description -> you overhear your fiancée tell his friends “she wants it all the time” and he quickly learns how much of a mistake that is. the two of you agree to play a tiny game of who can hold out the longest, making joe regret ever saying those words...
(tags and warnings; established relationship, fluff, fiancee!reader, fiancee!joe, yearning!joe, smut, minors dni! unprotected p in v, f receiving oral, lmk if missed any!)
burrow's navigation
word count; 6,557 words
angie's notes; she has been in the draft for a minute, it's time she was posted ;)) thank you anon for this request!! <33
he spoke loudly within his own presence. louder than most people may think. when he was in his own element, not even the neighbors were safe. joe had been playing video games for the past two hours, killing time waiting for you to get back from a girl’s day. he spoke through the headset, shouting out a few curses or the plays that should be made to win.
“is y/n not back yet?” tee asked him, his voice muffled due to the mic.
“not yet, but she should be back soon…” he paused the game on his own behalf, his thumb unlocking the screen, and went to check your location. you were still at the restaurant, not far from the house. he sent you a quick text to check in and see if everything was okay, to which you quickly replied, letting him know you were leaving.
he shut off his phone, his attention back to the game. “ready for married life?” this time, ja’marr spoke, hearing the clicking from the remote, a silent curse dropping as he failed a task. “might be crazy to say, but i don’t think much will change. i feel like we’re already living that life the day we moved in,” joe explains.
“it’s different, though. she will become your wife, and you’re gonna be her husband,” tee said, pausing his game on his end.
“guys, y/n has been my wife since the day i asked her to be my girlfriend. we went to the same university, bought a house together, live in the same city, and we’re getting married. the only thing that changes our status, it becomes official on paper,” joe ranted, pausing his game to check his phone again, your location frozen.
“you say it like it’s so easy…” ja’marr chuckled. “there will be moments where it won’t feel as easy, and that's okay. in a marriage, well, our marriage, we will work things out, no matter how difficult or easy it is,” joe continued, shutting the game off completely, not in the mood to play.
“y/n is different, you guys have no idea how thankful i am for her,” this time, he turned his camera on, seeing both of his teammates with cheesy grins. “you’re whipped, bro. it’s been years, and you still have the same look when you talk about her,” tee teased him, joe hiding the evident blush on his face, hating being the center of attention.
you had a terrible habit of not charging your phone when going out. today was a close call after leaving the girls' dinner; your phone completely discharged as soon as you stepped foot into the uber. thankfully, you had texted joe beforehand, letting him know you were on the way before it died.
the uber was a cute older woman. she had you laughing with a few of her funny experiences as an uber, and kept you entertained the entire ride as she ranted about her life. you listened and expressed your voice when she asked, knowing all she wanted at the moment was to be heard. you hadn’t realized how much you had spoken to her until your house came into view, wishing her a safe night and leaving her a heavy tip.
you shut the door quietly, afraid to make too much noise in case he was busy doing something football related, yet to your surprise, all that was heard and filled the house was him talking loudly. he hadn’t realized your presence as you moved around to remove your coat, placing it inside the closet.
“i’m telling you. no bullshit, she wants it all the time,” you overheard joe say. you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he was obviously talking about you. it better had been you he was referring to, or else hell was about to break loose. you stayed behind the corner, feeling like a reporter as he continued his conversation.
“mannnn, we don’t want all those details,” ja’marr laughed nervously, tee trailing behind, “you’re one lucky bastard, that’s for sure.”
you didn’t want to continue hiding or intrude on his privacy. you made your presence known, setting your purse on the counter, his face lighting up with happiness, completely oblivious to your knowledge of your eavesdropping. he walked around the island, his arms wrapping around your middle, giving you a long hug. he wished his teammates a good night, hanging up the phone, his full attention on you.
it had been on you the minute you walked down after getting ready. wearing your signature fancy perfume, a dress that hugged and shaped all the right place along with a pair of lace tights, leather boots, you hair styled with perfection. you looked like a goddess, his goddess.
smugness, cockiness filled withing you. your hands delicately wrapping around his torso, feeling his lips press on your temple. “you’re back! how come i didn’t hear you come in?” joe asked cluelessly. he lifted you onto the counter, his hands raking your thighs as he looked at you with a look of lust. eyes blazing blue, a tiny smirk, cheeks rosy at the filthy thoughts invaded his head.
“i don’t know, the ring camera saw,” you said, meeting his kiss halfway, arms wrapping themselves around his shoulder. “sorry, i was busy with the guys, and i didn’t hear you come in,” he muttered through the kiss, his hands coming and raking your sides, fingertips pressing on the flesh of your hips.
“yeah? what were you guys talking about?” you pressed, joe still unaware of you hearing him,
“when i texted you, we were on call playing games, but we got bored, so we just started talking about life,” he said with no urgency or clue.
“life?” you chuckled, “that’s an interesting topic.”
“it was. we talked about our wedding, and they called me sappy because god forbid i love my fiancée,” he explained, taking his time undoing the zippers and removing each of your boots. “how was your night? did you have fun with the girls?” joe questioned, gently placing your boots aside.
“it was perfect. i miss them already,” you said with an anguished tone. “i ordered this delicious steak with a baked potato, and gave the chef kisses for his incredible taste,” joe looked at you with a brow raised, unamused at your words. “i didn’t actually kiss him; it was a joke,” you giggled, feeling him come between your legs, a kiss pressed on the corner of your mouth.
you scooted forward, legs trapping him. you dragged a hand along his bicep, not looking at him entirely, only feeling both of your excitements light on fire as your core hit his growing bulge, your hips tracing his hard member. “what else did you talk about tonight?” you asked, joe not suspecting a thing, too entranced by you. how you smelled, how you looked, how you felt, hell, even how you spoke.
“why do you ask? hmm?”
“because i want you to explain ‘no bullshit. she wants it all the time’ to me,” you dragged him to the cage, just to quickly flip the switch and lock him in it. joe’s brows tugged in, his blood running cold at your words. you didn’t seem mad or upset, which frightened him more.
you simply stared at him with amusement, awaiting his response. joe let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, dragging a hand through his hair. “we were just talking, you know how they are,” he visibly winced, knowing he wasn’t safe yet.
your brow raised, intrigued, “i don’t know how they are. i’m interested, do tell me more.” joe couldn’t speak, feeling conflicted. he would never lie to you, but he was confused as to what to do or say. he wanted to be careful, yet minutes ago, he didn’t care about it. “we were just talking, one topic switched to another, and it just slipped out,” he sighed.
“slipped out? just casually?” you edged him further, crossing your legs, leaning your weight onto your hands that propped onto the marble counter. he was still observing your moves. you were having fun with this, a flicker of interest sparking. “it’s hilarious because you couldn’t fool me. the only one who ‘wants it all the time’ is you, joe,” you said it simply, joe not catching your smugness until he finally looked at you.
“you think this is funny?”
“funny? no. but i am having my enjoyment with this,” you let out the tiniest laugh, even he could miss, a smirk tugging your lips. you held his gaze for a long second, then smiled, slow and dangerous.
“you’re evil…”
“i’m evil? how about we call up ja’marr and tee right now and tell them their qb was just saying shit to impress them?” you snarked, leaning with your back straight, crossing your arms. it was impossible to stay mad at you, especially when you were this close, tempting every nerve.
“was i? darlin i think you’re forgetting who was making you scream last night,” his voice was deep and rough, his eyes low as he stared at you. your legs involuntarily clenched tight, the tension becoming unbearable by the second. joe didn’t crack, not immediately, which annoyed you more than you expected.
he stepped back into your space, his nails dragging over the lace fabric. “i think you’re forgetting who runs the show around here,” he says, trying to impress you but failing. “i think you’re forgetting that without me, you’d be nothing,” the reminder sets deep in his chest, knowing you were right.
this time, your fingertips trailed their way up from his chest to his jaw. he leaned down slowly, watching your lips open and close, letting out shaky breaths. “let’s propose a game,” either of you could close the gap easily, and make your lips brush. “since you say ‘i want it all the time’, let’s see who can hold out the longest,” the idea proposed sounded silly, but seeing how he refused to be let down, he thought of it clearly.
he exhaled a quiet laugh, “what do i win if you lose?”
“you can proudly say, ‘i want it all the time’. but if you lose, you will call up whoever was in that call tonight and take back your words.”
“any rules?” his hand came around your back, tugging you closer, his nose nudging yours.
“besides, no sex or jerking off, not lose?” he felt you smirk, pushing him back. he couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this. yet whatever consequence he had to face, he’d do it. he messed up tonight, and if this was his karma, let him be a doomed man.
“okay, mrs. burrow, you have a deal.”
“not mrs yet…” you remind him, stepping off the counter, slowly undoing your dress in front of him. he looked away, knowing that if he did watch you, he would lose the bet before even starting.
“not yet, but you will be…”
“mhm, we’ll see about that.”
the first two nights were torture. he did it to himself. you did it to yourself. the days felt agonizingly slow. you tried not to think of it, or him specifically. he did his best not to get near your space. it was like back in the old days, when both of you were afraid to be near each other, not knowing where you stood.
every glance lasted for too long. if there was an accidental brush of hands or any limb, the two of you backed away as if it were forbidden. both of you were dedicated, especially to a challenge like this; neither of you wanted to fail.
by the third day, you left early for a workout class, and when joe saw you come through that door after, he choked on his protein smoothie. his head felt puzzled; he knew he was staring hard. how could he not when you wore his favorite color, in apparel that clasped everywhere, bareface, hair up, your scent still strong despite the heavy workout. he almost reached for you when you passed behind him. but this was on purpose, and three days wasn’t enough.
later that day, you made the mistake of going down to the gym he had. it was on the way to where your desk was, and not sneaking on him wasn’t a part of the deal. there was something so hot about him working out. his determination, muscles flexing, the grunts and noises. you closed your eyes, walking away from the scene before it was fully engraved, not knowing joe felt your stares.
the next four days became harder and harder. you sat on opposite sides of the couch, joe resisting the urge to pull you onto his lap. you fighting the impulse to run your fingers through his freshly trimmed hair. both of you built a routine that had included ignoring each other. you were the first to be awake; he was the last to fall asleep.
sure, both of you still communicated, but it was short responses. not the ones that would last an hour before both of you fell asleep at night. not meeting each other's gazes, either way too embarrassed or too shy to stare into each other's eyes. there was no longer any cuddling, no reaching for each other at midnight when it got cold, and you craved for one another's comfort.
on the ninth day, the bet was put further to the test. it was a casual outing. no one suspected a thing until someone, a man, got way too comfortable, his hand making the mistake of touching your shoulder. joe excused himself, his steps pacing as he reached for you, shuddering when his arm wrapped your waist. “everything okay here?” it was smooth, too casual for the guy to notice how joe’s blood was boiling beneath his suit.
“i don’t think we’ve met. i’m joe, her fiancé,” it was subtle, his handshake tighter than the usual professional one he handed out. you rolled your eyes, wanting to laugh at the coincidence. the tension snapped; it wasn’t dramatic. your hand reached and interlocked with his, a small reminder that despite what was occurring, you were still here, still his.
on the thirteenth day, the whole bet was beginning to irritate you. you missed him desperately, and sharing the same house was becoming insufferable. because now both of you were painfully aware of how much you wanted to lose. neither of you acknowledged it. just accepted fate for what it was.
on the fifteenth day, you purposely started to tease him. joe felt the sudden shift, and that should’ve been the first sign of what the day had in store, but he ignored it. you didn’t attend your workout class; you were instead in the kitchen, prepping his breakfast and coffee, wearing nothing, just an old shirt from lsu that barely skimmed your thighs.
“morning joe,” your shoulder brushed his chest just enough to register, just enough to linger. he stilled for half a second, while you didn’t react. “you’re doing this on purpose, and it’s not going to work,” he warned you, casually taking a sip of his coffee, sitting across from you, not trusting himself.
“i’m not doing anything? what? i can’t make breakfast without you thinking of losing?” your eyes innocently met his, pouring the water into your mug, which already had the tea packet in it. he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes roaming down your figure, not wanting to escalate his heartbeat further. you looked so tempting, something so simple, casually ruining his mind.
this went on until dinner. he was hyperaware now; he anticipated your every move. he saw it before you responded, which made him look crazy when you didn’t even do anything. “you can back out at any time, joe,” your voice was alluring, elusive. it had been so long since he properly touched you, and right now, he was inches away from giving in.
you thought he had lost. until you saw him give you an infamous smirk, scratching his temple before giving you a short reply. “same goes for you… i can practically feel you drenching under the table right now. it’s up to you if you’re gonna do something,” the smugness replaced the apprehensive expression on his face.
“never. its way too fun having this much control over you…”
“control over me? i’m not the one practically begging for it.”
“if that makes you feel better, do whatever you need to do.”
he wasn’t going to let it slide. he just wanted to catch you when you least expected.
which brought day nineteen. you were showering, getting ready for work. he knew it was your longer showers where you took your time washing your hair, scrubbing your body, shaving if you needed to. which is why he didn’t think twice before removing his own clothing and joining you.
he startled you, jumping when you heard the glass door shut. his fingers skimmed across your hips as he gently moved you to the side, watching you with intense eyes that had your feet trembling. you made the mistake of looking at him, watching every piece of him flex as the hot water cascaded over his body.
“you’re in my space,” you heard him let out a low chuckle. he faced you now, his hand running across his chest with his body gel, as you nervously swallowed. “you didn’t seem to care last night when pressing yourself against me?”
“did you think this was only a one-person game, beautiful?” he took two slow steps, feeling him corner you against the cold tiled walls. he was inches away from your face, his eyes bluer than ever, seeing just how much the anticipation was riling. joe swore to himself that this was to get back at you, yet he completely forgot when you had him under a spell. he saw your legs clench, the nervous gulp, pupils dilated.
“sorry, only reaching for this,” he smirked, carrying his shampoo, wasting no time to continue his routine.
you were thankful that work was able to distract you from the morning’s event. he made this mission impossibly harder. so close to losing only because you let him get under your skin. you weren’t oblivious to his intentions; if he had cornered you a second longer, today wouldn’t be going as peachy. you left your phone ping, a text from him, again for the fourth time today.
joe
going to the facility for a workout
should be home a little late
y/n
ok, thank you for letting me know
i’m going grocery shopping, is there anything you need?
joe
strawberries
and bell peppers
y/n
bell peppers?
can i ask what for?
joe
just need some for dinner
joe
y/n
nice
nice? were you being serious or just pushing his buttons? he sighed deeply, focusing on the heavy reps, doing everything to not think of this morning. he almost had you. he was so close to making you lose, but fuck, you were a strong warrior. joe waits to start another set, brows pulled in as he sees you send a risky text.
y/n
y/n
what do you think of my new dress?
i’m thinking of returning it
joe
do not return it
you look fucking stunning, baby
y/n
careful… or else i’ll be thinking you’re giving in
joe
you’re gonna have to do more than that
see you soon
the next day felt different. you had woken up with joe slightly lying on your chest, a hand snug around your waist as he slept with no worries. your hand grazed his bare back, tracing shapes and lines, fingers then wrangled into his longer locks.
twenty days had passed, and this was the first proper cuddle. you almost pushed him off, but this was all you craved and wanted. he was warm and snug, protective even in his sleep, mindless of what was happening. your eyes fluttered closed, sleep threatening to take over until you felt his palm shift up and rest on your boob, squeezing the flesh softly.
he hears your perilous breath, shifting and parting from his touch slightly. “joe, i know you’re awake,” you whispered, nervous he might still be asleep. “am i? can’t tell,” he teased, his head nudging further into the crook of your neck. he inhaled your scent, feeling so comfortable he could fall asleep right on the spot.
“i need to get up. we have so much to do today,” he shivered, feeling your hand swipe across his bare back again, tangled once again between his hair, scratching his scalp. “let me just enjoy this a little longer, it’s been forever since we’ve done this,” he murmured, pressing the softest kiss on the corner of your jaw.
“we could’ve avoided all of this if you hadn’t said what you said,” you reminded him, this time shifting closer to his body heat. “still mad about that when you know it’s true?” joe taunted, the hand on your boob squeezing the flesh again, becoming more aware of his intentions.
“don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re the only one miserable here…” you dared, this time turning your weight, sitting on top of him. he froze, uttering a tiny ‘shit’ as his hands reached for your thighs immediately. you felt his morning wood press against you, rocking your hips to exhilarate him further.
“tell me you don’t miss this? waking up, having no urgency besides making love?” you whispered, leaning down, pressing soft kisses along his neck, up to his ear, where you bite his lobe, taunting the euphoric feeling. joe raised his lips, pressing his more evident bulge against your core, creating a sensation, that pressure in your gut that made you want to shut your legs tight.
“just give in already. you want me just as much as i want you,” he whispered back, his fingers tightening their grip on you, his chest filling with butterflies.
“never. it’s too fun watching you like this. begging for more. begging to be touched. begging for me,” you sneered, fully removing yourself from him, directing your way to the bathroom. he groaned, thinking he finally had you, but you were too stubborn, way too good at this game. it was starting to mess with his head, pushing him further and further, wanting to give up.
you felt his stare, his irritation at not being able to get his way. you felt annoyed knowing this could easily be avoided if both of you agreed. you hated doing that stupid bet; it was costing you a lot. twenty days later, you feel different, not your usual self. joe isn’t himself. it’s like walking on eggshells. a bomb ticking until its final countdown.
you missed him badly. even if he was next to you, that longing to feel him next to you was agony. he hated not being near you, not being able to do the everyday stuff. this was a living nightmare, and he slowly regretted ever saying what he said. because at the end of the day, the only one who wanted it badly was him…
three days had passed. he had left town for a campaign shoot. you stayed in cincinnati due to a few contractors coming in to renovate the laundry room. joe was being clingier than usual. he sent texts almost every hour during his time out of town. his calls came and go randomly, and every time he expressed how much he loved you.
joe
i will be home in 30
do you want anything from the store?
y/n
no thank you!
i’m leaving soon
joe
where to?
you didn’t mention anything
y/n
going out with the girls
last-minute decision
joe
you serious?
y/n
yes? why would i not be?
you're finishing your last few steps when he comes in. he leaves his bag in the same spot that drives you crazy, resisting the impulse to complain. he lets out a breath, eyes roaming your figure from head to toe. you’re wearing the dress he begged you not to return a couple of days ago.
you’re putting on tiny diamond earrings, looking at him, watching closely for his next move. you weren’t even going anywhere. you lied just to get into his head. he was close, so close you felt it. he stepped closer, distracting himself by washing his coffee cup. he feels you press behind him, reaching for your purse, still not saying anything.
there’s no way. there was no way he would last another minute of this bet. he needed to feel you. he needed to feel your response. needed to hear your breath hitch when he kissed your favorite spots. he needed to feel your hands in his hair again, or the way they wrapped around his biceps. he just needed you.
your back is to him. he can’t read your expressions, but he’s prepared if you’re willing to turn him down. he deserved it. the bet was placed because of his selfish ways of thinking. his arms wrapped around you, his nose trailing your bare shoulder up to your pulse point, smelling your rich scent, “you’re not going to say anything to me? just gonna leave me here?”
his voice was husky, hearing the strain and tiredness from the busy schedule he faced. yet that seemed not to matter. “why didn’t you tell me you were going out?” he demanded, kissing your ear, “as i said. it was a last-minute plan,” the lie rolls off easily, putting a respectable space.
“fuck this,” his hands cradled your face, leaning down and capturing your lips before you could react. his moves were fast and passionate, showing you how much he missed you. a small moan fell from your lips, and joe was quick to capture it. one of his hands raked your side, resting just below your ass, his kiss pressing you closer and closer to the counter.
you tasted so sweet, an addiction he wanted no cure from. it has been too long. embarrassingly too long without. he spent the past twenty-three days next to you, holding just for him to lose. he didn’t care about that now. not when he finally had you. not when you desperately showed him how much you missed him.
he lifted you into the counter, the same one where the bet was declared three weeks ago. his fingers remove your top, placing wet kisses along your sternum up to your jaw, biting and sucking your sweet spot. “gosh, it’s been too long, way too fucking long, can’t believe i deprived you of this,” he whispered, capturing your lips back into a messy kiss.
“you can’t go out tonight,” he shook his head, “not when you’re wearing this color, look this fucking sexy. wearing my ring.” you smirk, peppering kisses along the corner of his mouth, his resistance breaking, marking you the clear winner. “give me a good reason to stay joe,” your eyes innocent, trail his face, his jaw resting tight.
“show me how much you’ve missed this. missed me,” that was all he needed. his lips hungrily kissed yours, tongue slapping, tracing with yours. he lets out a groan in delight when your small hands reach to remove his leather jacket, roaming and squeezing his muscles. “twenty-three days, darlin’. twenty-three days of being unable to do this,” he ushered.
he took a step back, hands on your knees as he took you in. his pupils dilated, a red blush on his cheeks. you bite your lip, seeing this dishelved state of him, yearning for you, turning you on more by the second. “look at you. so fucking beautiful, baby. never forget that,” joe cursed, coming back between your legs, undoing the zipper from the side.
his moves were fast, kissing your jaw as your through your head back. he felt so warm, taking his time as he reached all the way down. joe urged you to lie down, seeing the hesitation in your eyes, “here? why don’t we go to-”
“y/n i couldn't care less where we do it. this is our home. no one else is here besides you and me. and i can’t wait any longer to taste you,” he confessed, placing a kiss on your inner knee. your back arched at the cold sensation from the counter, meeting his gaze as he kissed the flesh of your thighs, his fingertips rolling down your underwear.
“three weeks of torture,” his lips press just above your naval, watching you suck in at his touch.
“three weeks of me suffering knowing damn well you were right, and i was wrong,” joe moved down, blowing cold air along your wet core, watching as you trembled, legs itching to close around his head.
“three weeks of me paying for my mistakes,” he placed a kiss on your most sensitive spot, hearing the tiniest whimper fall from your lips.
“joe, please.”
“not a chance, i’m taking my time with this with you,” his tongue lapped against your walls, groaning at the sweet taste made for him. “i was sick of it. sick of not being able to kiss you, sick of not being able to hold you, sick of not being able to fully have you,” he yapped, his tongue reaching and lapping your entrance.
your back arched off the counter, moaning his name, hips pushing back, but he was ready, his hands dragging you back into place. all that built-up stress releases from him as he continues to devour you. his mouth felt like he was making out with your most intimate area. your cries dragged further, a hand coming down and brushing through his locks, moving him where you needed him the most.
he moves just the way you like it. his lips suck at your bundle of nerves, soft but fierce. “yes, baby, yes fuck,” you cry out, your grip tightening as he continues to ravish you. there was no way of thinking, not when he pinned you down like this, tasting everything you had to offer. it had been too long, feeling incredibly sensitive with the gentle curve of his tongue dawdling on your clit.
“you taste so fucking sweet, forgot how much i missed this, could stay here for hours,” he never stopped looking at you. observing every breath, every cry, every action you let out. “i was so wrong, darlin’, please forgive me, i’ll do anything,” he apologizes, a hand coming from his hips, two fingers circling your clit, his chin glistening with your wetness.
“of c-course i-i forgive you, just keep doing what you’re doing,” you falter a giggle, eyes connecting with his, giving him the confirmation. you cry out his name, his fingers intruding your entrance, rocking them slowly, feeling the clench as he moves them. the overstimulation had gradually built; this, along with his tongue, was bound to make you combust.
he traced his name twice along your walls, twisting his fingers in and out, pushing in a third one when you felt ready. your legs began to shake, chest rising up and down as he praised you over and over. “you feel so fucking tight, need to stretch you out properly,” he spoke, kissing your clit once again.
“please don’t stop, you feel so good, baby.”
joe feels your climax approaching, with the way you're clutching his fingers, your clit throbbing as he flattens his tongue on you. he knows it. he knows how close you are, and he can’t wait. his cock is aching underneath the tight clothes. you feel his moves speed slightly, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, tummy aching as that suspense threatens to burst.
joe feels your release, lapping every single drop, cleaning you fully, a deep groan escaping, humming and vibrating through you, adding more to the sensation. he slows his movements, careful not to hurt you as his fingers glide out, licking clean one by one. “you’re so dirty!” you giggled, watching the obscure scene unravel, taking your time regaining consciousness.
“not what you were begging for minutes ago,” he smirks, his clean hand reaching behind you, leaning you up so he could properly carry you. he reaches for your kiss, humming in relief, once you’re in the room together. he turns on the lamp on your side of the bed, coming back, and this time undoes your bra, laughter filling the room as he struggles to remove it.
“can i do it?” you whispered, fingers reaching his pants. he nodded, hands to his side as you undid his belt. you worked your way slowly, taking your time unzipping the zipper, pushing down his jeans and boxers. he watched you prop yourself onto your knees, barely reaching his height as you took off his shirt, your hands raking his chest, tracing over the tiny moles marked on him.
“missed you so bad joey… the worst three weeks of my entire life,” you confessed, holding yourself onto him as he guided both of you to the middle of the bed, throwing the pillows onto the floor, covering your shivering bodies with the thin sheet. “when we’re married, call me out on my bullshit, no matter how hard it is. not being with you properly is the worst thing i’ve had to endure…”
he kisses you with so much passion, you forget how to breathe again. your hands rest on his shoulders, accepting the way he leads the kiss with no urgency, tongue poking and sliding gently between your lips. he holds your waist, eyes shut, hearing how both of your breathing gets heavier.
“i can’t wait to marry you. i can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” joe expressed, his thumb drawing tiny shapes, as his eyes met yours, properly taking you in. your lips were slightly plump from the kiss, there was a flush of endearment on your facial expression, and your eyes spoke everything you held in for the past three weeks. love and lust.
“i love you,” he said loudly, proudly.
“i love you, joe…”
his forehead leaned against yours, feeling your hand wrap around his cock. you could feel how hard and heavy he was. your thumb brushed over his sensitive tip, then moved down to his base, feeling how he jerked under your touch. your wet and glistening served as a small layer of lube, lapping his tip, then slowly moving him to your entrance.
joe watched your eyes pinch shut as he unhurriedly drove and rocked his hips in you. he kissed your forehead, itching further and further in you, a tiny groan releasing him. “breathe, baby, take your time,” joe muttered, fully sunk in now. a hand rested on his jaw, as the other moved down and held him by his middle.
there was a pause, a movement where neither of you spoke, just stared into each other's gazes. you leaned up, kissing him fervently, urging your hips, giving him a sign to move. he thrusted out and then in again, hearing your hefty moan, the tight grip on his side. it had been so long, he had forgotten how tight you felt.
“joe feels so big,” you panted, brows pushed in, looking down to see where your bodies met. he followed your movements, making the mistake because he now felt so close to his own release. he could behave, he could wait and hold it out if it meant cumming with you. your pussy fluttered as he drove back into you, a little harsher, his tip reaching that spingy part inside.
“goddamn, you feel so fucking perfect. so wet, so tight for me,” joe praised, his head guiding yours to the side where he hid into the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking softly at the skin. you cried out, nails sinking into his skin, encouraging him to move faster. you feel how he buried himself with each jab, “i’ve got you, darlin’, i've got you.”
“you drive me insane, you know that? everyday i wakeup and i’m immediately thinking of you, of what i can do to make you smile, thinking of how lucky i am to have met you, let alone date you,” joe uttered, feeling that band gradually resist and resists as he continues to push in you.
its a steady rhythm, your name falling from his lips in a desperate whine. you start moving with him, each shove a little rougher, more intense than the ones before. the pleasure itself clouded your head, wanting more and more of him as the angle switches this time, feeling his tip kiss that spot inside you, causing your toes to curl.
your body feels on fire, you're gone completely. joe grabs both of your hands, letting his weight shift down onto you more as he pins your hands up. he watches the scene unfold, your boobs moving with each thrust he offers, how your eyes shut close, your mouth not knowing where to bite the inside of your cheek or continue to yell out.
he thinks of anything to distract him from the possibility of cumming. he wants this exact moment to last forever. and if thinking about a stupid play he did in middle school would stop him, he was going to do it. your body erratically shifted upon a singular deep thrust he gave. “i’m so close joe, can feel how close you are too,” you warned, gaining the courage to look at him.
he had a determined lustful expression. “not gonna last that long when you’re clenching this tightly around my cock. it’s okay, baby, let go, i want to feel it,” he grunted, letting go of your hands, propping his weight with one arm at the side of your head. the air in the room felt humid and heavy, the sound of your skin slapping overtaking the sound of the ac unit.
you felt the bubble burst, sobbing soft moans, joe’s hips stuttering as he felt his own high betray him. you felt his release drip inside you, hot ropes of cum nonstop as his cock jerked under the overstimulation. he felt how you pulsed around him, dropping nearly his complete weight on you, letting the small after sex waves approach.
both of you let out tired laughs, bodies feeling numb and like complete mush after tonight’s activities. he traced small shapes on your arm, as your fingers raked through his hair, clearly displaying how much you missed it. “where’s your phone?” your lips taunted to a smirk, joe lifting his head, offering a puzzled look.
“downstairs, probably. why?”
“a bet is a bet. you still haven’t forgotten about our deal, right?”
“y/n i’m sure i can convince you in different ways to make you drop that…” his cheeks burned redder, hiding his embarrassed face back onto your chest.
“you shook on it. that was part of the deal…”
“you’re gonna make me do it? after giving you the best sex of your life?”
“don’t forget, you brought this upon yourself. you need to stick to your word and tell ja’marr and tee that you were exaggerating-”
“if i just agre will you drop it? i’m still not done with you yet. twenty-three days were long…”
“twenty-three days happened because you refused to admit to them that you want it all the time,” you teased him, feeling how he shifted up, placing a tired kiss on your lips.
“of course i want it all the time… i have the smartest, most sexy, hardworking fiancée ever. god forbid a man wants to love and appreciate his future wife…” joe spoke through the kiss, feeling the thrill spread across his veins once again.
“i’ll forget it for now…”
“good, because right now i’m thinking of twenty-three ways i can make you-”
“just shut up and fuck me again joe. playing dumb isn’t a good luck…”
“playing dumb? i thinking youre forgetting how quiet and dozed off you were minutes ago… should i remind you again?” his lips pressed all over your jaw and down to your chest.
hubby!joe who . . . still wears his wedding ring during practice even though the trainers tell him not to. he keeps it on a chain under his shirt because he “likes having it close.” he fidgets with it when he’s thinking - little subconscious reminder that he’s yours.
hubby!joe who . . . always ends up standing too close when you’re getting ready. like, you’re doing your hair and he’s behind you, pretending to look for something on the counter but really just watching you in the mirror. he’ll kiss your shoulder and mumble, “you smell good.”
hubby!joe who . . . has a weirdly precise morning routine. like, the same playlist (you’ve heard that one drake song every morning since 2022), same mug, same order of getting ready and if you’re standing in the kitchen, sleepy and messy, he’ll break the routine just to kiss your forehead.
hubby!joe who . . . talks in his sleep sometimes. not full sentences, but like he murmurs your name, or little fragments like “where’s my girl” or “don’t forget the keys.” it’s endearing and a little embarrassing, but you never tell him because it’s too sweet.
hubby!joe who . . . will brush past you on purpose. like, every single time he walks by, there’s that light touch at your hip or back. sometimes it’s just muscle memory. sometimes it’s not.
hubby!joe who . . . insists he’s a “grill master” but burned the burgers the first time you had people over. now it’s an inside joke - every cookout starts with you handing him the tongs and saying, “try not to incinerate them this time.”
hubby!joe who . . . always has a random bruise or tiny cut and gives you a full dramatic explanation every time you ask about it.
hubby!joe who . . . insists on doing the grocery run together because “it’s a date if we get snacks after.”
hubby!joe who . . . loves grocery shopping with you. he’ll push the cart, grab random things you don’t need (like fancy cheeses and five different flavors of sparkling water) and somehow still forgets the one thing you actually went for.
hubby!joe who . . . drives like a grandma when you’re in the car but somehow gets a speeding ticket the one time you’re not with him.
hubby!joe who . . . comes home after away games and immediately goes into “house husband” mode - doing laundry, unpacking, cleaning up the kitchen. he’ll say, “just trying to help out,” but you know it’s his way of grounding himself after the chaos.
hubby!joe who . . . randomly sends you pictures of things that remind him of you. like, a sunset that’s the same color as your favorite hoodie, or a dog wearing sunglasses. his texts are chaotic - zero context, all heart.
hubby!joe who . . . never remembers where he left his keys, but always remembers to plug in your phone before bed.
hubby!joe who . . . can’t fall asleep without touching you somehow - a hand on your waist, fingers linked, his arm under your pillow. even when he’s half-asleep, he’ll pull you closer like it’s muscle memory.
hubby!joe who . . . is secretly competitive about board games. like, ridiculously. you tried to play monopoly once and it ended with him negotiating fake trades like it was a contract deal. you banned him from “game night” privileges for a week.
hubby!joe who . . . gets irrationally proud when a meal he makes actually turns out good. you have to hear about it for days.
hubby!joe who . . . saves every anniversary card, ticket stub, and random note you’ve ever given him in a small box in his nightstand. you found it once by accident - he got all flustered and just said, “don’t make fun of me.”
hubby!joe who . . . is weirdly good with kids. that one guy who ends up holding a toddler’s hand at a barbecue like it’s the most natural thing ever.
hubby!joe who . . . insists that the cat loves him more, but every morning the cat sits by your side of the bed.
hubby!joe who . . . takes candid photos of you constantly. like, you’ll be doing something completely ordinary - folding laundry, reading, drinking coffee and later you find it in his camera roll labeled “home.”
in which you do the “pretend i’m a random girl” tiktok trend on joe. [ 1K ]
﹙ ⓘ ﹚ warnings: tiktok trends. a slightly dramatic reader. hints of sassy bf joe. mostly fluff.
꒰ ₊ author’s note ♡ ֹ this man would awkwardly and enthusiastically wanna do a fit check with you so bad and you can’t convince me otherwise! <3
Joe didn’t even blink an eye as you set up your phone on the kitchen counter and started recording, smoothing your dress down as you take a step back right into his chest. His hands automatically fall to your hips, gripping you firmly as he presses a kiss to the crease of your neck, knowing better than to ruin the fresh glam you just finished for date night.
“Are we doing ‘fit checks?” he asks enthusiastically, and you have to stiffle a giggle as he steps next to you and pulls at his jacket to show the camera a better angle.
“Yeah, wait I’ll do yours.” you intterupt with an ulterior motive and you almost feel bad for robbing him of the opportunity to show off his outfit with a silly prank but, you could always do it afterwards, you console yourself as you turn to Joe and step right into his personal space. Your boyfriend doesn’t think much of it, a strong arm immeditely curling around your lower back.
“Pretend I’m a random girl!” you suddenly blurt, flinging your arms around his neck and craning your neck to kiss him. You can see the confusion swirling in Joe’s eyes and before he can contemplate what you just said, you managed to sneak a quick kiss on his lips.
“Joe!” you gasp dramatically, pushing off his chest and taking a couple steps back to glare at him from a distance.
“Baby—” he starts, arm outstrected to pull you back to him but you evade his grasp, still fake glaring at him.
“I said I’m a random girl and you kissed me!” you say, an adorable little frown forms between your brows and Joe’s head slants to the side, too enraptured by how cute you look when you’re mad to defend himself right away.
“Joe!” you demand, and he releases a quick sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before taking two big steps towrads you before stopping.
“Are you still a random chick or can I hold you while I talk?” he asks, brow lifted and you bite your cheek to stop a smile forming over your sassy man, his hands hovering just above your skin.
“Not like it would stop you if I was a random girl obviously.” you mutter petulantly and Joe pulls you into his chest, hands falling to your waist.
“Cut me some slack here baby. Why would a random girl be in my kitchen, wearing my favorite dress on my date night?” he fires back, momentarily removing his hands from your hips to throw them up in the air in dramatic fashion.
“Not to mention that your face was like one inch away from mine. I can’t think with you that close to me on a good day, nevermind when you’re all dressed up like this and you smell so freaking good. I don’t stand a chance. You literally set me up to fail from the start.” Joe finishes, gesturing vaguely at your outfit before dropping his hands back to your waist. He always lost all train of thought when you were in his arms like this.
You try to keep your glare, but your lips twitch, betraying you. Joe notices immediately, that little smug grin tugging at his mouth.
“See? You’re already cracking.” he teases, leaning down so his forehead almost brushes yours. “You can’t even keep a straight face, baby.”
“Because you’re ridiculous.” you shoot back, but your voice is softer now, almost fond.
“Ridiculously in love with you, yeah.” Joe says without missing a beat, his grin widening when you finally let out a laugh.
You swat at his chest, pulling away to reach for your phone, but he catches your wrist easily, pulling you back in until you’re flush against him. “I think you fail the test, Joe.”
“I think I passed it actually,” he argues, kissing your temple before pulling back to give you a boyish shrug. “If any man can go from thinking that ‘this is the woman I love’ to ‘this is a random girl coming onto me’, in the span of three seconds while their girl is standing this close to them, then he’s not in love enough with them.”
“You tell ‘em baby.” you say, kissing his jaw and he smiles victoriously, winking towards the camera as he presses another kiss to your head.
“Can we do a real fit check tho?” Joe asks abruptly, tugging at his jack again, and you laugh softly as you hurry to end this video and start a new one.
tiktok comments:
user97: you both look so good. what’s the occasion?🤭 also where is your bag from? it’s sooo cute
-> yourusername: thank you! it’s date night. and the bag is ysl <3
@joeyburrrr: he was so excited to do a fit check with her😭
→ @user82: we’re so blessed that the word ‘alo’ wasn’t mentioned once in this
→ @usuer91: PLEASE💀 im convinced she’s banned alo on date nights
@useerjb: girl I need to know the EXACT prayer. word for word.
@usrr21: “I can’t think with you that close to me” — HELP😭 I need one
@bengals21: this man passed the vibe check, the loyalty check, AND the fit check
@user88: “are you still a random chick or can I hold you while I talk” … sir??? 😩
→ @usr62: no I audibly gasped when he said that in that TONE. that’s illegal. I would’ve folded right there
@joebrow: I’ve never seen a man look more in love. she won. thank you for the off season crumbs queen
@uuser47: nah because if my man doesn’t defend himself like THAT he’s not my man. he stood on business👏
Summary: In the midst of wedding planning, Joe finds out his mom has crossed a boundary that never existed before.
Word count: 5.6K (Complete rewrite)
Jimmy had affectionately started calling it “the Tap Dance.” Not that Robin minded her husband cracking a few jokes at her expense, she needed his calming presence during these times.
The first time he noticed her tap dancing was in their hotel room in Los Angeles after Joe had torn his ACL. Due to Covid rules, they weren’t allowed in the waiting room so they could only wait for the call that surgery went well, then she’d be allowed in to see him. This impatient coping mechanism had carried her through some of the longest waits in her life. Now, in a restricted access waiting room in Birmingham, her right foot developed a mind of its own. And the tap dancing wasn’t from nerves exactly, more counting down the minutes until her son came out of surgery so she could lay eyes on him herself to ensure he’s actually okay. Joe is tough, known league wide for his physical toughness and his downright refusal to let anything phase him. Which means he downplays a lot of stuff. He omits pertinent information. About pain, pressure, things he deems to be little but are actually so much more important in the grand scheme of life.
But still, every time he went down, that gut wrenching feeling preceded any impatience. She and Jimmy got used to another kind of dance. The one where their stomachs turn and their hearts are in their throats. It happened when he broke his hand at Ohio State, then again with the ACL. And the appendectomy. Then the wrist injury. Now, the toe.
And he can lie about a lot, but Robin knows her son, and she knows when he’s lying. So she’d rather just see him for herself after surgery rather than some stranger who’s looked at X-rays and MRIs of his bones and ligaments tell her he’s fine while Jimmy rubbed her knee. Those are fine and dandy but she wants to make sure her icy blue eyed boy who was her little buddy while her husband dedicated much of his time to coaching, the one who hated itchy clothes and still loves funky patterns, knows that she’s always going to be in his corner. Every step of the way.
“Did he tell you when he’s getting a haircut?” Robin asked, months after the surgery, as you and your mom sat with her at the table for your weekly wedding meeting.
You laughed at her question, pulling out the binder you’d been working out of. “He said he wanted to keep it for a couple more months, which I told him was fine. I mean it’s his hair and I know he doesn’t want it too long for the wedding.”
Four months before you got a new last name and celebrated that new name with a somewhat grand event, in a room full of people you love. In the years that you’ve been with Joe, Robin’s been nothing but kind and gracious, treating you like her own. You’d heard from the man himself that he and his mom were really close, which is scary in a sense, the whole “boy mom” thing, but she is really just loving and trying to maintain some sense of normalcy in probably the most abnormal situation a family could be thrust into. The only reason you could understand what she was going through is because you felt exactly the same, going from a normal life, normal work hours, to strangers on the internet knowing your name, wanting to know where you are, what you’re wearing, who your friends are just to get access to this guy you’re with because he throws a pretty spiral.
“Let’s get to the business side of things,” your mom laughs, looking through her stuff. “Joe sent these flower options to me the other day, he liked the lighter pink ones.”
“Joe sent these to you?” You asked and she nodded like she was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it.
“He said he got the florist information from Sam. They were gonna go with this person for their wedding but she was booked for the next few years. Joe gave her a call and they talked about the date and she said she’d love to make something work.”
You and Robin gave each other a look and laughed. “Of course she said that. We can add her to the list and maybe do a little speed interview round? See which ones we like the most? I have two photographers/videographers I wanna meet with so we can meet with your florist, Robin’s florist, and this girl Joe reached out to.”
“The two of you also need to get the guest list finalized for seating arrangements,” Robin unfortunately reminded you. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun sorting through RSVPs.” The rest of your time was spent coordinating this speed round of qualified professionals, discussing days that worked for everyone and another dress fitting next week. These two had been so essential in making this wedding planning experience a lot less stressful than it could be. That, along with the wedding planner who handled the bigger stuff like venue tours, food and cake tastings and all of that other fun stuff. By one o’clock, your mom headed out and left you and Robin in the booth. She pulled out a manila envelope and set it on the table, her face warm and her voice calm. “This is just a formality, you can read through the entire thing, whenever you have some time. If you have questions or anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
You looked at the envelope and shook the contents inside, hearing the thick stack of papers neatly tucked away. “This is the prenup?”
“Prenup is a harsh word but yes, essentially.” She placed a hand on yours, “we’re just gonna get this squared away way ahead of time so it doesn’t become a thing. I want you and Joe to have the most beautiful, magical day without worrying about paperwork. And like I said, Peter’s office is reachable if you have concerns.”
Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, you smiled at her. “I’ll read through it and get back to you guys when I can. Thank you for not making this some huge money thing.”
“Oh please, you’re family to me already. I hate that we even have to do this.”
“I know,” you agreed, “but it’s important and I will seriously take a look at it and go from there. And I’ll see you at your house in a few days?”
She pulled you in for a hug. “See you then, love you.”
“Love you too.”
Paolo Salamone is a name you were vaguely familiar with before seriously getting into the wedding details. He’d done custom jewelry pieces that popped up on your FYP on every social media platform, usually from celebrities, other Bengals had mentioned him to get pieces done and now he was sitting in your shared home, showing you and Joe wedding bands that would be customized and transformed into the rings you’d be wearing for the rest of your life. No pressure. Joe wanted the options split down the middle, silver on the left, gold bands on the right, all different styles, cuts and thicknesses of the rings. “I want a gold band for sure,” he started, staring intently at one of the rings, “we can pick ‘em up, can’t we?”
“Yes, please. Go for it. Try it on, we brought them all in your size but it is different when you try it on, so we can adjust,” Paolo explained. Then he turned to you. “Did you have a preference in style?”
“I like the diamond eternity band, and the gold is perfect.”
Joe glanced over, “what’s the diamond eternity band look like?” You held one up, oval cut crystals lining the gold. The one you’d been eyeing since Paolo started setting up this little jewelry shop on the table. Joe was focused on the band between your thumb and index finger, at the little gems catching the light. “May I?”
“Of course you may,” you smiled at him, holding out your hand. “It’s good practice for the real thing.”
He scoffs but it’s mostly a soft laugh as he slides the ring onto your finger and examines his own design, the engagement ring, partnered now with Paolo’s eternity band. “That’s not half bad.”
“Really? Is that the best you could come up with? ‘Not half bad?’ I think you can you do better, dig deep. I believe in you,” you joked.
The quarterback was visibly trying not to laugh, rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Think I’ll save all my lines for later, keep you on your toes. Better get used to it, this is the rest of our life.” He nudged you with his shoulder playfully, still looking at your finger.
Paolo shakes his head, a bright smile on his face. “That was smooth.”
“Very,” you said slowly, trying really hard not to give away too much. Joe’s version of neutral was a lot more consistent and believable which you guessed kind of played into the hand of him being an ideal partner and not just some guy you liked hanging out with. He had qualities you admired, things that surprised you still, and you had so much more time with him to learn. “Let’s figure out what ring you want?”
“Gold.” He repeats, leaving your hand in his. “Yellow gold, I like the thicker band. And I think I want something simple, but different. No idea if that makes any sense.”
You leaned forward, looking at the array of rings at your disposal until one of them caught your eye. “What about this one? What is this style called?”
“Ah,” Paolo states, adjusting his glasses, “It’s a Honeycore band. It’s newer, classic, sleek look on the outside, intricate detailing inside.”
“I think it’s fun,” you added. “Very...you.”
He looks puzzled. “Explain?”
“Clean, put together, not too flashy. But then on the inside, there’s so many layers that you’d never get from one glance.”
Joe picks up the ring, examining the whole thing from top to bottom. “It does look pretty cool,” he shrugs. “I like it.” Paolo looked to you and you gave him a thumbs up, that was probably the closest Joe was going to get to excitement. The jeweler seemed satisfied and let the two of you know that if there were any changes he could come back anytime and you walked him out after he said goodbye to Joe. The two men shook hands and Joe got up and headed to the kitchen to refill his water. He set the cup down on the counter after taking a few sips, a strange document pouch that he hadn’t seen before. Shoving aside the sheets haphazardly stacked on top, his eyebrows scrunched tight seeing his lawyer’s firm logo on the front and your name in the top right corner. “What the...fuck?” The envelope had been opened before but the pages were crisp, mostly untouched. When you came back, he was reading intently.
“That was so nice,” you sighed, still smiling about the rings. “I think the Honeycore was great—”
“What is this?” Joe interrupts, holding up the papers.
“What do you mean?
His eyes narrow, face unreadable. “What do you mean what do I mean? Where’d this prenup even come from?”
Your face drops. “Are you being serious? Your mom gave it to me a few days ago,” you tried to explain. “Joe, did you not—you didn’t know about this?”
The papers are gently placed on the counter and he runs his fingers through his hair. “No,” his voice sounds strained. “My mom gave you this?”
“Yes.”
“And she, what? Told you to reach out to Peter?”
“If I had any questions. Said he was always available if I needed clarification on something.”
A dry sound, chillingly resembling a laugh escapes him. “If you need clarification. Jesus Christ.” His palms rest flat on the counter but he doesn’t say anything else for a minute.
Your hand moves carefully to the middle of his back but the stiffness in his posture doesn’t ease, even a touch. “I wouldn’t have my mom hand you a legally binding document regarding our marriage without talking to you about it first. She fucking ambushed you.”
“Okay, relax.” You tried, rubbing his back. “She didn’t hold me at gunpoint. She just said it was an uncomfortable formality that we needed to get out of the way.”
“Yeah we do,” he said pointedly. “By we, I mean you and I, not you, me and my mom. She had no right to go around me, none.” Joe takes a long breath, still confused, mostly pissed and stands to his full height. “I mean, why would she that?”
Leaning against the counter you met his eyes, your touch unwavering. “She probably thought it would help? One less thing for you to worry about? I mean there is a lot to factor in as far as your assets go and your mom’s probably thinking ahead so you can do other things.”
“I really don’t get how you can you defend this.”
“Because I see those wheels turning in your head and the anger radiating off of your body right now. I’m just trying to let you know I don’t think she meant any harm. Not with how she presented it to me.”
He shakes his head, mostly in disbelief. Taking a sip of his water, he taps his index finger against the outside of the cup a few times. Joe closes his eyes for a few seconds and you realize he’s silently counting. You don’t think you’ve seen him like this…ever. He runs his tongue across the top row of his teeth, eyes now open. “I know she didn’t mean any harm, that’s not the point. The point is, she shouldn’t have presented it to you at all. And I’m glad you’re taking the high road but I—I don’t even fucking know right now.” He grabs his water and the stack of papers, heading up to his home office without another word.
You could tell he was still unsettled a few days later which was a little inconvenient for him to hide when his brother’s family drove to Cincy as a pitstop to their spring break roadtrip to Nashville. Not even a Smash Bros tournament with his nephews cheered him up, his smile didn’t reach his eyes when his niece told him about her new sparkly pink #9 jersey she was gonna wear to preschool.
The kids luckily didn’t notice his turmoil, happily moving onto the next activity in the car with Joe’s sister-in-law set to drive.
“I rented out two theaters so take your pick,” Joe announced before they left. Each kid had brought a friend along with them, adding to the fun. And the chaos. “B said she wanted to watch Hopper so that’s an option, or you guys can watch Project Hail Mary. We saw it last week, it was pretty good.”
His niece stands next to him, eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you watch Hopper too?”
“Haven’t had time yet,” he tells her, moving down to eye level. “How about this, you watch it today, tell me if you like it. And if you do, I’ll see it with you.”
“Can both of you come next time?” She directs the question to you.
“If you want us both there, it’s a date.” The three year old hands out hugs like she’s being deployed rather than sitting down to watch 104 minutes of talking animals. “Make sure you get snacks, okay? Get candy and soda and all the things. That’s what the movies are for.” You poked her belly, watching her erupt into a fit of giggles before she hugged you one more time and headed towards the front door to get in the car.
Jamie’s wife Codie shot you playful glare, keys dangling around her pinky. “Are you encouraging a sugar rush?”
“I’m doing what any fun aunt should be doing,” you defended yourself. “What’s the point of uncle Joe renting the place out if they’re not gonna stuff your faces in sour patch kids and Dr. Pepper?”
“She has a point,” Jamie notes, coming in from the backyard. “Grill’s on, we’ll have food ready for you guys by the time you get back. Cancel out some of that candy.”
He gives her a hug and a quick kiss before she’s out the door. You headed upstairs to take a call. Jamie moves into the kitchen to grab things to start cooking. The chicken he marinated overnight, the burgers he plans to season before tossing them on the grill and an endless amount of corn on the cob. Joe doesn’t offer to help, he just stands off to the side, phone in hand but he’s not looking at the screen. “Alright, what crawled up your ass and died?”
“What?”
“You’ve had a weird look on your face all day. Care to share why?”
Joe exhales, eyes on Jamie who’s opening cabinets freely like he lives here. Not that he minds, he’s got too much going on in his mind to tell him where the seasoning salt is. “I found a prenup on the table the other day.”
“Okay,” Jamie doesn’t look over.
“Peter drafted it. And my mom handed it out like it was no big deal. I never saw the thing. Didn’t even know they’d been discussing it until I read the whole document myself.”
“Hold on, you didn’t know about any of it?”
“Nope.”
His brother raises his eyebrows, suddenly very uninterested in parsley flakes and locating the black pepper. “Okay yeah, not a great look for Robin. But I’m sure she didn’t—”
“I know she didn’t. Heard that speech already.”
Jaime grins, putting his hands up. “I’m just saying, your mom doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, especially not when it comes to your fiancée, I mean. Did she seem mad at Robin about the prenup when you talked?”
“No,” he murmurs, “but that doesn’t make it any less inappropriate. She wouldn’t do that to you. Or Dan.”
“Well yeah,” his brother scoffs, washing his hands. “We didn’t come out of her.” The burgers are laid out on a tray and Jamie gets to work on one side. “Look, I love Robin, you know that. But I was making my own decisions when she met dad. She didn’t want to overstep and we could tell her no without things getting weird. Robin literally gave birth to you, changed your diapers, booked your doctor’s appointments and has never missed any of your events, even the stupid ones.”
“Right, but I’m gonna be 30 years old. She can’t just step in and ask my fiancée to refer to my legal team for questions regarding our marriage. Not exactly the recipe for success.”
Jamie laughs, handing his brother a tray as Joe follows him to the grill. “You need to tell her that.” He gets a blank stare back. “I’m being serious. Tell her this is a different. Because I guarantee you she thinks she was taking something off your plate.”
Joe knows Jamie has a point but his annoyance is still there. “Malicious or not, she crossed a line. Couldn’t even text me or give me a phone call so I had a heads-up? Felt like a fucking idiot being the last person to find out there was an entire prenup about my money floating around.”
“I know,” the older man admits, patting his left shoulder. “Can you grab the corn? You can be pissed and helpful, multitasking is part of your job description.” That earned him a real laugh, the first one he’d heard from his little brother all day.
The words Jamie said replayed in Joe’s mind a lot, how similar they were to your point of view and while he understood where you both were coming from, he knew the conversation with his mom needed to happen. “The Athens trip isn’t happening.” He tells you casually after coming home from a workout. The only thing on his mind was a protein shake, not conflict resolution techniques.
“You avoiding your mom?”
“I don’t know how I want to say what I need to say without being mean.” He explains, his headband doing next to nothing at this point in keeping his hair under control. Maybe it really was time to get it cut. “I need some time to figure it out and I can’t do that if we’re at their house. Can you just call her and tell her we aren’t coming anymore?”
You gave him a pointed look. “I know how it sounds,” he murmurs, avoiding eye contact. He tossed the headband onto the counter after he found what he was looking for. It wasn’t a protein shake, but peanut butter balls would hold him over until dinner. “Please?”
“Fine babe, I’ll call her.”
“Thanks.”
The phone call itself was straight to the point. Because you two were supposed to be there in the morning, you apologized to Robin for the short notice and told her you wouldn’t be spending the weekend with them. “Joe’s not feeling up to making the drive.”
“Oh, is he okay?” You recognized the immediate concern and felt bad for playing it up a little, but you remembered Joe practically begging and made it work.
“He will be,” you promised, “just tired. He’s been running around a lot the last few weeks, I think it’s catching up to him a little.”
“Well, tell him to get some rest and we’ll see you guys another time. Love you both.”
“Love you too Robin, take care.” You fell back against the couch, blowing out air after playing the middle man.
You got roughly…fifteen hours of peace after the phone call. In the morning, instead of getting on the road, you woke up to shoulder kisses that you tried really hard to ignore. “Nope, not in the mood.”
“Why?” His voice sounds rough from lack of use. “What did I do?”
“Besides being a huge hypocrite? You made me lie to your mom.”
Joe sits up, a sleepy grin on his face. “Okay fine yes, maybe a little. But I’m gonna call her eventually.” He laughs when you give him a look. “I will. I just need time.”
You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and he uses that as an opportunity to tug you closer to him. “You can’t seriously be this mad at your mom over a prenup. We need one.”
“I know that. I’m not mad about the prenup, I’m upset with how she handled it,” his hand moves across your forearm and he leans in for a kiss. It’s quick but grounding, like he needed it to reset his nervous system. “Can we talk about something else? Tell me something cool.”
“Something cool,” you think for a second, his hand moving to rest beside you, down at your hip. “Okay. I was thinking for happy hour, we come up with our own drink menu. Meet with a mixologist and create signature cocktails?”
“That’s be fun,” he notes, pressing his lips on the skin below your ear. “We also have to narrow down this guest list. I don’t want everyone and their mom at this thing.”
“This thing? You mean our wedding?”
“It’s our wedding but it’s mostly just an excuse for people to pretend they know us. I’d rather do this, lay in bed with you and hang out like normal people. We shouldn’t be paying for a party for other people to have fun. My idea of fun involves, you, me and preferably no clothes. Oh and the rings, we need those.”
The doorbell rings before you can respond and Joe checks the cameras on his phone to see who it is. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” his head drops into your shoulder and you take the phone out of his hand to see.
Robin and Jimmy are standing at the front door. Your fiancé doesn’t move an inch, firmly planted in his spot, leaning about 40% of his weight on you. “Looks like this phone call just became an in-person thing?” He groans at first instead of answering.
“Can you get rid of them? Tell them it’s a stomach thing and it’s not pretty. Whatever you want, I don’t care.”
“No. You’re gonna get dressed, come downstairs and face your mother.” You tapped his chest so he’d get off of you and headed to the bathroom to brush your teeth and change.
The smell of French toast casserole wafted through the home as soon as you let them in, with Robin’s smiling face front and center. If only she knew. “Good morning,” she sang, walking over to the kitchen counter. “After we talked last night, I figured since you guys couldn’t make the drive, we’d come to you.”
“You guys drove here last night?”
Jimmy’s halfhearted grin is much louder than he probably intended. “As soon as she ended that phone call with you, she told me we were gettin’ on the road. He still sleepin’?”
“He’s awake, should be down soon.” You watched Robin unpack what she brought while Jimmy placed the food on the dining room table. Along with the casserole there was bacon, three different kinds of juice, vitamin c tablets, ibuprofen and chamomile tea, honey and lemons.
“How’s he feeling?” She asked, her tone still coated in worry.
You didn’t know how to answer that one. “Um…he’s up and down, for sure.” Before she could ask any more questions, everyone’s heads turned toward the stairs as footsteps came down, extra slow. You threw up a small prayer to any higher power listening that Joe would keep it together, letting out a sigh of relief when his face didn’t give anything abnormal away.
“Hey dad,” he said, hugging him. “Hi mom.” The interaction was brief, a one armed side hug, but he didn’t make a scene so you took your win and sat down at the table. Joe sat in the chair closest to you, glanced at the makeshift pharmacy on the counter and gave you a look. You shook your head, silently pleading with him to not start anything and he cleared his throat instead. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said quietly.
Most of the meal was uncomfortably wordless and you felt like you had to do something to break the ice since clearly Joe didn’t want to participate. “You guys didn’t have to make the drive. I’m sure you had to get up super early to cook, too. We really appreciate it.”
“It was nothing,” Robin says, smiling again. “I used to drive to Columbus just to do his laundry and make sure he was okay even though he wasn’t playing. Funny how far we’ve come since then.”
Joe’s jaw is tight, you can see a vein in his neck that’s now cartoonishly visible and you place your hand on his thigh. He takes a breath and covers your hand with his, putting his head down.
His mom notices the entire exchange. “Oh honey, are you not feeling well?”
“I’d be feeling a lot better if there was real communication in this family.” The tone isn’t vicious by any means but there is a hint of hostility in his words.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you and Peter want to talk with Brian behind my back and negotiate my next contract too or is that where you draw the line?”
“Joe,” you look at him but he doesn’t stop.
His mom beats him to the punch. “Your contract? What in the world has gotten into you? What are you talking about?”
He stands up and rushes up the stairs, coming back with the envelope. Robin’s expression changes from caught off guard to something you can’t quite place. Not guilt exactly, but likely something close. “This look familiar at all?”
“Is this why you ‘weren’t feeling well?’ You’re upset about the document?”
“It’s not ‘the document,’” Joe puts it in air quotes, “let’s call the prenup what it is. And I’m not naive, I know there needs to be one and conversations need to be had. But there’s no way in the world that it makes sense for you and Peter to go behind my back and draft this thing and hand it to her without me having a say. And then you blindside her with this on a random day like she has to go through a channel of people to talk to me.”
Robin sighs, glancing between you and Joe. “Okay yes, I can see where I maybe had a lapse in judgement not giving you a heads up. But Joe, I have been protecting you and supporting you your entire life. I don’t want you sweating the little stuff.”
“This isn’t little, it’s probably one of the most important conversations she and I have to have. And you bulldozed through that so you wouldn’t inconvenience me. I’m not 20 anymore and this isn’t dirty laundry.”
“Bulldoze? I didn’t bulldoze through anything Joe. I was trying to help not come up with some master plan behind your back.”
“Well that’s kind of how it happened.”
Jimmy gives you a pleading look and you try to defuse the situation. “Okay, I think it’s getting a little off track here.”
Robin agrees. “Maybe I didn’t handle it appropriately but I wanted to make sure that we got this whole thing squared away. Clearly my actions had the opposite effect and I’m sorry I overstepped.”
“Thank you. Another thing I need to talk to you about. The ‘we’ thing.” Joe cuts in. “I love you, you know that. But I don’t want her feeling like she has to go through you to get to me.”
You see Robin physically recoil at Joe’s sentence and it hurts to watch. “I would never. I have never treated her that way.” She looks toward you.“Right?”
“No, you’ve been amazing.” You reassure her and immediately look to Joe so he can clarify.
“What are you saying then? Because I love you both. You know that.”
This is why I needed time to think, he tells himself. But out loud, all he says is “we do.”
“I didn’t do this because I think you’re some evil mastermind after his money,” Robin explains, her eyes starting to glisten but she doesn’t cry, she knows now isn’t the time. Jimmy sighs, some part of you thinks he may have tried to tell her the whole prenup draft was a bad idea and now it’s too late.
“We know that too,” Joe says. “What I’m saying is that loving us both doesn’t mean you get to make these decisions for us. For me specifically. And it’s a hard switch but you don’t have to parent me like—” He stops, frustrated with himself. “That’s not what I mean.”
Robin is quiet.
“I still need you. Obviously I need you. But I don’t need you taking over.” Joe stands up and takes the seat next to her. “I know you didn’t do it intentionally but your version of helping made me the last person in this entire situation to know there was a prenup with my name on it. That can’t happen.”
“You’re right.” Is all she says at first.
Then she continues after a few seconds trying to figure out how to articulate her thoughts. “I guess I can do a better job reminding myself that you’re a capable adult rather than come in and try to play superhero when you don’t need it. Kind of like today, when you cancelled. I should’ve taken that instead of driving here.”
“She’s a fast learner, this one,” his dad jokes.
Joe smiles and hugs her, telling her he loves her and appreciates everything she’s done for him. “Next time you feel like playing superhero, just ask me first?”
Robin agrees to those terms, placing a hand on his cheek. “You’ll always be my baby boy, even if you’re married to an angel. And don’t say she’s not because she just sat through this entire conversation and hasn’t run away screaming.”
You laugh, deciding to stand up too. “I think there’s worse places in the world to be than with the person I love the most and the people who made him.” Robin pulls you in for a warm hug and apologizes again, promising to try her hardest to respect your boundaries. They pack up and leave an hour later and Joe walks them to the door. He finds you loading the dishwasher and takes the plates out of your hands, leaving them in the sink. You turn to face him as he steps forward and hands you a few paper towels. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” You cackle and he joins instantly, the only sound for a few minutes is uncontrollable laughter.
“Are you sure you wanna commit to that forever?”
“I wanna be where you are so yeah, I think I’m in this for the long haul.”
“Hm,” he utters, lips curved in a thin line. “Be careful what you wish for.” Joe lets your hands roam his broad chest and leans down to kiss you again, taking in the moment free of tension, replaced only with the blissful anticipation of officially getting to call himself your husband. As he’s kissing you his mind wanders to the countdown app he has on his phone, down to the minute he’s supposed to meet you for your private vows. The prenup conversation still needs to happen and it will.
Not that Joe plans on ever needing the damn thing.
summary: you think you’re losing him even while you’re sharing a bed and a last name-to-be, until one night cracks everything open and forces you both to finally say the quiet parts out loud. distance turns into desperation, and he spends the night (& morning after) proving that you were never losing him at all.
wc: 13.4k (this was supposed to be a blurb but oh well)
happy (late) thanksgiving everyone, so incredibly thankful for you all and the love you guys give to my fics <3 truly so motivating.
warnings: 18+, minors DNI, angsty-smut, insecurity, swearing, hurt/comfort, pet names, swearing, repetitions of certain phrases (didn't notice until i read over oops), porn w/little to no plot
a/n: wrote this over the last two weeks and last-minute made it thanksgiving-y, so excuse the random mentions LMAO. also i don’t think i’m good at angst so… be nice. can we clap i finally wrote a summary, kinda just yap the morning scenes werent needed but i hit a flow state writing but with that its also all pver the place.
you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, curling iron trembling slightly in your grip as you twist another section of hair around the barrel. the ring on your left hand catches the vanity light with every tiny movement, three carats of princess-cut diamond that still steals your breath every time you really look at it. six months ago, on that quiet night in positano during the off-season, he’d dropped to one knee on the warm cobblestones of the little terrace overlooking the amalfi coast, the sea glittering behind him like it was holding its breath, and asked you to marry him, to be his wife, to be his forever. you’d said yes through tears and salt air and the scent of lemon trees, and he’d kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. future mrs. burrow. you mouth the words silently to your reflection like a prayer, like if you say it enough times it will stitch the widening crack in your chest back together. it doesn’t.
because this morning he came in from the gym at dawn, hoodie soaked through, curls plastered to his temples, chest still heaving from the lift, and all you got was the ghost of a kiss brushed against your temple as he passed you in the kitchen, one distracted “morning, babe” tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs. no crooked grin, no low, teasing “c’mere, future mrs. burrow, let’s save water,” no big hands sliding under the shirt you’d had on, no backing you against the counter until you were laughing and breathless and he was hard against your hip, whispering exactly what he was going to do to you once the shower was running. just the hollow thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the bathroom door, the rush of water behind it, and the silence that swallowed the house afterward. you stood there in the corner while the coffee was brewing, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like an absolute idiot for hoping he’d notice.
because it’s not just this morning, it’s been the last month unraveling thread by thread. it’s waking up to an empty bed more often than not because he’s already at the facility by six-thirty. it’s the good-morning texts that stopped coming, the “i love you”s that turned into one-word replies, the nights he stumbles in long after you’re asleep and you pretend you don’t feel him slide under the covers with his back to you, phone glowing against his face while he watches film until he passes out. it’s the way sex has become so rare you honestly can’t remember the last time he touched you like he used to, can’t pinpoint the last night he kissed you slow and deep instead of brushing a quick, exhausted peck to your forehead, can’t recall the last time his hands mapped your body like it was something sacred. it’s the way he barely looks up when you walk into a room anymore, the way his hands don’t automatically reach for you, the way your name sounds like background noise in his mouth instead of the prayer it once was. it’s the slow, terrifying realization that the man who used to cancel plans just to stay in bed with you all day now treats coming home like another obligation he’s trying to check off before the next meeting. it’s watching the ring on your finger catch the light while you lie awake at 3 a.m. and wondering if forever still means the same thing to him that it does to you.
you shake it off the way you’ve been shaking everything off for weeks, like if you just keep moving, keep smiling, keep pretending the ache isn’t there, it’ll eventually stop clawing at your ribs. he’s stressed. short week. primetime game on thursday against the ravens. he’s been busy. busy rehabbing his toe. busy trying to get back to football. twenty-five people at his parents’ house today. you repeat it like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it’ll glue the cracks back together, like it’ll make the silence in the car feel normal instead of suffocating. you stand in front of the mirror doing your makeup on autopilot and every stroke of the brush feels like painting armor over a bruise. you tell yourself this is what being a football fiancée means, this is what loving someone in the middle of a packed work life feels like, this is temporary, this is fine, you are fine. you slip into the cream cashmere dress he picked out himself two months ago in that little boutique in new york, the one he couldn’t keep his hands off you in. you slide on the louboutins he surprised you with after the engagement, the ones he said were made for the woman who was going to own every room she ever walked into (starting with his heart). you look in the mirror and the reflection is flawless: hair curled just right, dress hugging every curve, legs for days, ring sparkling like a promise. you look perfect. you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, like the girl he fell in love with has been slowly erased and replaced by a quieter, smaller version who’s terrified to ask for too much, who’s scared that if she speaks the truth out loud the whole beautiful life will shatter. you look like the girl that he fell in love with. you feel like the girl he’s already starting to forget.
the drive to his parents’ house is excruciating. his right hand never leaves the wheel. your left thigh stays cold. you watch cincinnati roll by in bleeding golds and reds, the ohio river glinting like a wound under the weak november sun, and you keep waiting, keep waiting, for his fingers to slide across the console and lace through yours the way they always do. they never do. small talk about turkey, about his mom’s sweet potato casserole, about whether his cousin is bringing that girl again. surface-level. safe. nothing that touches the scream building in your throat.
at the house it’s worse than you imagined. the second the door opens he’s swallowed by his family in the best way with his mom pulling him into a tight hug, his dad clapping him on the back hard enough to echo, his brothers dragging him toward the living room tv before he’s even taken his coat off, nephews asking non-stop questions. you trail behind with the mac and cheese his mom asked you to make, smiling when someone takes it from your hands, letting yourself be folded into the women’s side of the chaos like you belong there (because you do, you tell yourself). you end up stationed in the kitchen and dining room with his mom, his aunts, the cousins, passing pies and refilling wine glasses and answering the same gentle questions about the wedding you’ve answered a hundred times. he’s on the completely opposite end of the house, voice carrying over the laughter as he argues with his dad about offensive line play calls, breaking down film on the tv for his uncles like it’s fourth-and-goal. you catch glimpses of him through doorways (head thrown back laughing, cheeks flushed, curls messy from little fingers tugging at them) and every time you hope he’ll look over, catch your eye, give you that secret little smile he used to save just for you across crowded rooms. he never does.
it happens once. his aunt corners both of you near the table, eyes sparkling, asking when the big day is, and he leans over absently, presses one distracted kiss into your hair, mutters “whenever she wants” with a shrug, and then he’s already turning back to his brother calling his name from the living room. no arm around your waist. no squeeze to your hip. no proud, possessive hand letting everyone in the room know you’re his favorite person on the planet. just that single, fleeting kiss, like you’re a reflex he’s already forgetting.
the rest of the night you orbit him like a moon he no longer notices. you smile for pictures, you laugh at the right times, you help plate desserts, you answer questions about centerpieces and venues with a voice that doesn’t shake, but inside you are coming apart thread by thread, stitch by stitch, until there’s almost nothing left.
by the time you’re buckled into the passenger seat for the drive home the sky has gone that deep, bruised purple that makes everything feel heavier, and you are so, so bone-tired of pretending that the smile you’ve been wearing all day doesn’t ache like a bruise. you rest your head against the cold window, watch the streetlights blur into watercolor streaks, and you don’t even try to stay awake. exhaustion drags you under like a riptide, fast and merciless, and you let it take you.
you come up slowly to the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the only real touch you’ve felt from him since this morning, and his voice soft in your ear, “we’re home, honey,” quiet, almost tender, like nothing’s wrong. by the time your eyes flutter open he’s already out of the car, shutting his door, heading toward the house without waiting. you sit there for a second in the sudden silence, the engine ticking as it cools, seatbelt still across your chest, staring at the empty driver’s seat and feeling the ache settle deeper than ever.
you follow him inside on autopilot, the door clicking shut behind you like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to finish. your heels come off in the mudroom with two dull thuds. normally he’d be right there, kneeling to slip them off your feet himself, kissing each ankle like it was a privilege, murmuring something filthy-sweet about how good you looked in them and how much better you’d look out of everything else. tonight the room is empty, the only sound the soft rustle of your dress and the sudden, crushing weight of the ring on your finger that feels heavier than the entire house pressing down on your chest.
you drift through the dark hallway, past the picture frames filled with so much love that it’s trying to comfort you, and watch him climb the stairs ahead of you, shirt loose, shoulders curved inward with exhaustion, curls messy from little-kid hands and too many hugs. he’s already pulling away again, already retreating into tomorrow’s film, tomorrow’s practice, tomorrow’s everything that isn’t you.
he’s halfway up when something inside you finally snaps.
“joe.”
he stops instantly, turns on the stairs, brow creasing with that focus that used to feel like it was only ever for you. “yeah, sweetie? you okay?”
you stand in the center of the living room, the christmas tree you put up last weekend twinkling mockingly behind you, all those little white lights reflecting in the diamond like it’s laughing at you. your arms wrap around yourself like that can hold the pieces together. you swallow hard, once, twice. the words feel ridiculous now that they’re clawing their way out, but they’ve been living under your skin for weeks, festering, turning poisonous, and you can’t carry them for one more second.
“no, i’m not okay,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words tumbling out raw and jagged, slicing the quiet in half. you start again, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around your ribs to hold yourself together. “i feel like…” you stop, the rest catching like shards of glass in your throat. your hands twist together in front of you, the diamond on your finger catching the soft glow of the christmas-tree lights and throwing it back like a warning, like it’s screaming look at me, look at what you promised, look at what we might be losing. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked open and bleeding, barely above the hush of the house.
“i feel like you don’t want me anymore.”
you swallow, but it doesn’t help; the next words still scrape on the way out.
“i feel like i’m… shrinking inside my own life. like every day i wake up in this house that’s supposed to be ours and i take up less space than i did the day before. like i’m becoming a ghost in the background of your season, your schedule, your stress. i spent all morning trying to look like the girl you asked to marry you, the girl you couldn’t keep your hands off, and you walked right past me like i was furniture. i put on the dress you said made you stupid and you didn’t even notice. i smiled for so many people today and answered questions about centerpieces and honeymoon plans and every time someone called me your fiancée i waited for you to touch me, to look at me like you used to—like i was the only real thing in the room—and it never happened. not once.”
your voice fractures completely now, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, and you can’t stop them.
“i know you’re finally cleared to play, i know that’s what you’ve been working toward. and i’m so, so proud of you— you’re ahead of your timeline…i know the team’s riding on your shoulders. i know you’re carrying more pressure than any person should ever have to carry. i’m proud of you, joe, i’m so proud it hurts, but god, i miss being your safe place. i miss being the thing that made the noise stop. i miss you looking at me like i’m home. because right now it feels like i’m just another obligation you’re trying to get through until the off-season. like if i disappeared tomorrow you’d be… relieved. one less thing to worry about. one less person waiting up. and that terrifies me, because i said yes to forever with you and i meant it with every piece of me, but lately i’m not sure forever still means the same thing to you that it does to me.”
you finally look up at him, tears blurring everything, and your voice drops to something broken and terrifyingly small.
“tell me i’m wrong. please, joe. tell me you still want this. tell me you still want me.”
the silence that follows is deafening, absolute, like the whole world just stopped breathing.
he stares at you for a long beat, and the expression on his face is pure, stunned disbelief. like you just told him the sky was green and the grass was blue. his mouth actually falls open a little, eyes wide and shocked. “what?” he breathes, the word cracking in half.
you can’t look at him, eyes fixed on the floor of the living room, the diamond on your finger catching the dim light every time your hand trembles. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked and raw.
“i didn’t want to say anything,” you start, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around yourself just to keep from shaking apart. “i swore i wouldn’t bring it up, because i know what these months means, i know what the game means, i know you’re under stress right now and the last thing you need is me making it heavier. i’ve been swallowing it for weeks, joe. i’ve been choking it down every single day, telling myself it’s fine, it’s temporary, it’ll pass, but it’s eating me alive from the inside out and i can’t carry it anymore.”
you look down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the lights like it’s trying to blind you.
“this ring… it used to feel like the safest thing in the world. every time i looked at it i remembered that day, remembered you on one knee promising me forever, and it made everything feel steady. but this past month it’s started to feel like a question mark instead of a promise. because the love it’s supposed to remind me of… you haven’t reminded me of that. not with your hands, not with your eyes, not with the way you say my name. nothing. and that terrifies me.”
your voice cracks completely now, tears spilling faster than you can stop them.
“i’m scared i’m not what you want anymore. i’m scared the version of me you fell in love with—the one you couldn’t keep your hands off, the one you looked at like i hung the moon—i’m scared she’s gone for you and you just haven’t figured out how to tell me yet. i spent all day trying to look like her again, smiling for everyone like nothing was wrong… and you didn’t say anything to me, not once. not in the car. not at your parents’ house. not even when we walked through the door just now. i feel invisible, joe. like i’m in the way. like i’m background noise in your life right now, and the ring is the only thing keeping me in the frame.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, on the twinkling lights of the christmas tree, on the faint scuff mark by the coffee table, anywhere but him, because if you look up and see even a flicker of guilt in his face, if you see the truth you’ve been dreading written across those blue eyes, it will absolutely destroy you. you’re terrified that one glance will confirm every poisonous thought that’s been looping in your head for weeks: that he’s been distant because he’s already letting go, that the ring is just a beautiful placeholder until he figures out how to leave, that the man who once looked at you like you were his entire world has quietly decided you’re no longer enough.
“i miss you so much it hurts to breathe. i miss us. i miss being the person you came home to, not just the person who happens to live here. and i’m so terrified that one day you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t need me waiting at home anymore. that you’re better off without the weight of someone who still wants the version of you that used to choose me first.”
you finally risk a glance at him and it wrecks you.
his face is crumpled, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, the blue almost swallowed by the shine of tears he’s fighting so hard to hold back. his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin, the same way it does when he’s trying not to lose it on the sideline after a bad call. his shoulders are curved forward like the weight of your words just folded him in half. he looks like you reached into his chest and crushed something vital, like you just took a sledgehammer to the one thing he thought he was getting right.
he looks absolutely, utterly destroyed.
and that’s how you know, with a punch straight to your own heart, that you weren’t right at all.
he’s not letting go.
“sweetie…” his voice is wrecked, cracked open and raw, barely above a whisper. “no. no, no, no.” he comes back down the steps slower than you’ve ever seen him move, like the air itself has thickened around him. when he reaches you in the middle of the living room he doesn’t drop to his knees; he just stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne under the dinner still clinging to his shirt, and lifts both hands to cup your face so gently it makes your breath hitch. his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, trembling just enough that you feel it. his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, shining too bright under the christmas lights, and you can see the exact second the tears threaten to spill because he blinks hard, jaw locked tight like he’s physically holding them back.
“how could you even think that?” the words come out broken, hoarse, like they’re being ripped out of him. “i’m—” he has to stop, throat working, swallowing hard once, twice, three times like he’s choking on the guilt. “i’m so fucking sorry. i didn’t see it. i didn’t see you breaking right in front of me and i hate myself for it. i’ve been so lost in my own head, so terrified of letting the whole damn city down, of letting the team down, of letting my family down, that i let the one person who actually matters down. i let you down. god, sweetheart, i’m an idiot. i’m the biggest idiot on the planet and i don’t deserve you standing here right now. i don’t deserve you at all.”
his voice cracks completely on the last word and this time a tear slips free, sliding down his cheek before he can stop it. he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.
“i’ve been a selfish, blind asshole and you have every right to hate me for it. i see it now, i see every single day i made you feel small and i want to burn the film of the last month because none of it matters if you’re hurting because of me.”
he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of your tears is physically painful.
“you think i stopped wanting you? you think i don’t want you? jesus christ, angel, i put a ring on this finger because you’re the only thing i’ve ever been sure of in my entire life.” he lifts your left hand with shaking fingers, presses his lips to the diamond like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched, like he’s trying to pour every apology into that single kiss. “i put it here because i wake up every morning and the first thing i feel is gratitude that you’re still here, that you still let me love you, that you said yes to forever with someone who clearly forgot how to show you what forever means. there is no version of my life without you in it. none. i’m on that field trying not to drown and the only thing keeping my head above water is knowing you’re waiting for me. and i took that for granted. i took you for granted. i’m so fucking sorry. i’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees begging you to forgive me if that’s what it takes.”
his voice breaks again and this time he doesn’t fight the tears, lets them fall as he stares at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“i love you so much it hurts. i love you so much i don’t know how to carry it sometimes. and i fucked up so bad that you think you’re forgettable. you’re not forgettable. you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. you’re my gravity, my center, my home, and i lost sight of that and i’ll never forgive myself for it.”
he kisses you before you can answer, desperate, messy, like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. his mouth crashes into yours with so much need it steals your breath, teeth clacking, noses bumping, a broken sound tearing out of his throat when you kiss him back. he kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like if he can just get close enough he can erase every second he made you doubt. his hands slide from your face to fist in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper, harder, tongue sliding against yours in a way that feels like i’m sorry and please don’t leave and i love you all at once. he only pulls back when you’re both gasping, forehead still pressed to yours, lips brushing with every ragged breath, refusing to let even an inch of space exist between you.
“never again,” he whispers against your mouth, voice raw. “i swear on everything i am, not for one more second.”
he doesn’t let the inch of space last more than a heartbeat. he kisses you again, harder this time, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest as he walks you backward until your spine meets the living-room wall with a soft thud that rattles the framed photo of the two of you from spring hanging beside your head. the glass trembles in its frame but he doesn’t stop, couldn’t stop even if the house caught fire; his mouth is hot and desperate on yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding deep like he’s trying to taste every apology he hasn’t said yet. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg around his hip so he can press himself flush against you, letting you feel exactly how badly he needs you, how hard he already is just from kissing you like his life depends on it. you gasp into his mouth at the pressure and the picture rattles again, louder this time, and you pull back just enough to glance at it, breath coming in shallow pants. he follows your gaze, sees the photo shaking, and lets out a wrecked little laugh against your swollen lips (half apology, half promise) before his eyes lock back on yours, dark and wild.
“bedroom,” he says, voice rough and urgent, already standing and tugging you up with him. “now. i need to show you. words aren’t enough. i need you to feel it.”
the second the door shuts behind you he’s on you again, backing you toward the wall while he tugs impatiently at your dress, cursing under his breath when it catches on your hair. “fuck, why do clothes hate me tonight,” he mutters, voice strained, finally yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere across the room. your panties are next; he practically rips them down your thighs, kneeling to drag them off your ankles, palms dragging up the backs of your legs slow and reverent, like he’s praying. “this dress,” he growls, mouth on your neck, teeth scraping. “been thinking about peeling it off you since you walked downstairs. you looked so fucking beautiful and i was too stupid to tell you.” he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct and he groans, grinding against you so you feel exactly how he is. “feel that? that’s what looking at my future wife does to me. every time. still.”
he turns to hold you up against the wall and just looks at you, chest heaving, eyes raking over you like he’s seeing you for the first time in months. “jesus christ,” he whispers, reverent, almost angry at himself. “how the hell did i go a single day without touching you? without tasting you? i’m the dumbest motherfucker alive. look at you. you’re fucking perfect and i left you thinking you weren’t everything to me.”
you start to answer but he kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing the sound. it’s the kind of kiss that shuts your brain off, that says mine without words, that says i’m sorry and i love you and never again all at once. his tongue slides against yours slow and deep, tasting you like he’s memorizing you all over again.
he walks with you, putting you down until your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pushing you down gently, climbing over you. his big hands gather your wrists and pin them above your head, careful but firm, and he stares down at you like you’re not just a person but his favorite story—one he’s been rereading since the day he met you and still keeps finding new parts to fall in love with.
“gonna show you exactly how much i want you,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “gonna take my time. you deserve to feel it. every second of it. gonna worship you until the only thing in your head is how much i fucking love you. gonna make you feel every single thing i should’ve shown you today,” he whispers against your lips, voice ragged, eyes locked on yours like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks. “every single thing i should’ve shown you yesterday, last week, every damn day i let you feel alone. swear to god, honey, if you let me, i’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. every morning, every night, every second in between, you’re gonna know exactly how wanted you are. how loved. how fucking necessary you are to me.”
he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing your collarbone before he moves lower. he mouths at the swell of your breast over your bra until you’re arching up, then tugs the cups down with his teeth so he can get to your skin. his tongue flicks over your nipple and you whimper, the sound high and needy. he spends forever there, switching sides, sucking dark marks into your skin like he’s trying to write his name across your chest in a language only he can read. he bites down gently and you cry out, hips bucking, and he soothes the sting with his tongue immediately. “should’ve had my hands on you in the car,” he murmurs, nipping some more. “should’ve pulled over and fucked you in the backseat just to hear you scream my name where anyone could hear. should’ve introduced you to every person today as my fiancée and then spent the whole dinner with my hand up your thigh reminding you who you belong to.”
“still with me, sweetie?” he asks, voice gravel-rough, eyes searching yours.
you nod, but he shakes his head, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“words, honey. need to hear you.”
“yes,” you manage, voice shaky. “please, joe. need you.”
“such a good girl,” he praises, and the sound you make is embarrassing, a broken little whine that makes him smirk, dark and pleased. “my good girl. been neglecting you. not happening again.”
he slides down your body, hands spreading your thighs wide and just looks for a long moment, cursing low and filthy under his breath. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” he says, voice cracking a little. “and it’s mine. been mine for years and i still can’t believe you let me have it. still thank god every day you chose me. you're gonna be mine in every way. forever.”
he peppers soft kisses across your stomach, lips dragging slow, worshipful, lingering over the faint stretch marks on your hips, the little scar from when you were eight, every imperfection he’s kissed a thousand times and still finds new ways to love. he kisses lower, lower, until he’s nuzzling the crease of your thigh, breathing you in like he’s been deprived of oxygen.
“smell so fucking good,” he groans, voice muffled against your skin. “been dreaming about this. about you. about how wet you get for me.”
when he finally licks a slow stripe up your center you cry out, hips bucking off the bed. he pins your hips down with one forearm across your lower belly and does it again, slower, savoring every shudder. he circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, teasing until your thighs are shaking around his ears. when he finally wraps his lips around it and sucks gently you see stars, back bowing off the mattress.
“joe—fuck—”
“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “say my name. wanna hear it. wanna hear how good i make you feel.”
his hand slides up your stomach, finding yours and lacing your fingers together while he works you over with his mouth. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, until you’re begging, voice cracked and desperate, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “this hand,” he says, breaking away to kiss your knuckles, your ring. “this hand is gonna wear my wedding band one day. gonna hold our babies. gonna hold mine when we’re old and gray. you’re mine for eternity.”
“joe, please—need to come—please—”
he pulls back just long enough to speak against your slick skin, breath hot. “i know, sweetie. i got you. not letting you go without it again. but i need you to know—this is mine. this pussy, these sounds, the way you shake when you’re about to come—it’s all mine. and i’m yours. completely fucking yours.”
two fingers slide inside you easy—you’re so wet it’s obscene—and he groans like he’s the one getting tortured. he curls them slow, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps that same lazy rhythm with his tongue on your clit.
“there we go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl. feel how much i want you? could do this for hours. love tasting you when you’re all worked up for me. love how sweet you get when you’ve been missing me. love how you clench around my fingers when i talk dirty to you.”
he picks up the pace just enough to have you gasping, then slows again, adding a third finger and stretching you open while he watches your face like it’s the only play that matters. he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, then slides them back in slow, rubbing your clit nice and slow with his thumb while he keeps going with the filthy praise like he’s not knuckle-deep inside you.
“look at you,” he whispers, voice cracked open with awe, eyes shining like he’s staring at something holy. his hand slides up your thighs slow, reverent, thumbs tracing the faint stretch marks he’s kissed a thousand times like they’re constellations he mapped himself. “taking me so pretty… god, honey, you’re the prettiest, most perfect girl in the world.” he leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your heart, lingers there like he’s listening to it beat his name. “there’s no galaxy or lifetime where i don’t want you like this, dripping for me, shaking for me, letting me love you exactly how you deserve.”
his forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, curls tickling your skin. “i’d lose my fucking mind if you weren’t here to keep me grounded. you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything else is falling apart. you’re my center, angel. my gravity. my home.” he cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek like you’re something infinitely fragile and infinitely his. “every time i look at this ring on your finger i remember, remember how the sea stopped moving the second you said yes. i remember thinking i’d never feel anything bigger than that moment… but then i remember every single night before that moment and every single morning after, every time i’ve fallen asleep with you curled against my chest, every sunrise i’ve watched with your head on my shoulder, every quiet 3 a.m. when the house is silent and i can hear your heartbeat next to mine. i remember every ordinary tuesday when you kissed me goodbye before practice and every random sunday when we never left the bed. all of it, every second we’ve ever stolen just for us, and i realize then wasn’t the peak. it was only the beginning. the real forever is every breath we’ve already shared and still get to share, every time you let me back in even when i’m too dumb to deserve it, every morning you choose me again. and i swear, baby, i’m choosing you right back, harder every single day.”
he kisses you soft and slow, like he’s sealing every word against your lips. “i’m never letting you forget this again. never letting you feel anything less than completely, stupidly, overwhelmingly loved.”
he crooks his fingers harder and your hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat. he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps that perfect, relentless pressure inside you while his voice drops to that low, reverent rasp that always undoes you.
“i’m so fucking obsessed with you it scares me sometimes,” he murmurs his face leaving your and trailing close to your thigh, eyes locked on yours still like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. “i’m in meetings trying to focus on film and still end up replaying the way you laughed at breakfast, the way you say my name when you’re sleepy, every little thing. every time we’re out somewhere and i catch some guy looking at you too long i have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds because all i want to do is pull you against me and kiss you stupid right there in front of the whole world so they know exactly who you belong to, who gets to take you home. every single play i call, every hit i take, every second on that field, i’m playing for the clock to run down so i can get back here to you. i’m playing for the life waiting at home, for the girl who wears my name and still chooses me even when i forget how to choose her back. i don’t deserve you waiting up, don’t deserve you loving me through every mistake, but god, baby, i’m never gonna stop trying to earn it. never gonna stop trying to be the man who deserves to come home to you.”
you tilt your head up, pretending to think, even as you’re clenching around his fingers just to watch him falter. “oh, so that’s why you’ve been so good at ignoring me lately?” you tease, voice breathy and sweet. “saving up all that obsession for the poor guys who dare look at me for two seconds? cute. real cute, burrow. maybe next time you’re too busy to touch me for weeks you can just rent a billboard downtown: ‘property of joe—look and you die.’ would’ve saved me a lot of wondering if you even remembered my name.” you roll your hips slow, deliberate, smirking when his jaw ticks. “or maybe—just a thought—you could try reminding me in person instead of growling at strangers like a possessive caveman who forgot how to use his words… or his hands… or his—”
he cuts you off with a low, dangerous sound and another deep curl of his fingers that has your bratty little speech dissolving into a whimper. “keep talking, baby,” he mutters, eyes dark and delighted. “i’ve got all night to turn that attitude into my name on repeat.”
you gasp, trying to hold onto the last thread of your attitude even as your thighs start trembling around his shoulders. “you’re real proud of yourself right now, huh?” you manage, voice wobbling but still sharp at the edges. “acting like you can just—oh fuck—just flip a switch and i’ll forget the last month of radio silence. newsflash, burrow, possession is ninety percent follow-through and you’ve been slacking on the—”
he cuts you off with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that makes your hips jerk clean off the mattress. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips are shiny, eyes glittering with that cocky, adoring look that always ruins you.
“this pussy was made for me,” he growls, voice rough and reverent all at once, curling his fingers slow and perfect so you feel every word in your spine. “every single sound you make when you’re falling apart, every shiver, every time you clench around me like you can’t get close enough, mine. you’ve always been mine, baby, since the first night you let me touch you, since the first morning you woke up smiling in my bed, since the second you said yes and every second after. you’re mine when you’re laughing at my stupid jokes, mine when you’re mad at me, mine when you’re wearing my shirts and planning our forever. and i’m yours, every inch of me, every thought in my head, every beat of this heart that only knows how to beat for you. i was an idiot for ever letting you forget it, but i’m here now, and i’m never leaving again. say it, sweetie. tell me you’re mine, tell me you feel it, because i need to hear it while i’m buried inside the only home i’ve ever wanted.”
he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, eyes dark and glassy, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.
“tell me something, baby…” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word, fingers still buried deep and unmoving like he’s holding your entire world hostage. “when i was being a fucking idiot, too wrapped up in rehab and film to take care of my girl… did you ever touch yourself thinking about me?”
you swallow hard, cheeks burning even though he’s literally inside you right now. “and if i did?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice steady even while your hips twitch for more.
his eyes flare, possessive and wrecked all at once. “then i wanna hear every detail,” he rasps, slowly dragging his fingers out and pushing back in like a threat and a promise. “wanna know exactly how you fucked yourself on those pretty fingers pretending they were mine. wanna know if you said my name when you came, if you cried because it wasn’t enough, if you hated me a little for not being here to watch. tell me, sweetheart. because every single time you did? that was still mine. you were still mine. and i’m about to spend the rest of my life making up for every second i left you needy.”
you bite your lip so hard it stings, but the words spill out anyway, raw and breathless against his waiting mouth.
“yes—” you gasp, the word breaking on a moan as his fingers shift inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every syllable you give him. “almost every night you came home late—” another broken breath, hips jerking when he curls them just right, “—and fell asleep facing the wall… fuck, joe—” you swallow hard, thighs trembling around his hand. “i’d wait until your breathing evened out,” you whisper, voice hitching as he presses deeper, “then slip my hand under the covers and pretend—oh god—pretend it was you.” a soft, desperate whimper slips out when he circles that spot again. “sometimes i couldn’t even stay in our bed,” you manage, nails digging into his shoulders, “i’d sneak down the hall to the guest room like a guilty teenager—mmh—or lock myself in the shower so the water would drown me out—” your breath catches on a sob-moan as his thumb brushes your clit, “pressing my face against the tile while i got myself off thinking about you pinning me to that same wall months ago.” he crooks his fingers hard and you cry out, back arching. “i’d come biting the pillow—” another broken moan, “or my own fist, or nothing at all because it felt so good and so fucking empty at the same time—” your voice cracks completely, tears and pleasure tangling together. “and yeah, sometimes i hated you a little for making me hide in my own house just to feel something,” you pant, rocking helplessly against his hand, “but i still whispered your name every single time i fell apart—quiet, desperate, pissed off—because even when you forgot me, my body wouldn’t let me forget who it belongs to.”
his fingers are still buried deep inside you, unmoving now, like he’s too wrecked to even remember how to breathe, let alone pull out. it’s like the air just got sucked out of the room. his eyes darken to something feral and heartbroken at the same time, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. a low, wounded sound rips out of his throat, half growl, half sob, and his hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough that you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow.
“jesus fucking christ,” he rasps, voice shredded, forehead dropping to your stomach like he’s praying for forgiveness against your skin. his shoulders shake once, twice, and when he looks back up his lashes are wet. “you were hiding in our own house… sneaking off to the guest room, locking the shower door… touching this perfect pussy alone because i made you think you couldn’t have me?” his fingers curl suddenly, punishing and pleading, pressing right against that spot that makes your back arch and your breath hitch. “baby, i’m—” his voice splinters completely, “i’m so fucking sorry. i hate myself for every single time you had to do this without me.”
he drags you down so you’re chest to chest, fingers still buried to the hilt like he’s terrified if he lets go you’ll disappear, burying his face in your neck, breath hitching against your skin. “never again” he swears, hoarse and wrecked, hand rocking just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still yours.. “you hear me? never fucking again. from now on you want me at 3 a.m., you take me. you want me in the shower, the guest room, the goddamn driveway, you take me. i’m yours to love whenever you need, however you need. i owe you a thousand orgasms just for the ones i left you crying through alone.” his hips roll up slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how your confession made him. “and starting right now i’m paying that debt with interest, sweetheart. every single one.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and wrecked, thumb brushing the tears from your cheek like they’re burning him. “let me hear it, baby,” he whispers, voice raw and pleading, fingers curling slow and deep inside you like he’s coaxing the words out with every stroke. “tell me again. tell me while i’m right here, while i’m never leaving again. i need it like air.”
“yours,” you sob, the word ripping out of you like it’s been waiting weeks to be set free, tears slipping hot down your temples into your hair. “i’m yours, joe, always yours—only yours—please—” your voice cracks on the plea, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, fingers twisted so tight in his curls it has to sting. “i never stopped being yours even when you forgot to look at me, even when i felt invis– i was still yours, still waiting, still so stupidly in love with you it hurts. please don’t make me wait anymore, please let me feel it, let me feel you, let me have you back—” another broken moan spills out as he sucks your clit just right and the last of your pride crumbles. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m yours—”
“good girl,” he growls, the praise rumbling dark and possessive against your skin, and then there’s no more teasing, no more mercy. he sucks your clit hard, relentless, fingers driving into you fast and deep, curling exactly where you need until the pleasure crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun. you come with his name tearing out of your throat, raw, broken, desperate, clenching around his fingers so tight your whole body shakes with it. he moans right into you, the vibration dragging it out longer, filthier, until your legs are trembling around his shoulders and tears slip hot down your temples into your hair. he doesn’t stop until you’re boneless, gasping, chest heaving, every aftershock making you twitch against his tongue like he’s wringing the last of the loneliness out of you with every gentle lick. only then does he ease off, pressing one final soft kiss to your clit like a promise before crawling back up your body, eyes shining with awe and apology and so much love it steals whatever breath you had left.
he kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you taste exactly how much he missed you, and you’re already chasing his mouth, hands frantic as they slide down his body. you palm him through the thin fabric of his pants and the second you squeeze he hisses into the kiss, hips bucking helplessly into your hand, a broken “fuck, baby—” spilling against your lips like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
“off,” you whisper, voice wrecked and needy, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it’s personally offended you.
he stills for half a second, smirking down at you with that lazy, infuriating cockiness. “off? that’s the best you got right now, baby? thought you were mad at me. where’s all that pretty attitude gone?”
you glare up at him, or try to through the haze, and give the fabric another impatient yank. “joe, i swear to god, if you don’t get these off in the next three seconds—”
he laughs under his breath, low and fond, finally hooking his thumbs in and shoving them down. “yes ma’am,” he teases, kicking them off the bed with zero ceremony.
the second he’s bare you wrap your hand around him, hot and hard and perfect in your palm, and he drops his forehead to yours instantly, a broken groan rumbling out of his chest.
“honey—fuck—” he breathes, the name slipping out shaky and raw, like you just stole every ounce of air he had left.
“want you inside me,” you say, voice wrecked. “now. please. need to feel you.”
he lines up, nudging your entrance, and pauses, breathing ragged. “is this okay?” he asks, voice strained but deadly serious, eyes searching yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me you want this. tell me you know how much i love you.”
you cup his face, thumbs brushing the dampness at the corners of his eyes you pretend not to notice. “i know,” you breathe, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “i know, joe. i feel it. i love you too—so much it scares me sometimes. i want you. i’ve always wanted you. please.”
he pushes in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. when he bottoms out you both groan, the sound punched out of him. he stays still for a second, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours, breathing each other in.
“feel how perfect we fit?” he whispers, voice raw and trembling against your ear, one big hand sliding down to lace his fingers through yours and press them into the pillow beside your head. “feel me all the way inside you, baby? that’s where i belong. that’s my home. right there, buried in you, as deep as i can get.” his hips give the tiniest roll, just enough to make you both shudder, and he breathes out like he’s confessing a secret he’s kept for years. “that’s how much i love you—so deep it’s carved into my fucking bones, etched into every breath i take, every second i’m alive. you’re my home, honey. you’re the only place i ever want to be.”
then he starts moving—long, deep strokes that have you wrapping your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his back. he pins your wrists again, lacing your fingers with his, and fucks you like he’s trying to make up for every missed second of the last month. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady rhythm and neither of you care.
you turn your head and bury your face in his neck, kissing the sweat-slick skin there, sucking a mark under his jaw while he hits that spot inside you over and over. your teeth graze his throat and he shudders, pace faltering for a second.
“love you,” you mumble against his throat, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “love you so much. don’t ever leave me out again. promise me.”
“never,” he growls, hips snapping harder. “never fucking again. you’re my priority. my everything. i swear on my life.”
he slows just enough to untangle one hand from yours, lifts his pinky in the dim light between you, eyes locked on yours, raw and open and desperate.
“pinky promise,” he whispers, voice cracking on the words like he’s five years old again and this is the most sacred oath he knows how to give.
you hook your pinky around his without hesitation, the tiny, childish gesture somehow heavier than any vow he’s ever made. he squeezes tight, presses his forehead to yours, and thrusts deep again like he’s sealing it inside you.
you can tell he’s right there, jaw locked, eyes blown black, breath ragged against your neck. he tries to speak, voice cracking on the single word “shit—”, but you beat him to it, tightening your legs around his waist and dragging him impossibly deeper.
you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let the words spill out filthy and breathless.
“did you like going all these nights without me, baby?” you whisper, clenching around him hard just to watch his eyes roll back. “you forgot about me for weeks… poor thing, your testosterone probably hit a record high, huh? bet you were aching, dying to come home and… i’m so mad i should be, but it’s okay… we all have our moments…” another deliberate squeeze, another broken sound ripping from his throat. “look at you now… my fiancé finally remembered who he was… remembered who he belongs to.”
that’s all it takes.
he buries himself deep and comes with your name on his lips, pulsing hot inside you, hips jerking as he empties himself. the feeling tips you over again and you follow him, clinging to him while you both shake apart, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents.
after, he doesn’t pull out right away. just collapses half on top of you, face tucked into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there while you both catch your breath. his weight is perfect, grounding, and you wrap your arms around him tight, like if you let go he’ll disappear.
you hold his face in your hands eventually and kiss him tender and slow, trying to pour everything you feel into it—relief, love, forgiveness, need. he kisses back like he’s drowning and you’re air, like he’s trying to say i’m sorry with every stroke of his tongue.
eventually he slips out and rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back, up and down your spine, over the marks he left.
he presses his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s scared the moment will vanish if he lets go. “not one more time,” he whispers, voice scraped raw, lips brushing your temple with every word. “i swear on every single day i get to wake up next to you, i'm not letting that happen.”
you laugh, soft and watery, the sound muffled against the warm skin of his neck. “i’m not going anywhere, joe. i just need you to come back to me when you’re here.”
he pulls back just enough to cradle your face in both hands, thumbs stroking slow across your cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of your tears. his eyes are red, shining, impossibly gentle. “i’m here. i’m so here. you’re my priority, honey. always were, even when i was too stupid to act like it. football’s just background noise. you’re the song i want stuck in my head for the rest of my life.”
he kisses you slow, tender, like he’s tasting the words he didn’t say soon enough, i’m sorry, i see you, i love you, stay. when he pulls away his forehead stays against yours, noses brushing, sharing the same shaky breath.
“you’re the thing i’m building everything else around,” he murmurs, voice thick. “every loss, every win, every waking moment, every single tomorrow. i lost my way for a minute, but i’m home now. you’re my home.”
he shifts, guiding you until you’re half-draped across his chest, one of his hands sliding down to lace your fingers together, the ring on your hand pressed right over his heart. he brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles, then the diamond, then the center of your palm like he’s sealing every promise against your skin.
“happy thanksgiving, future mrs. burrow,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last two words, eyes shining with everything he still can’t fit into sentences. “thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am.”
you curl closer, ear over his heartbeat, feeling it slow and steady beneath you like it’s finally calm because you’re back in his arms. he wraps you up tight, legs tangled, one hand stroking your back in slow, endless circles, the other still holding yours against his chest.
you fall asleep like that, his lips resting against your forehead, your name the last quiet prayer on his breath before the world fades out.
joe stays awake long after, counting the soft puffs of your breath against his only lullaby, holding you so close it’s like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together so nothing can ever slip between you again.
the room is dark except for the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table bleeding through the crack in the night, and in that dim gold light he lets himself fall apart.
he knew something was wrong the second the season swallowed him whole, but he lied to himself every single day, told himself you were fine, told himself the quiet in the house was just exhaustion, told himself the way you stopped reaching for him in the middle of the night was nothing. he felt it in his bones that weren’t breaking on the field but were cracking somewhere deeper: every practice that ran long and left him hollow, every film session where he stared at the screen and saw your face instead of routes, every night he came home and kissed your temple like it was enough when you were starving for more.
he felt empty and didn’t know why until you stood in the living room with tears on your cheeks and the ring catching the lights like it was screaming at him, and you said i feel like you don’t want me anymore and the words punched straight through his ribs and shattered something he didn’t even know could break.
he replays it on a hundred times, the crack in your voice, the way your hands shook, the way you looked at the floor like you were scared his face would confirm every fear you’d been carrying alone and every single replay feels like taking a blindside hit he never saw coming. the strongest guy in the stadium, and he didn’t notice his entire world was slipping out of his hands.
he presses his face into your hair and breathes you in until his lungs hurt, tears slipping silent and hot into your curls because he almost lost this, almost lost you, and the worst part is he did it to himself. he let the noise get louder than your heartbeat, let the game matter more than his girl. he was dying out there every day and too stupid to realize the cure was asleep in his bed waiting for him to remember how to come home.
he swears it against your skin, over and over, a vow quieter than a whisper and heavier than any contract he’s ever signed: never again. he’ll be late to meetings, he’ll skip film, he’ll throw his phone in the fucking river if that’s what it takes. he’ll wake you up with his mouth somewhere between your neck or your lips on random tuesdays, carry you to the kitchen at 2 a.m. because you mentioned craving cereal, wear your name where the whole world can see it if that’s what keeps you from ever doubting again. whatever it takes.
he tightens his arms until there’s no space left between your heart and his, feels the steady thump under your ribs sync with his own, and makes the promise one more time, this one out loud, even though you’re asleep, because he needs the universe to hear it.
“i choose you,” he breathes into the dark, voice cracking on every word. “every day. every second. forever starts right now, baby. and i’m never letting you forget it again.”
───
the next morning you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet—chocolate and butter and warm sugar. the bed’s empty but still warm where he was, sheets tangled around your legs. you hear clinking downstairs and the low hum of music—some old r&b playlist he knows you love, the one you played the very first night you ever stayed over. you pad downstairs in nothing but his t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and find him at the stove in low-slung gray sweats, flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world.
there’s a tray on the counter already loaded—fresh coffee in your favorite mug, orange juice in the glass with the little chipped handle you refuse to throw away, crispy bacon, strawberries sliced into perfect little hearts because he’s a sap, warm syrup in a little pitcher. he turns when he hears your bare feet on the hardwood and smiles soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from the stove.
“morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “go back to bed, i was gonna bring it up. wanted to wake you up properly.”
you ignore him completely and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades. he smells like maple and warm skin and home. you breathe him in and feel something inside your chest unclench, finally.
“made your favorite,” he says, flipping another pancake. “extra chocolate chips because i’m trying to bribe my way out of the doghouse. and because i like the way you lick the extra chocolate off your fingers. and your lips. and my–.”
you slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish, and lean up to kiss the back of his neck to stop him, right over the little mark you left last night. “you’re already out. way out.”
he makes a muffled, offended sound against your palm, eyes going wide and innocent. you pull your hand away just enough for him to speak.
“why’d you cut me off?” he whines, spinning around with the spatula still in his hand, cheeks flushed. “i was about to say something so sweet.”
“sure you were,” you tease, nipping the same spot you just kissed. “that’s exactly what it sounded like.”
he turns the stove off, letting go of the spatula and lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. he steps between your legs and cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes searching yours.
“how’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low, serious. “sore? need anything? i wasn’t exactly gentle last night. or this morning in my head like fifty times already.”
“i’m perfect,” you say, leaning into his touch. “last night was… everything. this morning is everything.”
“yeah,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “it was. you have no idea how much i needed to hear you say my name like that again. needed to feel you come apart on me, needed to remind you who you belong to. who i belong to.”
he kisses you slow, morning-sweet, tasting like coffee and chocolate and him. “i wrote you something,” he mumbles against your lips, suddenly shy. he reaches behind him and pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his sweats, cheeks pink.
you raise an eyebrow. “you wrote me a letter? joseph lee burrow, quarterback heartthrob, wrote me a love letter?”
“shut up, i’m being romantic,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. “i couldn’t sleep after you passed out. needed to get it out. needed you to have it in my handwriting so you can read it whenever you start to doubt again. which you never will, because i’m never giving you a reason.”
you unfold it. it’s three whole pages stapled in his messy quarterback handwriting—apologies that make your throat tight, promises that make your chest ache, little memories from the past four years that make you smile through tears. he wrote about the first time you fell asleep on his chest during a movie, how he knew right then he was done for. about the way you laugh at his stupid jokes even when they’re not funny. about how you made his house start to feel like a home when you moved in instead of just a place he crashes between games. about how he replays the sound of you saying his name when you come through the door after work, how it gets him through the worst days. about how he can’t wait to marry you, how much he loves the ring on your finger and the future babies in your belly and grow old with you on the porch of the house you’ll pick out together. over and over, in bigger and bigger letters like he ran out of room for how huge it feels, he keeps writing i’m so thankful for you—thank you for choosing me, thank you for staying when i didn’t deserve it, thank you for being my safe place, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am, thank you for every single day you give me, i don’t know what i did to deserve you but i’m thankful every breath that you’re mine—and at the very bottom there’s that very bad but heartbreakingly sweet stick-figure drawing of the two of you at the altar, him in a crooked bow tie, you in a scribbled veil and triangle dress, both of you with giant heart eyes and huge grins and little hearts exploding above your heads like he physically couldn’t fit all the love on the page, and underneath in the tiniest, neatest letters he could manage: happy (late) thanksgiving, baby—thank you for being the best thing i’ve ever been grateful for. i’ll never stop saying it.
you laugh, eyes stinging, and he watches your face like it’s the super bowl and fourth quarter all at once.
“i love you,” you say, pulling him in by his shirt. “so much. thank you.”
“love you more,” he whispers. “and i’m gonna spend every day making sure you never doubt it again. starting with feeding you in bed, then eating you for dessert.”
he carries the tray upstairs like you’re something precious, sets it on the bed, and climbs in after you. you eat breakfast tangled together, feeding each other strawberries and licking syrup off fingers, talking about everything and nothing. he tells you about the rookie who keeps asking if you’re single because he saw you on his ig once and joe almost fought him in the weight room. you tell him about the ridiculous thirst tweets you saw about him and he pretends to be mad but mostly looks smug, ears red.
“they don’t even know,” he mutters, sucking syrup off your thumb slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours. “don’t know how you sound when you’re begging. how you look when you’re riding me. how you taste when you come on my tongue. how tight you get when i’m fucking you and telling you you’re mine. all mine.”
you shiver and he notices, smirks, already thinking of some unholy things.
when the plates are empty he takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand, then pulls you back down into the sheets, kissing your shoulder. “round two for breakfast?” he asks, voice low and already rough again, hand sliding up your thigh and under the t-shirt. “or should i just skip to dessert and eat this pretty pussy again?”
you roll over and straddle him, grinning. “thought you’d never ask.”
he’s already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats, and you grind down slow, watching his eyes flutter. he groans and grips your hips, guiding you in a lazy roll that has you both breathing harder.
you start talking the second you’re settled on top of him, words spilling out between little laughs and gasps. “wait, did you hear your aunt linda last night? she cornered me about the venue thing for like twenty minutes and then your cousin megan told me she already booked her flights for june twenty-seventh even though we haven’t even picked a date yet, and—”
he makes a desperate little noise against your stomach, mouthing at the hem of the t-shirt. “honey,” he mumbles, voice muffled, trying to nudge your hips up.
“hmm?”
“angel,” he says again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your lower belly, “as much as i love you and your pretty voice and literally everything that comes out of your mouth… can we stop talking about wedding talk for just, like, five minutes? i’m trying to have a experience here and it’s got nothing to do with venues.”
you smirk down at him. “why? i thought you wanted to marry me.”
“i do,” he says instantly, eyes going soft for half a second before the mischief comes back. “but right now i’m trying to worship at a very different altar.”
you burst out laughing. “oh my god, you’re disgusting.”
“disgustingly in love with you,” he corrects, then hooks his arms under your thighs and drags you up his chest in one smooth move. “now c’mere and let me show you my vows, future mrs. burrow.”
he buries his mouth between your legs like the conversation never happened. the first slow, deliberate lick rips whatever smart comeback you had right out of you; your hands fly to his hair and whatever you were saying about centerpieces dissolves into a broken moan.
“take this off,” he growls a minute later, voice wrecked and impatient, tugging at the t-shirt still bunched around your waist. you yank it over your head and toss it somewhere across the room, and his hands are on your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re rocking against his tongue faster.
“want you,” you whisper, reaching down to shove his sweats off. he lifts his hips to help, and then he’s bare underneath you, thick and hot against your thigh.
you sink down on him slow, both of you moaning at the stretch. he fills you perfectly, like he was made for you, and you brace your hands on his chest as you start to move.
“fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice cracking like he’s praying, eyes fixed on where you’re joined like it’s the holiest thing he’s ever witnessed. his hands slide up your thighs, reverent, thumbs tracing the little dimples at the tops like he’s reading an alphabet that spells out forever. “look at you… taking me so well. always so good for me. my perfect girl. my future wife.”
he lifts one of your hands from his chest, moves it flat over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s hammering, then brings your ring finger to his lips and kisses it.
“gonna watch you walk down the aisle in whatever dress you pick and know this exact feeling is waiting for me at the end of it,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep so you feel every inch of the promise. “gonna stand there trying not to cry like an idiot while you become my wife, knowing this, this heart, this life, it’s all mine forever. and i’m yours, baby. every day, every night, every breath. i’m so fucking in love with you it doesn’t fit inside my chest anymore.”
his words settle warm in your ribs, and you answer them the only way you can right now—by moving, slow and deliberate, riding him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of his promises inside your body. you start gentle, savoring every drag, every time he slides home and your toes curl against the sheets. his hands never stop touching you, roaming like he’s scared to miss a single inch: up your thighs, tracing the curve of your hips, gliding over your stomach, cupping your breasts with reverent palms, thumbs brushing your nipples until your breath stutters and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning his name too loud.
he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you chest to chest. the angle changes and you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. he kisses you deep, swallowing the sound, then trails his mouth down your neck, sucking another mark right over your pulse.
“love how you feel,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. “love how you look when you’re riding me. love the little sounds you make when i’m deep inside you. love that i get to wake up to this. to you. love that you’re gonna be the mother of my kids one day. love everything about you.”
you speed up, chasing the heat building low in your belly, and he meets you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up. the room fills with the slap of skin on skin, your breathy moans, his low groans.
“touch yourself,” he says, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you milk me when you come.”
you slide a hand between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and he watches like he’s starving, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
“that’s it,” he praises, voice shaking. “make yourself come on my cock, baby. wanna feel it. wanna feel you squeeze me while you say my name. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“you,” you gasp, so close. “belongs to you, joe—only you—fuck—”
it doesn’t take long—you’re already close from the way he’s looking at you, from the way he’s filling you over and over, from the way he’s holding you like you’re the only thing that matters. you come with a broken cry, clenching around him hard, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he spills inside you again, arms locked tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.
you collapse together, sweaty and breathless, his face buried in your neck. he presses lazy kisses there, mumbling nonsense about how perfect you are, how he’s never letting you go, how he’s the luckiest bastard alive.
later, after you’ve dozed tangled together, he wakes you with soft kisses down your spine. you’re on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and he’s tracing the marks he left last night with his tongue like he’s reading a newspaper.
“morning again,” he whispers against the small of your back, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, something that sounds like regret and wonder all at once. “think i owe you one more apology. maybe a hundred more. maybe a lifetime of them.”
you hum, still half-lost in dreams, and he presses a soft kiss to the base of your spine, then another higher, trailing slow, reverent kisses up the line of your back until he reaches your shoulder. he tugs you gently onto your side so you’re facing him, pulls the blanket higher around both of you, and tucks you against his chest like you’re something infinitely precious.
“gonna keep you right here all day,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and warm. “gonna order whatever you want, watch whatever dumb movie you pick, hold you until you forget what distance even feels like. until the only thing in your head is how much i love you. how stupid i was. how i’m never taking a single second of you for granted again.”
you laugh softly, breathless, curling closer. “promise?”
“promise,” he says, pressing the word into your forehead like a vow. “starting now. and tomorrow. and every single day after that. you’re my forever, baby. and i’m yours.”
and he does.
he keeps the world outside the bedroom door all day. he makes you laugh with terrible impressions of his uncles from yesterday, feeds you leftover pie straight from the fridge while you sit on the counter in his hoodie, lets you pick the cheesiest christmas movie on netflix and quotes every line just to watch your eyes light up. he traces the marks he left on your neck like they’re constellations he’s proud to have drawn, kisses every one of them soft and slow, whispering “mine” and “i’m sorry” and “i love you” in the same breath.
when the sun starts to set he pulls you into his lap on the couch, wraps a blanket around both of you, and just holds you while the sky turns pink and gold outside the windows. his fingers never stop moving—drawing circles on your back, threading through yours, brushing your hair from your face so he can kiss your temple again and again.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he still hasn’t said tonight, fingers laced through yours and pressed over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s beating for you. “and i’ve already got plans for us, baby, real ones. booked a cabin in lake tahoe the second i woke up—cozy, middle of nowhere, big fireplace, maybe snowed in for a whole week with nothing but you and me and whatever we feel like doing to each other under a million blankets.” he gives you that look, slow, filthy, promising, the one that says he’s already pictured you naked on a bearskin rug at least fifty times. “then after that, i found time and i’m flying us straight to your parents’ house because i miss your mom’s pumpkin bars like crazy and i wanna sit at their kitchen counter and let your dad grill me about wedding stuff while i hold your hand for comfort.”
you snort, poking his chest. “you don’t like my pumpkin bars?”
he grins, nipping at your fingertip. “i love yours. love the way you dance around the kitchen in my t-shirt while you make them, love licking the batter off your fingers when you let me. but i also love my mother-in-law and the way she sneaks me extras when you aren’t looking, so i’m playing both sides here.” he kisses your wrist, soft and reverent. “point is, i’ve got a whole calendar planned of just-us days already locked in. no excuses, no schedule conflicts. just me proving every single day that you’re the only plan i give a damn about.”
“you know i’m never letting you forget this, right?” you murmur into the quiet, voice soft but edged with that familiar bratty spark. “you pulled that shit for a whole month, maybe longer burrow. i’m gonna be crazy about it for years. every time you’re late coming home i’m side-eyeing you. every time you look at your phone too long at dinner i’m kicking you under the table. i’m gonna be the most annoying, clingy, possessive wife ever and you’re just gonna take it because you owe me.”
he laughs, low and wrecked and so relieved it cracks in the middle, pulling you impossibly closer. “good,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing skin like he can’t stop. “be crazy. be annoying. be possessive as hell. mark me up, kick me, glare at me—do whatever you need, baby. just don’t ever stop being mine. i can take it. i want it. i just want you.”
you tilt your head up, catch his eyes in the dark, and smirk. “oh, i’m yours. but you’re about to find out exactly what that means when i’m the one who’s been waiting.”
he groans, half-laugh, half-prayer, and kisses you stupid all over again.
and this time you know without a doubt that tomorrow he’ll still be right here—probably with new bruises from your teeth and a grin that says he wouldn’t have it any other way.
you never could forget it. you never will.
taglist (comment or send an ask to be added!): @softburrow @joeyshiesty0 @savaneafricaine @babygirlburrow @joesheisty9 @irishmanwhore @nanouslibrary @desperate-and-broken @quinnintheabyss @lilfreakjez @nineverce @herbertswomen @averyoceanblvd @piastririots @mruizsworld @renegadebirch @harryweeniee @joeybisbootiful @britt217 @neyessibff
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
