#joseph burrow

[kerberber]

I need some help finding a Joe fix! I did the same thing you did and didn’t like it and can’t find it to save my life! Joe being unaware of ignoring his girlfriend at dinner with teammates and not see it as a big deal when confronted with it

Ouuu that was a good one!!! I forgot the name though. Anyone can help????

[kerberber]

Baby Burrow - chapter 4

Hey guys- just wanted to let everyone know- there is 20 chapters already posted on my Wattpad. I would love if you read on there and vote/comment! I post a chapter once a day, and I must say I just finished a draft that crushed me to write. Thank you all so much for the love already💕 my Wattpad username: kay__johnson

The room's cold, It always is. Every doctor's office feels the same—too bright, too sterile, too still.

I lie back on the exam table, paper crinkling underneath me, and pull the edge of my sweatshirt up just enough for the ultrasound tech to place the gel. It's warm against my skin, which helps a little, but not much.

"You ready?" she asks, smiling softly.

I nod. My throat feels dry.

The screen flickers, then fills with that soft, fuzzy image I still can't completely make sense of. But I know what I'm looking at. I know that shape now. I know what it means.

She moves the probe slowly, pointing toward the screen. "There's your baby. Heartbeat's strong. Growth looks great."

The sound fills the room—a steady, fast rhythm, like a tiny drum echoing inside me. I press my lips together, trying not to cry. Every time I hear it, I feel that mix of awe and guilt and something I still can't name.

"Do you want to know the gender?" the tech asks after a moment, still gentle, still smiling.

My chest tightens.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. She waits, patient, like she's used to people taking a second.

Finally, I shake my head. "No. Not yet."

She nods, turns the screen back toward her. "Alright. I'll keep it sealed in the report. You can always call if you change your mind."

I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard.

It should've been different. There should've been a hand holding mine right now, a voice next to me saying look, that's our baby, the kind of smile that makes the cold room feel warm again.

But it's just me.

And the thought hits sharp and mean: maybe I don't get to have that.

Maybe this is how I pay for everything falling apart—for not seeing what was happening sooner, for believing him, for staying too long. Maybe the punishment is sitting here alone while someone else prints out pictures that should've been ours.

The tech wipes the gel off my stomach, hands me a tissue, and tells me I'm good to go. I mumble a thank-you, tuck my sweatshirt back down, and try to smile politely.

She prints out the ultrasound photo anyway. "You don't have to look at it now," she says softly, slipping it into an envelope. "But you might want it later."

I take it with shaking hands. "Thank you."

Walking out feels heavier than walking in.

The hallway's quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights above me buzzing just loud enough to fill the space where my thoughts should be.

Outside, the sky's overcast, the air thick with that almost-rain feeling. I sit in my car for a long time before starting the engine.

The envelope sits on the passenger seat, white and small and impossibly heavy. I keep staring at it, wondering what I'd see if I opened it.

Boy. Girl. Little shoes. Names. Future birthdays. All the things that should've been ours to imagine together.

I rest my hand over my stomach.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

I don't even know what for—maybe for Joe, maybe for staying, maybe for not being able to forgive myself for either.

But the heartbeat's still in my ears, steady and alive, like it's reminding me that not everything's broken.

Still, I leave the envelope sealed.

Because for now, I'm not ready to know.

Because maybe a part of me still thinks I don't deserve the good parts yet—not when he's not here, not when I can't stop feeling like I should've seen the end coming.

⸻

The house is quiet when I get back from the appointment. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every little sound—my keys on the counter, the fridge humming—feel louder than it should.

The ultrasound envelope is still tucked in my bag. I haven't opened it. I keep telling myself I will, but I never do.

I drop onto the couch, pull my knees up, and stare at my phone. My thumb hovers over Mom's contact for a good minute before I finally press call.

It rings twice.

"Hello?" Her voice is warm, a little groggy—must've been her early morning nap.

"Hey, Mom," I say quietly.

"Baby," she says, immediately more awake. "You okay? You sound tired."

I pause, then exhale. "I'm fine. Just... a lot going on. I was wondering if I could come home for a few days. I need a break. And I miss my parents and brother."

"Of course you can. What kind of question is that?" she says, like it's ridiculous I even asked. "You want me to pick you up from the airport?"

"I can get an Uber," I say, rubbing my temple. "I'll look for flights that leave out soon."

"As if. I will pick you up. We'll make gumbo when you get here. Your daddy's been asking about you, says he hasn't seen his girl in too long."

That makes me smile a little. "Tell him I miss him."

"I will."

I nod, even though she can't see me. "Okay. Love you, Mom."

"Love you more."

When I hang up, I sit there for a while staring at the wall. The room feels smaller than it did a week ago.

⸻

Packing's harder than it should be. Not because I don't know what to bring, but because every drawer I open reminds me of something I don't want to remember—his shirt I used to sleep in, a bracelet he bought me, a photo strip tucked between books on the shelf.

I shove clothes into a small suitcase—jeans, hoodies, a few dresses. Comfortable stuff. Nothing that makes me feel like I have to look okay when I'm not.

Maggie knocks once before poking her head into my room. "You sure you don't want me to drive you?"

I shake my head. "It's okay. You already do too much for me already. It's only a few days, won't be too expensive to park. I'll be fine."

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You need this, you know. You've been holding your breath for weeks. I miss the old y/n. Please start taking care of you. I don't want you to hurt yourself or nanny's baby."

"I know." I giggled, "nanny's baby? You sure you're the nanny?"

"Oh I know. I already have a sweatshirt coming in that says 'nanny Mags'. You're gonna tell your mom?"

Laughing again, I look down at the folded shirts in my suitcase. "Maybe. I don't know how yet."

She nods softly. "Then don't force it. Just go home. Eat, sleep, breathe. Everything else can wait."

I zip up the bag, exhale, and smile faintly. "You always know what to say."

"Yeah, well," she says, shrugging, "someone's gotta keep your head on straight."

⸻

At the airport, I move on autopilot—check in, security, gate. The baby app says twelve weeks tomorrow. My hand keeps finding my stomach without me realizing it. It's a small comfort, like pressing pause on the noise in my head.

The terminal's half full, mostly business travelers and families. I grab a bottle of water and a sandwich I don't really want, then sit by the window and watch the planes line up outside.

Joe texted again yesterday—from another number this time. Just his name, a "please." I blocked that one, too.

The flight's called, and I board near the back. The air smells faintly of coffee and metal. I slide into my window seat, buckle in, and rest my forehead against the glass as the plane starts to taxi.

When it lifts off, my stomach flips—not just from the motion, but from the sudden realization that I haven't left Ohio since everything happened.

Baton Rouge feels like a different world waiting for me.

⸻

The air hits me the second I step outside the airport—warm, thick, familiar. The kind that clings to your skin and smells faintly of rain and jasmine.

I spot my mom's SUV right away. I smile as She's out of the car before I even reach the curb, wrapping me up in a hug that smells like vanilla lotion and home.

"Oh, baby," she says into my hair. "You look tired."

"I am," I whisper. "I missed you so much mama."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. "Then you're in the right place. Come on, let's get you home."

The drive's quiet at first, just the soft hum of the tires and the cicadas outside. Baton Rouge looks the same—green, humid, alive.

"You staying for the week?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say, watching the trees blur past. "If that's okay."

She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "You can stay as long as you need."

I nod, staring out the window, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to hold it all together.

Just for a few days, I can breathe.

[kerberber]

Baby Burrow- chapter 3

It's been a week. Seven days of pacing the same ten steps between the couch and the window, of checking my phone even though I know what I'll see.

Every morning, the texts are still there.

Joe: Please. Just talk to me.

Joe: I don't know what I did.

Joe: I can't sleep.

He knows what he did. That's the part that drives me crazy—reading those words, hearing that fake confusion. It's like he's trying to gaslight me into forgetting what I saw.

By the third day, I stop opening the messages. The preview is enough.

By the fourth, I start deleting them without reading.

By the fifth, I realize I'm not crying anymore.

Still hurts. Still feels like something cracked open inside me, but the tears have run out.

Maggie keeps me busy. We go for walks, she drags me to lunch, she makes me laugh when I don't want to. Hagen even builds a little shelf for my things in the spare room, saying I'll "feel more settled if my toothbrush doesn't live in a travel bag."

He's right. It helps. But when night hits and everything gets quiet again, the thoughts start circling.

Maybe I should just let it slide.

Maybe I should talk to him.

Maybe people work through worse.

I sit on the edge of the bed, palm on my stomach. It's still small, barely there, but I know. I can feel it.

Maybe I should tell him. He deserves to know he's going to be a dad.

Then the next thought comes, sharp and loud.

But he doesn't deserve me.

And I don't want my baby growing up thinking this is normal—lying, hiding, apologizing after getting caught.

Still, it keeps circling back:

I don't want my baby to grow up without a dad.

It breaks me every time. I picture a little kid asking where their father is, and I don't know what I'd say.

So I sit there, hands pressed together, whispering half sentences to the ceiling. "Maybe we can figure out a custody thing. Civil. No drama. I'll just tell him, we'll make it work for the baby."

But then I remember that other woman. Her smile. The messages. The way Joe looked me in the eye and lied.

And all I can think is, fuck Joe.

He cheated on me. He chose that.

He doesn't get to know every part of my life just because we share DNA through a heartbeat.

By the sixth day, I start ignoring the calls too. He doesn't give up—morning, afternoon, night. Sometimes ten missed calls in a row. He sends long paragraphs that make no sense, rambling about rehab and stress and how I'm "overreacting."

Overreacting.

That word lights me up every time. I used to shrink when he said it. Now, it makes my hands go still, calm in a way that means I'm done.

Maggie notices the change. "You look lighter," she says one morning while we're drinking coffee.

"I think I'm just tired," I tell her.

But it's more than that. It's a quiet kind of peace—the kind that comes after you've cried everything out and there's nothing left to drain.

That night, when the phone buzzes again, I finally open the messages one last time.

Joe: I'm losing my mind not hearing from you. Please, just tell me you're safe.

Joe: I'll do anything to fix this.

Joe: I miss you.

I stare at his name, at all the words that used to mean something. Then I scroll up to the top of the thread, to the hundreds of messages before this week—the lies, the excuses, the little manipulations I used to believe.

And I realize I don't want any part of it anymore.I go to his contact, hit Block Caller. When the confirmation pops up, I press "Yes."

The silence that follows is instant, heavy, but it's not empty. It's... still.

I set the phone face down on the nightstand and exhale for what feels like the first real time in days.

No more guessing if he'll text. No more wondering what to say. No more fighting with myself over someone who already chose to lose me.

Just quiet.

Maggie knocks softly on my door a few minutes later. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. My voice doesn't shake this time. "I think I am."

She smiles from the doorway. "Good. You deserve that friend. Me and Hagen are going on a date. Text if you need anything love."

When she leaves, I lie back and rest my hand on my stomach again. It's weird how the world feels so different now. Scary, sure—but it's mine again.

"Just us," I whisper.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels enough.

———-

⸻

The following Monday, I wake up before my alarm. The sun is barely up, the apartment quiet except for the low hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen.

Something in me feels different—lighter, but steady. Like the fog's starting to lift.

Maggie's sitting on the counter scrolling through her phone when I walk in. "Morning, future working woman," she says, grinning.

I laugh softly. "You really think I'm getting it?"

"Think? Babe, they'd be idiots not to hire you. You've done social stuff for every brand that's ever touched your DMs."

"Yeah," I mumble, pouring my coffee, "but this is different. It's the Bengals. It's... big. Of course everyone knows I'm associated with Joe. I don't want to get a job because of my status, or well used to be status, with him."

She raises an eyebrow. "Stop. You're amazing just being you. You are not Joe Burrow. And Joe is not you. You have your own name. And It's also not on-field, and nowhere near the locker rooms. You said that yourself—editing, scheduling posts, content planning. You won't even have to see Joe."

I nod, wrapping my hands around the mug. "That's the part I keep reminding myself."

⸻

The interview is at ten a.m. downtown, in the big glass building near the stadium. I park in the public garage, sit in the car for a second, and take a few deep breaths before going in.

It's weird being this close to his world again—the logos, the banners, even the faint hum of reporters walking past with cameras. I used to tag along sometimes, back when we were... us.

Now, I walk in with a different kind of purpose.

The office is bright and modern, a mix of team colors and soft lighting. The head of media—Cory—meets me in the lobby. He's maybe mid-30s, friendly, direct.

"Y/n, right?" he says, shaking my hand. "Heard a lot of good things about your portfolio. You've done work with Alo, yeah?"

I nod, smiling. "Yeah. Mostly photo editing and digital rollout. Social campaigns, scheduling, that kind of thing."

He gestures for me to follow him to a small conference room. "Perfect. That's exactly what we need here. We've been trying to push more real-time content, cleaner visuals, quicker turnaround. We'd love someone who can take charge of that side."

We go through the questions. I tell him about my past projects, the programs I use, what kind of voice works best for fan engagement. He nods along, jotting notes.

At the end, he leans back and smiles. "Honestly, you'd fit right in. The role's mostly digital—you'd work from here or remotely, whichever you prefer. The only time you'd even step foot near the players is if you're helping film practice clips, but that's optional. You'd mostly edit, caption, schedule, and post."

My chest loosens a little. "So, no interaction with the players?"

"None unless you want it," he says. "And if it helps—media and athletic departments barely cross paths."

That's all I need to hear.

When I get back to the car, I sit for a second and smile for the first time in days. It feels... good. Grounded. Like maybe I'm finally steering my life again instead of spinning in circles.

⸻

They call that afternoon.

"Y/n, we'd love to have you on board," Cory says over the phone. "Full-time, good pay, benefits. We'll email the details."

I stare at the wall for a second, stunned. Then it hits. "Wait—you're serious?"

"Completely. You start Monday if that works."

After I hang up, Maggie's standing in the doorway with a spoon in her hand and cookie dough on her shirt.

"Was that them?" she asks.

I nod slowly, still processing. "I got it."

Her face breaks into a grin. "You got it!"

She sets the bowl down and hugs me so tight I almost spill my coffee.

"I told you," she says, pulling back. "You're gonna kill it there."

⸻

The first week feels like breathing fresh air.

I work from a bright corner of the office, headphones in, editing clips from practice, trimming interviews, color-correcting photos for the team's social accounts. It's work that keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet.

Every now and then, someone mentions Joe in passing—his stats, a photo request, a quote. My stomach tenses each time, but it passes. He's just another player here. Another name on a roster.

And the best part? I don't have to see him. Not once.

I leave before practice ends, take my lunch on the riverfront, answer emails from home in the evenings.

By Friday, Cory stops by my desk. "You're really good at this," he says, leaning on the divider. "You're fast, detail-oriented, and your captions hit perfectly. Fans are eating it up."

I smile. "Thank you. It's nice doing something that feels... mine again."

He nods. "Well, you've got a place here as long as you want it."

After he leaves, I glance at my reflection in the computer screen. My hair's messy, coffee half-drunk, and I'm smiling without realizing it.

It's not the same life I imagined, but it's a new one—and it's working.

⸻

That night, back at Maggie's, I curl up on the couch with my laptop. The baby app says I'm eleven weeks. Still early, but real.

For the first time, I let myself picture it—me holding this little person, taking them for walks, making them laugh. I'll have help, I know. Maggie, Hagen, maybe even my mom when I tell her.

But I'll do it my way.

A soft buzz breaks the moment. My phone lights up. Unknown number.

I don't even have to open it to know.

I slide it to silent and set it face down again.

Work's going great. The baby's growing. I'm doing this.

And for the first time in a long, long while, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

[tylerjeauxburreaux9]

[intaerestelares]

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[a-moment-captured]

Just because I have had a stressful past 24 hours.