sundress. The fabric bunches up as he explores, his fingertips brushing the lacy edge of your panties. He pauses, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You came prepared," he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement and heat.
You curse yourself inwardly, heat flooding your cheeks. Those earlier thoughts during your frustration, the ones where you imagined making him beg... now they're backfiring spectacularly.
Joe's thumb grazes the damp spot on the lace, and he notices the slickness seeping down your inner thigh, warm and telling. He laughs softly to himself, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Already so wet for me. Missed my fingers that much, huh?"
A whine escapes your lips, high and needy, your body betraying you as your hips shift toward his touch. “Couldn’t last a few days without going crazy, hm?” he coos, the words a low tease against your skin. He doesn't hesitate—hooks the crotch of your panties to the side with one finger, exposing your soaked pussy to the cooling evening air.
His eyes stay fixed on you, dark and intent, as he slides two fingers along your slit, coating them in your arousal before pushing inside. He pumps them slowly at first, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit with firm pressure. "That's my girl," he breathes, watching your face intently—how your lips part, eyes fluttering shut. Your head dips back against his shoulder, pleasure coiling tight in your core as he curls his fingers, hitting that sensitive ridge over and over.
The wet sounds of him fucking you with his hand mix with the waves, obscene and thrilling. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, but he leans in, nipping your earlobe. "Let me hear you. No one's gonna stop us."
The tension builds fast, your walls clenching around him as he speeds up, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread. Stars burst behind your eyelids when you cum, hard and shuddering, your pussy pulsing as juices coat his fingers and drip down. You gasp his name, body trembling in the aftermath.
Joe pulls his hand free slowly, holding up his glistening fingers in front of your face. They're shiny with your release, and he smirks, pressing them to your lips. "Lick them clean, baby. I want you to taste how much you needed this."
You obey, tongue darting out to swirl around each digit, sucking the tangy flavor of yourself off him while he watches, his cock straining against his trunks. Joe's groan lingers in the air, low and hungry, but he reins himself in, his eyes locking onto yours with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. He ignores the bulge pressing against his trunks, shifting to cup your face instead, drawing you into a deep kiss.
His lips move against yours slowly, tongue slipping in to taste you, as he guides you down onto the blanket. The soft sand shifts beneath it, cradling your back as you lie flat, the night sky sprawling above like a dark velvet canopy dotted with stars.
His hands roam to the hem of your sundress, pushing it up inch by inch until it's bunched around your waist, exposing your lower half completely. The cool air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps along your thighs and making your exposed pussy tingle from the recent orgasm. Your panties are still hooked to the side, slick and displaced, leaving you bare and vulnerable under the open sky.
That's when it hits you: the beach stretches out endlessly in the moonlight, waves crashing rhythmically in the distance, and though it's night, the path nearby feels too close, too real. Anyone could wander by, catch the glint of your skin, hear the sounds you're making. You've never done anything like this before, never felt so raw and open in a place where the world could intrude.
Panic flickers in your chest, and you pull away from the kiss, breath ragged. "Joe... people are going to see us," you whisper, voice trembling with a mix of fear and thrill, your hands instinctively tugging at the dress to cover yourself.
Joe pauses, a soft chuckle escaping him, his expression amused but tender as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. He leans in close, lips grazing your forehead. "Relax, baby. Benjamin said no one can come on this strip of beach at night—it's private for us. I covered all my bases." His words wrap around you like a shield, easing the knot of anxiety, though the risk still hums in your veins, sharpening every sensation. "Think I'd let anyone see you like this?"
You shook your head, melting back into him as your lips meet again, the kiss turning heated. He breaks away first, trailing kisses down your jaw, your collarbone, nipping lightly at the skin above your bra. Your hands find his, guiding them up to the lacy pink cups that hug your breasts, the delicate fabric sheer enough to hint at your hardened nipples beneath.
Joe's breath catches as he takes in the sight, his fingers tracing the intricate lace patterns with reverence. "God, you look incredible," he murmurs, voice thick with admiration.
He's seeing you in full display now—the lingerie you'd chosen just for him, hoping to spark something during this honeymoon.
Gently, he reaches behind you, unhooking the clasp with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your shoulders. The bra falls away, leaving your breasts free to the breeze, nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air. His gaze lingers, dark and appreciative, drinking in every curve, every inch of you laid bare. In that moment, under his look—soft yet possessive—you feel the most exposed, stripped not just of clothes but of defenses, your heart pounding with a vulnerability that borders on intoxicating.
He lowers his head, capturing one breast fully in his mouth, tongue swirling around the nipple as he sucks gently, drawing a gasp from your lips. His hand kneads the other, thumb rolling the peak between his fingers, pinching just enough to send sparks straight to your core. He lavishes attention on both, switching sides with slow, deliberate licks and bites that make your back arch off the blanket. The sensations build layer by layer—warm suction pulling at your skin, the faint scrape of his teeth, the way his free hand strokes your side soothingly. Pleasure coils tighter inside you, your frustration from days without him morphing into desperate need.
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back as you grind against him. “Joe… please," you beg, voice breaking. "I just want you inside me. I need it—need you filling me up."
He lifts his head, eyes gleaming with restraint, though you see the impatience flickering there, his cock twitching against your thigh. "Patience, baby," he says, voice husky but firm. "I said I'd take my time with you, and I meant it. Tonight's about you, okay? Let me make it right."
His words send a shiver through you, equal parts soothing and teasing, as he hooks his fingers into your panties, tugging them down your legs. But he doesn't remove them fully—leaves them tangled halfway around your thighs, the lace framing your hips in a way that makes him groan appreciatively. "Fuck, that looks so good on you," he mutters, his own impatience showing in the way his hands tremble slightly.
Before you can protest, he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs wider. His mouth descends, tongue flicking out to lap at your folds, tasting the remnants of your earlier release mixed with fresh arousal.
He eats you out with focused intensity—lips sealing around your clit, sucking lightly while his tongue delves inside, thrusting in shallow strokes. The wet heat of his mouth contrasts with the breeze whispering over your skin, heightening every lick, every swirl.
Your hand flies to his hair, fingers gripping the strands tightly as your head tilts back against the blanket, stars blurring above.
The public edge—the open beach, the distant crash of waves—had unnerved you at first, a knot of fear in your gut. But now, it twists into something electric, arousing you deeper. Being so free here, exposed yet claimed by him, makes your body sing. Moans spill from your lips unfiltered, the risk fueling the fire as his tongue circles your entrance, then flicks up to your clit again, building you toward another peak.
But it's not enough—you crave more than his mouth. You want him inside you, his weight pressing you down, forehead against your shoulder as he thrusts deep, his face close so you can see every expression, feel every breath.
With your hand still in his hair, you tug him up, pulling his head back to meet your gaze. His lips glisten with you, eyes hazy with desire, and the sight makes your pussy clench emptily. You draw him toward you, crashing your mouth against his in a desperate kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, bodies aligning in urgent closeness.
He responds with a growl, kissing back fiercely, but pulls away just enough to speak, breath hot against your lips. "I'm not finished yet—"
"I don't care anymore," you cut him off, voice raw and pleading, hips bucking up to rub against his hardness. "I want you inside me. I've been patient—too patient. Fuck me, Joe. Now."
Joe's eyes darken at your words, a feral gleam flashing through them. He doesn't waste a second—shifts his weight, yanking down his trunks just enough to free his thick cock, already hard and throbbing, the tip leaking pre-cum under the moonlight. “There she is,” he muses, tone smug like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
He grips your thigh, hitching it higher over his hip, and lines up his cock with your entrance. The head nudges against your slick folds, teasing for just a heartbeat before he thrusts in—deep and unrelenting, stretching you wide in one smooth stroke. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, the burn of the fullness mixing with the cool night breeze on your exposed skin.
Joe's groan vibrates against your neck as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you adjust, his breath hot and ragged.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he breathes, vulnerability threading his tone. "I hate that I left you waiting like this. Never again—promise you that much." He starts to move—slow at first, pulling out halfway before slamming back in, the rhythm building as your bodies slap together softly over the sand-muffled blanket.
Each thrust sends jolts of pleasure spiking through you, your pussy gripping him like a vice, walls fluttering around his length. You arch up, meeting him thrust for thrust, all your worries fading into the background as the stars blur above. His hand palms your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple until it's peaked and aching.
The pace quickens, Joe's hips snapping harder, cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. Sweat beads on his skin, mixing with the salt air, as he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongues tangling while he fucks you deeper. Your moans spill out, muffled against his lips, body coiling tighter with every plunge.
He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, whispering filthy praises— "Take it all, baby, just like that" —his free hand dropping to where you're joined, thumb circling your clit in firm strokes that have you trembling.
He shifts, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to angle deeper, pounding into you with thrusts that jolt your whole body. The pressure builds again, coiling tight in your belly, and you clench around him, drawing a guttural groan from his throat. "Cum with me," he urges, pinching your clit just right, and it shatters you—waves of ecstasy crashing over you, pussy spasming as you cry out his name, soaking his cock with your cum.
Joe follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths until it leaks out around him.
He collapses gently onto you, both of you panting, bodies slick and spent. Gently, he pulls out, a trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy onto the blanket, and tucks you against his chest, pressing a tender kiss to your swollen lips. "I love you," he whispers, eyes shining with apology and adoration. "And I'm going to keep showing you—every night of this honeymoon and beyond.”
You stayed like that for a long while, tangled together on the soft blanket, hearts still racing, fingers brushing absentmindedly over one another. The waves lapped gently at the shore, the sun having fully set, leaving only stars and the soft glow of lanterns from nearby villas. Words weren’t needed—just the warmth of each other, the quiet rhythm of breathing in sync, and the lingering heat of skin against skin.
Eventually, necessity tugged at the edges of your comfort. You shifted slightly, letting out a small groan. “I… need to pee,” you admitted reluctantly, not wanting to leave the cocoon of closeness.
Joe was instantly upright, hand reaching for yours. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, fingers interlacing with yours, grounding you as you rose. You stood together, shoulders brushing, laughing softly at how careful he was being, guiding you back across the sand and up the small path toward the villa.
Safe to say, the two of you did not make it to your dinner reservation.
authors note: i don't know how i feel about this it is pretty long 😭 also my nursing placement has begun so updates are going to be less frequent but i’ll try to catch up on the lovely requests i’ve received in my spare time <3
Summary: You and Quinn do the We Listen and We Don't Judge challenge.
WC: 453
Author's Note: Tbh we're not really on tiktok, but we thought this was a cute idea!! This is my first ever fic/blurb/piece of fanfiction so I would love to hear any feedback :-) Enjoy! - 🐇
You set the camera up on the kitchen counter, swiping under your eyes before backing up to Quinn.
“Ok! Are we ready?” You say, clapping your hands together. Quinn nods, arms slung around you and an indulgent smile on his face.
“This is the weird habits thing from TikTok, right?”
You nod, laughing, as you lean forward and press play.
“We listen and we don’t judge!” You say as you spread your hands theatrically, Quinn only jumping in halfway through the sentence.
You side eye the man next to you, leaning in close to the camera, “Sometimes,” a conspiratorial whisper, “I cheer for the Bruins when you aren’t home.”
Quinn drops his arms from around you, and turns towards you wide eyed, “Babe, that’s practically treason… they’ll kill you…” you laugh and shove him lightly, a finger in front of your mouth to mime secrecy.
“Ok your turn!” you push him forward.
“We listen and we don’t judge!” said together.
He chuckles, rubbing his neck, “Sometimes I use your face towel as a hand towel” You whirl towards him in shock, hitting his arm with the back of your hand.
“Quinn! I have acne because of you!” He dodges your playful hits, laughing at your mock outraged face.
Through giggles you spit out, “Sometimes I dog-ear our book pages because you lost all of our cute bookmarks.”
“Oh my god, babe, find a receipt or some shit. They don’t have to be cute” Quinn puts his head in his hands, heaving out a dramatic sigh. You laugh, tugging his hands away from his face as he thinks of his next one.
“One time I put your favorite bra in the dryer and it got ruined and instead of telling you I just bought a new one”
You gasp, actually floored. “You told me that I had probably just missed that tag! I can’t believe you!”
Faking indignation you turn away from him and say, “Sometimes I don’t wash our fruit before we eat it”
“You’re going to actually give us brain worms. Oh my god, babe… we could have brain worms right now.” He says hand over his mouth, your laughter ringing out across the kitchen.
Quinn wraps his arms around you, holding you close, “Sometimes when you aren’t here, I don’t use coasters.” You gasp, turning in his hold. He laughs as you begin gesticulating wildly,
“Quinn, that is so bad for the wood!” You begin lecturing him, saying that his apartment is much too nice for moisture rings to be on his nice wooden coffee table. He buries his face in your neck, smothering his laughter so he can listen attentively to your voice.
Hey I had an idea for Jack hughes x reader, where it’s the morning before their wedding and Jack can’t tie his tie so he ask for reader to come and tie it, and he puts on a blind fold so that he can’t see her dress, and the whole time he begs to have a quick look and she keeps on telling him no, and when she is about to leave he asks her to fix his hair (just so he can spend more time with her). I feel like Jack would just want to put his hands on readers waist or hips but she would tell him no cause he would be able to feel the dress, he would just pout! Thank you!
I love this idea!!!🥹 thank you for requesting🫶🏻
Blindfolded Promises JH86
Summary: On the morning of their wedding, Jack Hughes blindfolds himself so his bride-to-be can fix his tie without him seeing her dress, leading to playful teasing, heartfelt confessions, and a tender reminder that patience makes love even sweeter.
Word Count: 2.6k
Requests: OPEN
Main Masterlist NJD Masterlist
The morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, soft and golden, the kind of glow that made everything feel too perfect to be real. My stomach hadn’t stopped fluttering since I woke up. Today. Our wedding day. I should’ve been sitting with my bridesmaids, sipping coffee, maybe doing last-minute touch-ups. Instead, my phone buzzed with the name I knew by heart.
Jack.
I almost didn’t answer. Tradition said I wasn’t supposed to see him before the ceremony. But the thought of his voice—probably frantic and messy—made me smile. So I picked up.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Baby,” Jack groaned, sounding exactly as I imagined, half desperate, half dramatic. “I need you.”
I laughed. “You’re not supposed to say that today. It ruins the suspense.”
“No, like, I actually need you. I can’t do it.”
I sat straighter in the chair, curiosity piqued, panic beginning to brew. “Do what?”
A pause. Then, very softly: “My tie.”
I stifled another laugh. “Jack Hughes, are you seriously calling me the morning of our wedding because you can’t tie a tie?”
“I’ve been trying for twenty minutes,” he admitted, voice dropping into that hushed, boyish tone he used when he was embarrassed. “It looks like a noose. Luke tried to help, but he’s useless, and Quinn laughed so hard I kicked him out. Please, come fix it. Please.”
The rules screamed at me: No. Not until the aisle. But I could picture him standing in front of the mirror, hair sticking up, tie a disaster, pacing like a caged tiger. And the truth was, I missed him already.
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. “But if I ruin the surprise of you seeing me, that’s on you.”
“I’ll wear a blindfold!” he said quickly, too quickly. “Problem solved. You can tie it, and I won’t peek. I swear.”
“Jack—”
“I swear on hockey. On my career. On—on never eating pizza again if I break it.”
I snorted. “That’s the worst fake oath I’ve ever heard.”
“Come on, baby. Please. I just… I want you here.”
That last line hit differently. Less dramatic, more raw. My chest tightened.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m coming.”
The suite next door smelled faintly of cologne and coffee, and when I knocked, the door practically swung off its hinges. Jack stood there in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie dangling in hopeless loops around his neck. His hair was sticking up at least three different directions, and he looked… nervous. Not just about the tie.
“You look—” I stopped myself before I could gush. He grinned sheepishly, and my heart twisted.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “Not before the blindfold.”
He held it up, a thick black sleep mask, the kind I knew he stole from some team flight. He slid it over his eyes dramatically and held out his hands like a lost man.
“Guide me,” he joked.
I shook my head, grinning despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” he countered, smile wide even beneath the blindfold. “Now, help me. Save me from choking myself with silk.”
I moved closer, fingers brushing the fabric of his tie. He stiffened, like the smallest contact made his heart race. Mine too, if I was being honest. I started looping the ends, tugging gently to shape the knot.
He tilted his head toward me. “So… how do you look?”
“Nope,” I said immediately.
“Come on.” His voice was teasing, but underneath it was genuine yearning. “Just a hint. Are you in lace? Satin? Is it one of those big poofy things, or—”
“Jack Hughes, if you think I’m going to describe my wedding dress to you, you’re insane.”
“Then let me feel it.” His hands twitched at his sides. “Just—just your waist, or your hips. One second. Please?”
I smacked his chest lightly. “Absolutely not. You’ll know what it feels like. That’s basically the same as seeing it.”
He pouted, lips pushing forward, even though I couldn’t see his eyes under the mask. “You’re so mean to me.”
“Mean?” I raised a brow, tugging the tie into place. “You begged me to come here. You blindfolded yourself. You’re lucky I don’t tie this in a bow just to mess with you.”
He grinned, and I could tell by the way his shoulders relaxed that he was loving this. Loving us.
When I tightened the knot neatly at his throat, I stepped back. “There. Done.”
His hands went to the tie, fingers tracing it. “Feels right,” he said softly. “Feels like you.”
That made my breath hitch. I almost leaned in, almost kissed him, but I stopped myself.
“You’ve got what you wanted. Now I’m leaving before you get any more ideas.”
I turned, but his voice stopped me. “Wait.”
I glanced back. He was still blindfolded, lips curved in a sly smile. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“My hair.” He tilted his head toward me, messy strands falling in every direction. “It’s a disaster. You can’t let me walk down the aisle looking like a caveman. Fix it?”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart melted. “You just want to keep me here longer.”
“Obviously.” He grinned shamelessly. “Come on, baby. Please.”
I walked back, combing my fingers gently through his hair. He sighed, almost leaning into my touch, like a puppy finally settling down.
“This okay?” I murmured.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “Everything’s perfect when it’s you.”
My chest squeezed again, harder this time. I forced myself to step back before the moment swallowed us whole.
“All right. Now I really have to go.”
“Can I hug you?” he asked quickly. “Just—without touching the dress?”
“Jack—”
He stuck his bottom lip out in a full pout. “I’ll keep my arms above the waist. Scout’s honor.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Fine. One hug. Don’t you dare cheat.”
He wrapped his arms around me carefully, hands pressed to my shoulders, but his whole body relaxed against mine. For a second, we just breathed together. Then, reluctantly, I pulled away.
“No peeking,” I warned, heading for the door.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, but I heard the smile in his voice. “See you at the altar, baby.”
And as I walked back to my suite, heart racing, I realized: this day was already perfect.
--
Jack was still standing there, blindfold on, when I slipped back into the room a few minutes later. I hadn’t planned on returning so soon, but something about the way his voice cracked on “see you at the altar” lingered in me.
He turned his head immediately, like he felt me before he heard me.
“Back already?” His grin spread slow, smug. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.”
I scoffed, shutting the door behind me. “I forgot my lipstick. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckled, tilting his head toward my voice. “Sure, sure. You just happened to forget it in my suite.”
I rolled my eyes, though I knew he couldn’t see it. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible not to love,” he countered, standing taller, shoulders straight. Even blindfolded, he radiated boyish confidence. “Admit it—you like being here with me.”
My lips twitched into a smile I didn’t want to give him. “Maybe.”
He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like I’d wounded him. “Maybe? On our wedding day? You’re cruel.”
I laughed, unable to help it. His dramatics were ridiculous, but beneath them, there was something else—something trembling at the edges.
Stepping closer, I adjusted his tie again, even though it was perfectly fine. His breath caught, just for a moment.
“You’re really nervous, aren’t you?” I asked softly.
He hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: “Only about one thing.”
My hand stilled on his chest. “What?”
“That you’ll walk down the aisle, look at me, and think…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “That you’ll think I’m not enough.”
My heart lurched. “Jack.”
“I know, I know,” he rushed out. “It’s stupid. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t love me. But—God, sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe I get to marry you. Feels like I cheated the system or something.”
The knot in my throat grew too thick to speak around, so instead I cupped his face, careful not to shift the blindfold. His skin warmed instantly under my palms.
“You’re more than enough,” I said firmly. “You’re everything.”
For a moment, he was quiet. Then his hands lifted, hesitating in the air before settling gently on my arms—safe, above the dress. His fingers squeezed, tentative but full of need.
“You have no idea how bad I want to kiss you right now,” he murmured.
“You’ll get your chance,” I teased, though my own lips ached with the same want. “Patience.”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Patience is overrated.”
I laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “Says the guy who begged me to fix his tie because he couldn’t wait until the ceremony to see me.”
“Hey,” he said, mock offended. “That was a matter of survival. Do you know how suffocating a bad knot feels? I was dying.”
“Drama queen,” I muttered.
He smiled, and for a second, I let myself just study him. Blindfolded, tousled, grinning like I was the only thing in his world.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked.
“Always.”
I leaned closer, close enough that my lips brushed his ear when I whispered: “You’re going to lose your mind when you finally see me.”
He stiffened, every muscle tightening at once. A sharp inhale, like he was physically restraining himself from ripping off the blindfold.
“Don’t,” I warned, stepping back quickly.
He groaned, tugging at the band like it was a torture device. “That’s just cruel. You can’t say stuff like that and leave.”
“Consider it motivation.”
He pouted again, full lower lip jutting out. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.” I smiled. “Now behave. I really do have to go this time.”
But before I reached the door, his voice softened.
“Wait.”
I turned. He was still blindfolded, but his whole posture had shifted—less playful, more vulnerable.
“Just… stay with me another minute? Please.”
The plea tugged at something deep in me. So I went back, slipping my hand into his. He gripped it tightly, like he needed the anchor.
We stood there in silence, fingers laced, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow, reverent strokes.
“I love you,” he whispered finally.
I squeezed his hand. “I love you too.”
The words felt heavier than they ever had before. Because in just a few hours, they wouldn’t be promises anymore. They’d be vows.
Jack didn’t let go of my hand. Not when I tried to shift away, not when I teased him about holding me hostage, not even when I reminded him I had a whole bridal party waiting for me down the hall. His grip wasn’t desperate—it was steady, grounding, like he just wanted to memorize the way we fit together one last time before the chaos of the day swept us up.
“Jack,” I said softly.
“Mhm?” He tilted his head, blindfold still snug against his face.
“I really should go.”
“I know.” His thumb traced one more lazy circle over my skin. Then, reluctantly, he let go. “But can I ask for one more thing before you leave?”
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. “That depends.”
“Nothing bad. Nothing that’ll break the rules.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “Just… tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
That caught me off guard. Of all the things I expected—the begging for a peek, the whining about his tie again—this wasn’t it.
I swallowed. “Honestly? Nervous. Excited. Kind of like my chest can’t hold everything in at once.”
His lips curved into a slow smile. “Same.”
The quiet between us stretched, warm and full. My pulse thrummed.
Then, predictably: “But also, like, ninety percent desperate to rip this blindfold off and look at you.”
“Jack—”
“Just a glance.” His grin turned wicked, playful again. “One little peek. I promise, I’ll only use half an eye.”
I laughed, stepping back quickly as if distance alone could protect the dress. “Absolutely not.”
He reached blindly in my direction, hands out like a kid searching for candy in the dark. “Come onnnn. What if I just—”
“Don’t you dare!” I dodged, laughing harder now.
He froze mid-reach, then dropped his arms with a defeated groan. “You’re killing me.”
“Patience,” I reminded him, voice sing-song. “Remember?”
He slouched, lower lip back in its familiar pout. “Patience is evil.”
“Patience is how you get to the good stuff,” I shot back.
His grin returned in full force. “Oh, trust me, baby, I’m very motivated for the good stuff.”
I swatted his shoulder lightly, cheeks burning. “Jack!”
“What?” he said innocently, but the smug tilt of his mouth gave him away.
Shaking my head, I moved toward the door again. This time, he didn’t call me back right away. For a moment, I thought he’d let me go without protest. But then, just as my hand touched the knob—
“Wait,” he said, voice softer than before.
I turned. He was still blindfolded, standing in the middle of the room in his crisp white shirt and neatly fixed tie, but he looked… small. Vulnerable.
“Can you… describe it to me?” he asked hesitantly. “Not all of it. Just—something. A color, a detail. Anything.”
I hesitated. “That’s dangerous.”
“Please?” His voice cracked, and that was it—the sound that undid me every time.
I exhaled slowly. “Okay. One thing.”
He perked up instantly, straightening like a soldier awaiting orders.
“It’s white,” I said softly. “But not just white. It catches the light, almost like… snow at sunrise.”
His lips parted, breath catching.
“And there’s lace,” I added, quieter now, as if the walls themselves would scold me. “Delicate, like it’s been waiting forever for today.”
Jack swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“That’s it,” I said quickly. “No more.”
He groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. “You’re evil.”
“Maybe.” I smiled. “But you love me.”
“God, I do,” he said fiercely, no hesitation at all.
The intensity in his voice rooted me to the spot. He wasn’t teasing anymore. This was the Jack who had held my hand through every doubt, who whispered encouragement after every long day, who loved me so deeply it scared me sometimes.
I wanted to stay. I wanted to rip the rules apart and let him see me now, let him hold me properly before everything changed. But instead, I forced myself toward the door again.
“I’ll see you at the altar,” I whispered.
He tilted his head toward my voice, smile soft, almost boyish. “I’ll be the guy crying when you walk in. Just warning you.”
My throat tightened. “Then I guess I’ll be the girl crying back.”
We lingered in silence one last moment, both unwilling to break it. Then I opened the door, slipping out before I lost the strength to leave.
The hallway felt brighter, louder, though it was the same neutral carpet and muted lights as before. But I carried the weight of him with me—his blindfolded grin, his warm hands on mine, his whispered I love you.
And when the doors opened hours later, and I finally stepped into the aisle in that dress of lace and sunrise-white, the look on his face told me everything I needed to know.
genuinely incredibly humbling when u are having a frankly terrible week, terrible day, and u say to urself "well at least i can watch my favorite hockey team play tonight :)" and then the game starts and they play as if they've never seen a puck before
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