Can we get arch where his gf is on vacation and his being moody with everyone.
Vacation is supposed to feel light.
That’s what I tell myself as I lay stretched out on a pool chair, sunglasses pushed up on my head, skin warm from the sun and the air smelling like coconut sunscreen and salt. My friends are laughing behind me, someone arguing about what song should be next on the speaker, someone else already halfway into a drink that’s way too colorful to be taken seriously.
I should be fully here. I should be relaxed.
Instead, my phone buzzes against my thigh for the third time in five minutes.
Dad.
I frown and sit up, sliding my sunglasses down my nose just enough to see the screen.
Dad: Are you and arch fighting?
I blink, then type back.
Me: No? Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dad: Because he’s being an absolute menace.
That makes me laugh, a short surprised sound. I glance over at my friends—none of them paying attention to me—then type back.
Me: Define menace.
Dad: Snapping at the staff. Brooding. Short answers. He just told a GA to “figure it out yourself” and walked away.
Oh. Oh no.
I sigh, already knowing exactly what this is.
Dad: honestly. Did you two get into a fight?
Me: No. I left for vacation yesterday. He was fine when I left.
Dad: Well he’s not fine now. If I didn’t know better I’d think he lost a limb.
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. Arch without me for more than forty-eight hours turns into a completely different person. Quiet. Moody. Touch-starved but pretending he’s not. It would be funny if it didn’t affect literally everyone around him.
Me: I’ll call him.
Dad: Please. For the love of god.
I set my phone down for a second and look out over the pool. The water sparkles. My friends are calling my name now, asking if I’m getting in or just going to tan myself into leather.
“In a minute!” I call back, already opening FaceTime.
It rings twice.
Then three times.
Then—
His face fills the screen.
Arch is sitting on his couch at home, hoodie on even though I know it’s warm, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day. No glasses. Barefoot. His jaw is tight, lips pressed together in a line that immediately softens when he sees me.
There it is.
That look.
“Hey, love” he says.
I can hear it instantly. The edge. The low energy. The pout he thinks he hides well.
I grin.
“Archie,” I sing, tilting the phone so he gets a full view of me—sun-kissed, relaxed, smiling. “Why are you being mean to everyone?”
He groans and leans his head back against the couch. “You talked to him.”
“Dad?” I giggle. “Yeah. He tattled.”
“He snitched,” Arch mutters.
I laugh again, louder this time. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” I say easily. “He said you snapped at a GA.”
Arch’s eyes flick back to the screen. “He should’ve known the answer.”
“That’s not the point,” I tease. “You don’t snap at people when you’re sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay, I’m a little sad.”
My smile softens. “Because I’m gone?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Which is answer enough.
I adjust myself on the chair, bringing the phone closer to my face. “Arch.”
He finally looks at me fully, blue eyes a little tired. “The house is quiet.”
“You like quiet.”
“Not that kind.”
I hum sympathetically. “You’ve been alone for… what, a day and a half?”
“Two,” he corrects.
I grin. “Two whole days. Wow. You’re so brave.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile now. “Don’t.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He exhales through his nose. “I had a protein bar.”
“That is not a meal.”
“It is if you’re depressed,” he says flatly.
I laugh, shaking my head. “You are unbelievable.”
He shrugs, then his eyes narrow slightly as he looks at the screen. “Are you wearing my hat?”
I glance up, touching the brim. “Maybe.”
“That’s my hat.”
“You left it at my place,” I say innocently. “Finders keepers.”
His mouth twitches. “You look good.”
My stomach flips, even through a screen. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You having fun?”
“I am,” I admit. “I miss you though.”
His jaw tightens again, like he’s trying not to say something. “I know.”
“You could try not terrorizing the football program in the meantime.”
He snorts. “I’m not terrorizing anyone.”
“You’re being moody.”
“Because my girlfriend is gone.”
That word still makes my chest warm.
I smile. “You’ll survive.”
He squints. “Debatable.”
I hear shouting in the background—my friends calling my name again, laughing, someone splashing into the pool.
Arch hears it too.
His expression changes just a little. Not jealous. Not possessive. Just… longing.
“Go,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you.”
I shake my head. “I can talk to you.”
“I know,” he says. “But I don’t want to be the guy who drags you away from your friends because he can’t handle being alone.”
I soften. “You’re allowed to miss me.”
He looks back at the screen. “I miss you.”
The way he says it—simple, honest—makes my throat tighten.
I smile through it. “I’ll be back in three days.”
“Seventy-two hours,” he mutters.
“Wow,” I tease. “Counting already?”
He shrugs. “Always do.”
I lean closer to the camera. “Be nice to people.”
He sighs. “I’ll try.”
“Eat real food.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t snap at my dad.”
He grimaces. “That one’s harder.”
I laugh. “I love you.”
That does it.
His entire face softens, tension melting away like it always does when I say it. “I love you too.”
I watch him for a second longer, memorizing the way he looks right now—messy, moody, missing me.
“Okay,” I say gently. “I’m gonna go swim. But I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He nods, then hesitates. “Send me a picture?”
I smile. “Of what?”
“You. The pool. Your stupid drink. Anything.”
I laugh. “You’re such a baby.”
“And you love me.”
“I do,” I say softly.
We hang up, and I sit there for a second, phone still in my hand, heart full.
Then I stand, kick off my sandals, and head toward the pool—already planning which picture I’m going to send him first.
When do you want me to apologize? Because I am sorry for this. Like really really sorry.
The walkway smelled like turf and winter air, a mix that always reminded me of late practices and cold-weather games. Bradley's little shoes made soft tapping sounds against the concrete as he wobbled from wall to wall, his arms held out like he was balancing on a tightrope. His curls bounced with every step, his tiny Bengals beanie slipping down over one eyebrow.
"Careful, baby," I murmured, even though he wasn't doing anything dangerous. He turned back to look at me with that big proud smile—Joe's exact smile, just smaller—and then kept toddling in uneven circles.
We were waiting for Joe to finish talking to the trainer. He'd waved at us from down the hall when he first saw us, eyes lighting up like they always did when he spotted his boy. But he mouthed, one minute, and I nodded, scooping Bradley back to the center every time he drifted too close to something he could trip over.
I heard footsteps behind me before I heard the voice.
"Well well... look who's takin' over the whole damn building."
I didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
"Hi, Ja'Marr," I laughed, shifting my weight against the wall.
He walked over slowly, watching Bradley wobble past him with his big curious eyes. "Man, he really walkin' now, huh?"
"He walks in his sleep at this point," I said.
Bradley stopped in front of Ja'Marr's shoes, patted his shin like it was a drum, then let out a bubbly screech just to hear his own voice echo. Ja'Marr bent down and scooped him up by the waist before he face-planted into the floor.
"You holdin' up, little dude?" Ja'Marr asked, bouncing him lightly on his hip.
Bradley blinked at him, completely starstruck, then grabbed a fistful of Ja'Marr's beard.
"Ow—hey—no, we don't do that," Ja'Marr winced, gently prying tiny fingers loose. "Your daddy's kid for real."
I snorted. "He likes to test everyone's patience equally. Fair distribution."
"Mm-hm," he said, giving Bradley a look. "You trouble."
Bradley responded by smacking both hands against Ja'Marr's cheeks and giggling.
"That's what I thought," Ja'Marr sighed dramatically. "Already runnin' shit."
A warmth spread through me watching them—Bradley in full awe, Ja'Marr pretending he wasn't wrapped around a toddler's finger.
"You comin' to dinner later?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Joe said he's grillin'."
"That means I'm grillin'," I corrected. "He just stands near the fire for moral support."
Ja'Marr barked out a laugh. "Sounds about right."
As if on cue, Bradley spotted Joe from halfway down the corridor. His entire face lit up—mouth dropping open, arms flinging forward, legs kicking in excited little jolts.
"DADA!!!"
Ja'Marr let him down and Bradley took off, wobbling, stumbling, catching himself, pumping those tiny fists like he was trying to run a marathon on stilts.
Joe's face softened instantly—his whole expression shifting from focused athlete to mushy dad in under a second.
"There's my boy," he said, kneeling just in time to catch Bradley before he tripped straight into his chest.
Bradley curled into him with a happy squeal, face pressed against his shoulder. Joe rocked him gently, rubbing his tiny back, pressing a kiss into his curls.
"Hey baby," he said without even looking up, because he could feel me walking toward him.
"Hi," I murmured, leaning down for him to kiss the top of my head head.
He looked up then, eyes sweeping over me the way they always did like he was making sure I was real. "You two been waitin' long?"
"Not at all," I said, brushing a hand down his arm. "Trainer give you the all clear?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Just routine stuff. Nothing crazy."
Ja'Marr crossed his arms behind us. "Your son been runnin' all over the place. I almost had to chase him to the weight room."
Joe laughed, hugging Bradley tighter. "Yeah, he's in his explorer era. He really got that walking thing in the bag at this point."
Bradley lifted his head and smacked Joe's face with both hands, babbling something that sounded like a very emotional speech delivered in pure nonsense.
"Uh-huh," Joe said seriously. "I agree."
I shook my head, smiling. "He's been yelling at every wall we pass like it personally offended him."
Joe kissed his cheek. "That's my boy."
Ja'Marr groaned playfully. "Great. Two of you."
"Hey," Joe shot back, "you love us."
"Unfortunately," Ja'Marr muttered, but he was smiling.
Bradley reached toward him again, demanding his attention.
"See?" I said. "He loves you."
Ja'Marr took Bradley from Joe with ease, bouncing him once. "Man, don't hype him up. He already think he the star."
Joe slid an arm around my waist. "He is."
I leaned into him, his warmth seeping into my side, his fingers brushing lazy patterns against my hip. Watching him watch our son never got old. The awe. The love. The softness I never saw in him before we became this—married, settled, parents to a little boy who owned every inch of Joe's heart.
"Ready to go home?" I asked.
He nodded, pressing a small kiss to my temple. "Yeah. Let's take our boy home."
Ja'Marr handed Bradley back, shaking his head. "Man, y'all got too much love goin' on. It's disgusting."
Joe laughed. "Jealous?"
"Absolutely not."
But the grin he tried—and failed—to hide told a different story.
We headed toward the exit, Joe's hand finding mine, Bradley babbling happily between us, and Ja'Marr trailing behind muttering something about being the real favorite uncle.
“Love you too lil man. I’ll see you tonight.” Ja’marr smiled and shook his hand.
The walkway echoed with their voices—Joe's soft and low, Bradley's squeals bouncing off the walls, Ja'Marr's dramatic complaining—and I felt it settle inside me:
This.
This life.
This family.
This warmth.
Five years married.
One little boy.
And a love that still felt brand new.
——-
Joe didn't even have time to turn his head.
The scream of tires on asphalt hit first—sharp, violent, wrong. Then the flash of headlights cut across his windshield in a blinding arc. The impact came a half-second later, a sound that didn't feel real. Metal twisting. Glass exploding. The world jerking sideways.
Then silence.
A terrifying, ringing silence.
Joe's head slammed forward, shoulder wrenching against the seatbelt, vision splintering into white. He tasted blood. His ears buzzed.
But none of it hit him as hard as the sound that didn't come.
No crying.
No screaming.
Nothing.
"Y/n?" he rasped, already fighting the seatbelt. "Baby—hey—hey—"
No answer.
His fingers shook as he turned, heart stopping cold.
You were slumped forward, your head leaning at an impossible angle against the window, hair covering your face. The airbag hung deflated around you. Blood smeared along your cheek, your forehead.
"Y/n," he breathed, voice breaking instantly, "baby wake up—wake up—please—"
Still nothing.
A soft, weak sound came from the backseat. A whimper. Not a cry—just a breath. Just enough to rip Joe's soul out of his body.
"Bradley," he choked, twisting with pure adrenaline, ignoring the pain shredding through his side.
The car was crushed. The backseat pushed in. Bradley's tiny body was strapped sideways in the car seat, head slumped, one small hand stained red from the glass scattered around him. His curls were matted with blood.
Joe's own breath stopped.
"Oh my god," he whispered, reaching for him with trembling hands. "Buddy—hey—Brad—come on—come on baby, look at Daddy—"
Bradley didn't move.
Not even a twitch.
Joe's vision blurred. He clawed at his seatbelt, stumbling out of the driver's side on shaking legs, knees buckling when they hit the ground. He didn't feel the pavement cut into his palms. All he saw was you and his son.
"HELP!" he screamed into the night, the sound ripped straight from his chest. "SOMEONE—please—"
A door opened somewhere. Voices shouting. Someone running.
Joe didn't wait. He didn’t know what to do, he was in shock.
He ripped open your door first—hands slipping on blood, glass cutting into his fingers. He didn't care. He cupped your face with both shaking hands.
"Baby," he whispered, breaking apart. "Please—please wake up. Y/n, can you hear me? Sweetheart, open your eyes—please—"
You didn't move.
He checked your pulse with a shaking thumb.
It was there—weak, too slow—but there.
He folded forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, a broken sound leaving him. Then he forced himself upright. Forced himself to move. Forced himself to breathe.
He dragged the opposite back door open next. Unbuckled Bradley with trembling fingers. Held his tiny body to his chest like he could keep him alive by sheer force of will.
"Buddy, Daddy's got you," he whispered, rocking him, blood soaking into Joe's shirt. "I got you—I got you—stay with me, okay?"
Someone finally reached them. A bystander. A voice yelling for 911. People crowding. But Joe didn't hear anything except his son's shallow, uneven breaths.
“Sir. Don’t move him much. His bones could be broken.” But Joe didn’t hear him. He just worried about the limp little boy who just turned 1, two months ago.
Paramedics arrived within minutes—minutes that felt like years. They pulled you from the car carefully. One shouted something about head trauma. Another checking your breathing. Another strapping your neck.
Joe nearly dropped to his knees watching them lift you onto a stretcher.
"Her pulse is weak—she's losing consciousness—"
"She hasn't been conscious," Joe rasped. "She hasn't woken up since—since—"
His voice broke completely.
A medic touched his shoulder firmly. "Sir, we need your son."
Joe clutched Bradley tighter. "Don't take him—please—don't—he needs me—"
"Sir, we need to get him stable."
Joe looked down at the tiny, limp boy in his arms.
His baby.
His whole world.
He let them take him.
He followed the ambulance in another vehicle, shaking, heart hammering, hands covered in blood—yours, Bradley's, maybe his. He didn't feel anything but fear. A hollow, all-consuming fear that swallowed every breath he took.
⸻
Joe burst through the ER doors with a wild desperation that terrified the staff. The police officer brought him after he fought with with him.
"I need—my wife, my son—where are they—where did they take them—"
Nurses tried to get him to sit. Tried to clean the blood off his hands. Tried to close the gash on his head. Tried to talk to him. He didn't hear any of it.
Then—a voice.
"Joe!"
He turned so fast he nearly fell.
Robin ran toward him, Jim right behind her, both pale, both frantic. Robin grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. Unsure how they were even here. Who called them?
"What happened? Where are they? Joe, tell me—where are they?"
His voice cracked in half.
"They're not awake," he choked. "Mom—Mom, neither of them—Bradley won't open his eyes—Y/n's not breathing right—I don't—" He bent forward suddenly, both hands gripping his hair, body shaking. "I don't know if they're okay—"
Robin wrapped her arms around him immediately, holding him tight, holding him up, her own breath breaking as she whispered, "We're here. We're here, sweetheart. Tell us—just tell us."
Jim's voice wavered. "Are the doctors with them?"
Joe nodded, barely. "They—they said Y/n has head trauma. They... they don't know how bad yet. And Brad—he's so little. He—he wouldn't respond—he didn't—"
He couldn't finish. He pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes red, chest heaving.
Robin wiped tears from his face with shaking hands. "Okay okay. Calm down, breathe. We're going to stay. We're not leaving. You hear me? Not for a second."
Joe stared at the hallway where they'd taken you both.
Neither of you were out.
Neither of you were conscious.
Neither of you were okay.
He whispered the words like a prayer and a plea all at once:
"Please... I can't lose them. I can't—"
He broke then. Fully. Completely.
And all Robin and Jim could do was hold him while the world kept spinning without you.
——-
The first thing I felt was pressure.
Not pain—just pressure, heavy and dull, like something was sitting on top of me and I wasn't strong enough to shove it off. My eyes stayed closed because opening them felt impossible, like lifting cement. My throat burned. My chest ached. My leg throbbed with every heartbeat.
Something beeped softly near my head.
Another sound—shaky breathing. Not mine.
Someone was holding my hand. Warm, trembling fingers wrapped gently around mine, squeezing like they were afraid to break me.
I forced my eyes to open.
The light above me blurred, then sharpened slowly. A ceiling. A hospital room. The faint hum of machines. And then—
Joe.
He was hunched over the edge of my bed, forehead nearly touching my arm, his shoulders shaking as he let out a breath that sounded like a sob swallowed at the last second.
His eyes were red, swollen, exhausted. His hair was a mess, his jaw tight with days' worth of tension, and his face—God, his face looked like it had aged years.
"Joe?" My voice barely came out. Dry. Weak. Scraped raw. "Hey..."
His head jerked up.
The look on his face gutted me.
A split second of disbelief—like he thought he'd imagined me speaking.
Then absolute relief.
Then heartbreak.
"Baby," he whispered, before standing so quickly the chair screeched behind him. He cupped my face with both shaking hands, pressing kisses across my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, over and over like he needed proof I was real. "Oh my god—oh my god, you're awake—sweetheart, you're awake—"
A tear fell on my hospital gown.
He didn't wipe it. Didn't care.
I blinked, confused and overwhelmed. "What... what happened?"
His breath stuttered. "The accident. The car—baby, you—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "You scared the hell out of me."
I tried to move and pain shot through my left leg, sharp and stabbing.
"Easy," he whispered, smoothing my hair back. "You broke your leg. And your wrist. And—" His voice wavered. "You had a brain bleed. They had to do surgery."
My stomach dropped.
"How long... how long have I been out?"
"Hours," he said softly. "You came out of surgery 2 hours ago, but you didn't wake up. They said you could be asleep for a while, but—" His voice cracked. "I've been sitting here praying. Begging. Just waiting for you to open your eyes."
My heart squeezed painfully. "Joe..."
His thumb brushed my cheek, slow, reverent. "I thought I lost you."
I swallowed, wincing. "Where—where's Bradley?"
The question hit him like a physical blow.
His face crumpled—barely, but enough.
He lowered himself back into the chair, taking my hand carefully, pressing it to his forehead as if he needed to borrow strength from the touch.
"He—he's in surgery," he whispered. "He's been in there for five hours."
My entire body went cold.
"Surgery?" I choked, trying to sit up. "Why—Joe, why is he—?"
"Hey—baby—slow," he said, gently easing me back down before the pain spiked again. "He had free fluid in his abdomen when he got here. Internal bleeding. They had to operate immediately."
Tears blurred my vision instantly. "Is he—Joe, is he—?"
"He's alive." Joe cut in quickly, voice shaking. "He's alive, sweetheart. They said he was stable enough to operate. That's good. That's really good."
I could hear the fear under every word.
I gripped his hand tighter. "Five hours... that's so long..."
"I know," he whispered, voice breaking. "I know. But they said longer can mean they're being careful. That they're fixing everything they can."
He closed his eyes, jaw trembling. "I've never been so scared in my life. Not for myself—never for me—but you... and him... at the same time—baby, I didn't know what to do."
I squeezed his hand as hard as my weak fingers allowed. "Come here."
He leaned forward until our foreheads touched.
I could feel him breathing—heavy, uneven, desperate.
"I should've protected you," he whispered, voice barely audible. "I should've seen the car. I should've reacted faster. I should've—"
"Joe." My voice was quiet but firm. "It wasn't your fault."
His jaw clenched. "I was driving."
"And someone else hit us," I whispered back. "Don't do that to yourself."
He didn't answer. Just pressed his forehead harder into mine, like he was trying to disappear into the one place that didn't hurt him.
"I can't lose him," he said, voice cracking clean in half. "I can't lose either of you."
I lifted my good hand and cupped the side of his face. "He's strong. Just like you."
A faint, broken laugh escaped him. "He's stubborn like you."
"We're both stubborn."
"Yeah," he breathed, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "You are."
We sat in silence for a moment, the monitor beeping softly beside us, the fluorescent lights humming above, the smell of antiseptic thick in the air.
"Has there been any update?" I asked.
He nodded slightly. "The nurse came in an hour ago. They said he was still stable. Still under. Still being worked on." His voice softened. "Those are good signs. They said they'd come get me the second they knew more."
My eyes filled again. "I want to see him."
"You will," he whispered, brushing his finger along my cheek. "As soon as they'll let you. I promise."
He kissed my temple gently.
Then again.
Then once more, like he couldn't stop.
"Joe?" I whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
He let out a shaky breath. "Not even close."
I nodded, tears slipping down my temples into my hair. "Me either."
He intertwined his fingers with mine again, squeezing like he was afraid I'd vanish.
"I'm right here," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere. Not leaving this room. Not until we know he's okay."
A knock sounded at the door.
Joe's breath caught.
He turned slowly, eyes wide with fear.
A nurse stepped in, face serious but not grim.
"Mr. Burrow?"
Joe stood so fast the chair slid back.
"How—is he—?"
"They'll speak with you in a minute," she said gently.
Joe's chest rose sharply—relief, terror, hope, everything tangled together.
He turned back to me, leaning down to kiss my forehead.
"I'll come right back," he whispered.
I held onto his hand until he had to pull away.
"Go," I said softly. "Go be with our boy."
He nodded, eyes shining, then slipped out of the room, leaving the door cracked behind him.
Alone, I stared up at the ceiling, the monitor beeping beside me, pain radiating through my body but nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Or maybe it was these pain meds that knocked me out that It felt like hours.
Hours.
He'd been in surgery for hours.
And now—all we could do was wait.
Joe followed the nurse down the hallway with steps that didn't feel like his own. His legs were heavy, numb. His hands shook so violently he had to clench them into fists just to keep walking in a straight line.
The nurse stopped just outside a set of double doors marked POST-OP – RESTRICTED.
She turned to him slowly, her eyes soft. Too soft.
"Mr. Burrow... I need you to prepare yourself."
His stomach dropped. His pulse roared in his ears.
"But he's okay?" Joe whispered. "He's stable— you said— they said—"
Her face broke.
"Mr. Burrow, Bradley coded four times during surgery."
Joe's breath left his body so fast it punched pain into his chest.
"What?" His voice came out small. Wrong. "No. No—he—he's one. He's— please— you're—please tell me he made it. Please, you're joking."
The nurse swallowed, eyes shining.
"They got him back the first three times. But the fourth..."
Her voice cracked.
"They couldn't revive him."
Joe stared at her.
The hallway tilted, the lights buzzing too loudly, too bright. His vision blurred at the edges.
"No," he whispered.
A whisper.
A denial.
A plea.
The nurse stepped closer, gently placing a hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."
He ripped his arm away.
"No. No, you don't— you don't understand." He backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. "That's my son. That's my little boy. He was— he was breathing. He was— he was in the car seat— he—" His words fractured. "He can't— no. No."
"Mr. Burrow—"
Joe pressed both hands to his face, sinking to his knees before he even felt himself move. A strangled sound tore out of him—raw, animal, broken. He doubled forward, forehead nearly touching the floor.
"My boy," he gasped. "Oh god—my boy—"
A security guard approached. A doctor stepped out from the OR. A second nurse came closer.
Nobody touched him.
They just watched him collapse piece by piece on the hospital floor.
"I need— I need to get him back," Joe whispered, barely forming the words. "Please. Please try again. Please—he's one—he's a baby—he's my baby—"
"I am so deeply sorry," the doctor said softly. "We tried everything we had. We worked on him for forty minutes."
Joe shook his head violently, tears hitting his hands, the tile, his knees. "No—no no no no—he was just learning to walk—he was— he said 'Dada' this morning—he—" His voice broke entirely. "Please—please don't tell me he's gone."
But no one said anything else.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Joe stayed on the ground for a long time. Minutes. Maybe an hour. He couldn't tell. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His hands were still covered in dried blood—Bradley's blood—and the sight of it made him gag.
He didn't go back to your room.
He couldn't.
He couldn't walk in there and look into your eyes.
He couldn't speak words that would destroy you.
He couldn't carry the moment your world would end.
He couldn't be the one to say our son is gone.
He curled into himself, shaking, chest caving in with grief so violent he felt like his ribs would snap.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't imagine telling you.
Couldn't imagine breathing without his little boy.
⸻
Time moved strangely in the hospital. I drifted in and out, blurry from pain meds, the room dim. Every so often a nurse came in, checked my vitals, adjusted something, offered water.
But Joe never came back. None of my nurses knew where he went.
Not once.
Hours passed.
Hours.
And the longer he stayed gone, the more something cold and heavy crawled into my stomach.
Robin appeared in the doorway then, her face pale, her hands clenched around a tissue she hadn't used.
"Hey sweetheart," she whispered, coming to my bedside.
I tried to smile, but it felt wrong. My throat was tight. "Hey... where's Joe? He said he'd be right back."
Robin's breath stuttered.
She sat slowly, carefully, on the edge of the chair beside me. Her eyes were glossy, her jaw tight like she was holding something back with force.
"Robin?" My voice trembled. "Where is he? It's been— I don't know—hours. Is he with Bradley? Is Joey okay?"
She looked at me then.
Really looked.
And something inside me sank.
"Sweetheart..." she whispered, voice breaking.
Tears began to fill her eyes.
My chest constricted. "Robin... answer me. Where is Joe?"
She covered her mouth with her hand.
Her whole body shaking.
"Something's wrong," I whispered. "Isn't it?"
Robin didn't nod.
Didn't speak.
But her tears said everything.
And the cold in my stomach spread like ice.
"Where—" my voice cracked, "—is my husband?"
Robin finally broke.
"He—he's in the post-op hallway," she whispered. "He hasn't moved since the doctors spoke to him."
My blood went cold.
"What did they say?"
My vision blurred.
"Robin, what did they say?"
She reached for my hand, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Y/n..."
Her voice shattered.
"The doctors... they—"
She couldn't finish.
But I already knew.
I felt my world drop out beneath me before she even said a word.
The room started to shrink.
That was the first thing I noticed—the walls pressing in, the ceiling lowering, the air turning thick and impossible to pull into my lungs. My chest burned, sharp and frantic, breaths coming too fast, too shallow, like my body forgot how to do the one thing it needed to survive.
“No,” I whispered. “No—no—no—”
The monitor beside my bed began to scream.
A sharp, high-pitched alarm cut through the room, then another joined it, overlapping, insistent. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, feel it in my throat, in my fingers, everywhere.
“Oh my god,” I gasped, clutching at my chest. “Oh my god—”
Robin stood up instantly. “Sweetheart, breathe—”
“Robin please get out of my room,” I choked, panic tearing through every word. “Get out! Please—get out!”
She froze. “Y/n—”
“GET OUT!” I screamed, my voice cracking apart. “Oh my god—my little baby—oh my god—my baby—”
My vision tunneled. Black crept in at the edges. I couldn’t see Robin anymore, couldn’t see anything except Bradley’s face in my mind—his curls, his laugh, the way he reached for Joe with both arms like he was the safest place in the world.
“I need him,” I sobbed, clawing at the sheets. “I need my baby—where is he—why won’t anyone bring him to me—”
The door burst open.
“Nurse to ICU 4 now!”
Hands were suddenly everywhere. Voices talking over each other.
“Heart rate’s spiking—”
“She’s hyperventilating—”
“Ma’am, look at me—look at me—”
“Try to slow your breathing—”
I shook my head violently, tears streaming down my face. “No—no—don’t touch me—where is my son—WHERE IS MY SON—”
My fingers fumbled at the IV in my arm, desperation overriding pain. I ripped it out in one sharp motion, a cry tearing out of me as blood pooled against the sheets.
“Ma’am, stop—please—”
“I HAVE TO GET TO HIM,” I screamed, trying to sit up. Fire shot through my leg and I cried out, the pressure in my head making me collapsing forward anyway, reaching for anything. “I have to see him—I have to hold him—please—please—”
Another tube came loose. Then another.
“Restrain her—gently—”
“I can’t breathe—I can’t—I can’t—” My words dissolved into sobs. “Please don’t let him be gone—please—please—”
A nurse grabbed my shoulders firmly, holding me still. “Y/n, listen to me. You’re not safe right now. We need you to calm down.”
“I don’t care!” I screamed. “I don’t care—let me go—LET ME GO—”
Robin was crying somewhere behind them. “Please—please help her—”
“I want my baby!” I sobbed. “Oh god—my baby—my baby—”
A nurse’s voice cut through the chaos, calm but urgent. “She’s not responding. We’re going to have to sedate her.”
“No,” I cried weakly, shaking my head. “Please—please don’t—please—”
Something cold touched my arm.
“I’m sorry,” a voice said gently. “This will help you rest.”
The needle slid in.
I fought it. I fought everything. I sobbed and thrashed and screamed his name until my throat burned raw, until the world started slipping sideways, sounds stretching and warping.
“My baby,” I whispered, tears soaking into the pillow. “Please don’t take my baby—”
Joe’s face flashed in my mind—broken, hollow, alone.
Then Bradley’s laugh.
Then nothing.
The beeping faded.
The voices blurred.
The room dissolved.
And I was pulled under—forced into sleep—while my heart broke wide open, screaming for a little boy who would never wake up again.
——-
Robin found him slumped against the wall outside the operating wing, elbows on his knees, hands knotted in his hair like that was the only thing keeping him upright. He hadn’t moved. Not really. His eyes were red and unfocused, staring at nothing, replaying everything and nothing all at once.
“Joe,” she whispered.
He didn’t look up.
She knelt in front of him anyway, her hands hovering for a second before settling on his forearms. He was shaking now—full-body tremors he hadn’t noticed yet.
“She woke up,” Robin said carefully.
That got him. His head snapped up, hope flaring so fast it hurt.
“She did?” he breathed. “Is she—did she ask for him? Is she okay—”
Robin’s face crumpled.
“She knows something is wrong,” she said, voice breaking. “She asked where you were. She asked about Bradley.”
Joe’s chest caved in.
“And?” he whispered.
“And she panicked,” Robin said softly, tears spilling freely now. “The monitors went off. She couldn’t breathe. She was screaming for him. She tried to get out of bed, Joe. She ripped her IVs out. They couldn’t calm her down.”
Joe pressed his fists into his eyes, a broken sound ripping out of his throat.
“Oh god,” he whispered. “Oh god, that’s my fault—”
“They had to sedate her,” Robin finished. “She’s sleeping now.”
Joe shook his head over and over like if he did it hard enough he could undo everything. “I should’ve been the one to tell her,” he choked. “I should’ve been there. I left her alone. I left her alone when she needed me.”
Robin wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly while his body finally gave in. He folded into her, sobbing openly, his grief loud and raw and uncontrollable.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he cried. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—I couldn’t even process it. I still can’t. He was just here. He was just—” His voice collapsed completely. “I was supposed to protect him.”
Robin pressed her face into his hair. “This isn’t your fault,” she whispered, though her own voice shook. “None of this is.”
Joe pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy, hollow. “I need to see her,” he said. “I need to be with her.”
Robin nodded immediately. “Of course.”
They walked together down the hallway toward your room. Every step felt heavier than the last. Joe slowed at the door, his hand hovering over the handle, his breath hitching like he wasn’t sure he could survive what was on the other side.
When he finally pushed the door open, the room was dim and quiet.
You were asleep.
Your chest rose and fell steadily now, helped by the medication. Your face was pale, tear-streaked, lashes clumped together. Your hair was a mess against the pillow. One arm lay limp at your side, bandaged and bruised. The cast on your leg peeked out from under the blanket.
Joe took one look at you and shattered.
He stumbled forward, dropping into the chair beside your bed, one hand gripping the railing like he might fall apart completely if he let go. The sob that tore out of him was loud, broken, uncontrollable.
“Oh my god,” he cried. “Oh baby—please—please forgive me—”
His shoulders shook violently as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the mattress beside your hand. Tears soaked into the sheets.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve told you. I should’ve held you. I should’ve protected you both. I should’ve—”
His voice cracked into something unrecognizable.
“I couldn’t save him,” he whispered. “I couldn’t save our boy.”
He took your hand carefully, like you might break, and pressed it to his chest. His breathing was uneven, almost panicked.
“I don’t know how to live without him,” he said through tears. “I don’t know how to look at you and not hear his laugh. I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell you the truth. I don’t know how to be strong enough for you when I can’t even stand.”
Robin stood frozen in the doorway, watching her son unravel.
Joe turned his head slightly, voice hoarse. “Please,” he said. “Just go sit in the waiting room, Mom. I just need a minute.”
Robin hesitated, eyes filling again.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll be right outside.”
She stepped back and closed the door softly behind her.
Joe was alone with you then.
He leaned closer, resting his head against your arm, sobbing openly, helplessly, his grief filling the quiet room.
“I love you,” he whispered over and over. “I love you so much. Please don’t wake up and hate me for this. Please don’t wake up without me. I can’t lose you too.”
He stayed there, holding your hand, crying into the silence—
a father without his son,
a husband drowning in guilt,
waiting for the moment you would wake up and ask the question that would break you both all over again.
My throat hurt before my eyes even opened.
It felt like something had been lodged there for hours—thick, swollen, unmovable. My chest was heavy. My body ached everywhere, but that wasn’t what pulled me awake.
It was the quiet.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just… empty.
I blinked slowly, the room coming into focus in fragments. Dim lights. White walls. The steady hum of machines. My hand felt warm—trapped almost—and when I shifted my fingers, something moved with me.
Joe.
He was asleep in the chair beside my bed, his body folded in on itself, head resting against my good hand like that was the only place he could breathe. His hair was a mess, his face streaked with dried tears, mouth slightly open like he’d cried himself into exhaustion.
Seeing him like that broke something in me.
A sound slipped out of my chest before I could stop it. A small, shattered sob. Not loud. Just enough.
Joe jolted awake instantly.
His head snapped up, eyes wild and unfocused for half a second—then they landed on me.
“Hey—hey,” he whispered, already standing, already at my side. “Baby? You’re awake—”
My chest started caving in. The pressure came back all at once.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking before I could finish the sentence. Tears spilled fast, hot, uncontrollable. “Please tell me it was a joke. Please tell me that my baby is alive and resting in his hospital bed.” My breath hitched hard. “Please tell me, Joey.”
His face collapsed.
Completely.
His knees hit the floor beside my bed, hands gripping the sheets like he couldn’t stay upright any other way. A broken sound tore out of him—loud, wrecked, helpless.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he sobbed. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
My heart shattered clean in half.
“I would take his spot if I could,” he cried, pressing his forehead into my hand. “I swear to god I would. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this kind of pain.”
Tears streamed down his face, soaking into my knuckles.
“Our little boy should be here,” he whispered, voice cracking into something raw and unrecognizable. “We should be home. He should be swimming with Ja’Marr’s little boy, splashing everywhere, and you’d be yelling at me to put sunscreen on him. We should be sitting by the pool, laughing about how tired we are. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Joe looked up at me, eyes red, hollow, full of guilt and devastation. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him. I texted Zac that I’m done. I can never step foot into that facility again. I never want to put that uniform on again knowing my little boy isn’t matching me on the sideline. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Something inside me went still.
There was no screaming this time. No panic. No ripping at wires or trying to run. Just a deep, unbearable ache that settled into my bones like it planned to stay forever.
I pulled him toward me with what little strength I had.
Joe climbed onto the edge of the bed immediately, wrapping his arms around me like he was afraid I’d disappear too. I buried my face into his neck and sobbed—quiet, broken cries that shook my entire body.
He held me just as tightly.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, though his voice was wrecked too. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
I cried into him for our son.
For the empty car seat.
For the life we were supposed to keep living.
Joe cried with me—big, shuddering sobs that matched mine, his arms locked around me like the only thing keeping him tethered to the world was the woman in his arms.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Two parents holding each other in a hospital bed,
grieving a little boy who should have been asleep in a crib somewhere,
learning how to breathe again in a world that had taken far too much.
can you write an arch fic of a boat day with him and his family and him being all handsy
Handsy- arch manning
The boat rocks gently under the bright afternoon sun, the lake sparkling like it knows it’s hosting a Manning family party.
Everyone’s laughing — Peyton is telling some embarrassing story about Arch as a kid, Olivia is handing out sunscreen like it’s her mission in life, and Cooper is already on his second beer, lounging without a care.
And then there’s Arch.
Who cannot seem to keep his hands to himself.
You’re sitting beside him on the padded seat, legs stretched out, bikini still damp from the last swim. His arm is draped casually across the back of your waist — casual to everyone else, not at all casual to you. His fingers keep tracing slow, sneaky lines up your side, brushing the edge of your bikini top like he wants to see just how bold he can get.
You lean in with a whisper, trying not to smile too wide:
“Arch, stop doing that. Did you not get it out of your system this morning before we left?”
His hand freezes… for about half a second.
Then he squeezes your hip, voice low enough that only you can hear, words warm against your ear—
“No, baby, I didn’t. And your skimpy bikini isn’t helping either.”
You have to bite your lip to hold back a laugh. You shoot him a playful warning glare.
“Your mom is literally right there.”
He glances over at her — she’s taking a thousand pictures of the sunset, oblivious — then grins, shameless and smug.
“She’s busy,” he shrugs, eyes traveling down your body before snapping back up with a look that says he definitely shouldn’t… and absolutely will.
His hand slides lower again, fingertips brushing dangerously close.
“Arch,” you whisper, cheeks flushing. “Behave.”
He leans closer, lips brushing the back of your shoulder like he can’t help himself.
“I am behaving,” he murmurs. “You should see what I want to be doing.”
You jab him lightly in the ribs with your elbow, though there’s no heat behind it.
“We are in public.”
“We’re on a boat,” he counters lazily. “Totally different.”
You laugh into his shoulder, and he presses a kiss into your hair — quick, soft, and reverent. A private moment in a very public setting.
Then Cooper shouts from across the boat, “Hey lovebirds! You two planning on seeing the view today or are you just gonna stare at each other?”
Arch flips him off without even looking, and you can’t help it — you burst into giggles.
His hand finally settles respectfully on your thigh…
But the look he gives you promises that once this boat docks?
Arch's bed creaks softly beneath you, not from anything wild, just from the way you're moving—shifting, laughing under your breath, adjusting your balance as you sit on his waist. The room is dim except for the lamp on his nightstand, the light low and warm, casting everything in that hazy, late-night glow that makes time feel slower.
His hands are everywhere in that familiar, unhurried way. One on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. The other slides up your back, warm and steady, like he's anchoring you there. Your knees press into the mattress on either side of him, and you can feel his laugh vibrate under you when you lean down and kiss him again.
This isn't rushed. It never is with him.
Your mouths fit together easily, like muscle memory. Soft at first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that makes your head feel light and your thoughts scatter. His hands flex at your hips when you shift, thumbs brushing absentmindedly like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
"You're trouble," he murmurs against your lips.
You smile into the kiss. "You love it."
"I really do," he says, and then he's kissing you again, slower now, more deliberate.
Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan quietly. He tilts his head back instinctively, giving you more space, and you take it, pressing kisses along his jaw, his cheek, back to his mouth again. He moans with the contact. His hands tighten, one sliding up to your ribs, thumb brushing just under your shirt in a way that sends a shiver through you.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
His eyes are dark, unfocused, lips pink from kissing. He looks at you like you're the only thing ever. Like the only thing that exists.
"Get back here," he says softly when you hesitate, hands already pulling you down again.
You laugh under your breath. "Bossy."
"Only with you."
You lean in—
The door swings open.
Hard.
"Arch, have you seen—"
Time stops.
Your brain doesn't catch up right away. All you register at first is the sudden light from the hallway, the sound of a grown man's voice, and the horrifying awareness of exactly where you are positioned.
On Arch's waist.
In his bed.
Very obviously not doing homework.
You freeze.
Arch freezes.
Cooper freezes in the doorway, one hand still on the doorframe, the rest of his sentence dying instantly.
There's a beat. A long one. The kind that stretches until it's physically painful.
"Oh," Cooper says finally.
You scramble off Arch so fast you nearly fall off the bed. Your face feels like it's on fire. You can't even look at Cooper—your eyes lock onto the floor, the wall, literally anything else.
"Oh my god," you mutter. "I'm so sorry. I didn't— I mean— we weren't—"
Arch sits up, dragging a hand down his face. "Dad."
Cooper raises both hands immediately. "Relax. Everyone keep their clothes on. We're good."
You want to crawl under the bed and live there forever.
"I swear," you say, voice high with embarrassment, "we weren't doing anything bad."
Cooper hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking between you and Arch, then pointedly at the rumpled sheets. "Define bad."
"Dad," Arch groans.
"I'm kidding," Cooper says easily.
You finally risk a glance up. He looks... amused. Way too amused. Not angry. Not upset. Just wearing that calm, knowing expression.
"Well," he continues, stepping fully into the room, "I knock next time. That one's on me."
"I usually lock the door," Arch mutters.
"Ah," Cooper says, nodding. "Rookie mistake."
Your face burns hotter.
"I really am sorry," you say again, mortified. "I didn't think anyone would just walk in."
Cooper smiles at you—genuinely, kindly. "Hey. You're fine. You're both adults. I'd be more concerned if you weren't making out at some point."
Arch drops his head back onto the pillow with a groan. "Can you not say it like that."
Cooper chuckles. "What? 'Making out'? Is that dated now?"
"Yes," Arch says immediately. "Please leave."
Cooper ignores him. "Just, uh—" He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "Maybe keep the door locked. Or invest in one of those little door-hanger signs. 'Do Not Disturb: Emotional Bonding in Progress.'"
"Dad!"
You clap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing, even though you're still absolutely dying inside.
"Have you seen where I put that cutting board?"
Arch shakes his head no.
Cooper turns toward the door, then pauses. "Also," he adds casually, "No baby manning running around anytime soon please. We need you to know how to work a microwave before you have to take care of another living being."
Arch throws a pillow at him.
Cooper dodges it easily, laughing as he backs out into the hallway. "Love you both!"
The door closes.
Silence slams down over the room.
hands.
"I am never showing my face again," you mumble. "I'm moving. New name. New life."
Arch starts laughing.
Not a small laugh. Not a polite one. He laughs like he's been holding it in for too long, head tipped back, shoulders shaking.
"This is not funny," you say, peeking through your fingers.
"I'm sorry," he says, still laughing. "I know it's horrible. But also—kind of iconic."
You groan. "Your dad just saw me sitting on you."
"He's seen worse," Arch says lightly. Then, softer, "Not involving you or me. Don't worry."
You drop your hands and glare at him. "I hate you."
He reaches out, gently tugging you back toward him. "You don't."
You let him pull you in, settling beside him instead this time, safely, mortifyingly appropriate distance maintained. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
"He really is lax," you admit quietly.
"Yeah," Arch says. "He lives for embarrassing me."
You sigh, still flustered but calming now. "I'm never sitting on your waist again."
He smirks. "We'll see."
You elbow him lightly, but you're smiling despite yourself. He wraps an arm around you, holding you close, thumb brushing slow, soothing lines along your arm like he's grounding you back into the moment.
"Hey," he murmurs. "You okay?"
You nod, resting your head against his shoulder. "Yeah. Just... scarred for life."
He kisses the top of your head. "Worth it, though."
You laugh softly, the embarrassment slowly giving way to warmth again.
Next time, you think, definitely locking the door.
The cold air was sharper than I expected when we stepped out of the car, the kind that made your breath curl in front of you like smoke. Joe slipped a hand to the small of my back without even looking, guiding me up the driveway the way he always did when we came home to his parents’ house. The windows were glowing—the warm, full, crowded kind of glow that felt like every memory he ever told me about growing up lived inside those walls.
The second we made it to the porch, the front door was already pulling open.
“THERE THEY ARE!”
I didn’t even have time to smile before two of the nieces were barreling toward us, arms out, nearly tackling Joe first, then me, then him again because apparently they couldn’t decide who they were more excited about.
Joe laughed, real and loose, the kind of laugh he’d earned after last night’s win. “Y’all didn’t ambush anybody else like this, did you?”
“Yes!” one of the girls said proudly. “But you’re special!”
“Oh, I’m honored,” he deadpanned, lifting her easily into his arms.
I didn’t get two steps inside before Robin wrapped me in a hug, the kind that squeezed my ribs and somehow still felt gentle. “You two made it,” she said into my shoulder. “I was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day away.”
“We almost did,” I admitted. “Travel caught up with us.”
“Mm-hm,” she hummed knowingly. “He’s the one you’re protecting. He pushes through everything until he crashes.”
I didn’t have to answer. She already knew.
The house was buzzing—soft conversation, the clatter of dishes, something simmering on the stove, someone laughing from the back room. Joe’s brothers were in the kitchen arguing about which pie they were allowed to cut into early. The youngest nieces were running laps from the hallway to the living room, shrieking happily. A baby cried once, then quieted. The TV played some old Christmas cartoon in the background even though we were still technically in November.
Every sound felt warm.
And then the nephews spotted him.
“JOE!” three voices yelled in unison.
They ran at him full-speed—no hesitation, no concern for self-preservation. Joe barely had time to put the niece down before he was bracing for the collision of three tiny bodies.
He caught two. The third attached himself to Joe’s leg like a koala.
“Hey guys,” he laughed, ruffling their hair one by one.
And then—because nieces and nephews have no sense of timing or boundaries—the first forbidden topic arrived instantly.
“UNCLE JOE WE SAW YOUR GAME LAST NIGHT!!!”
“It was so cool!”
“You were so fast!”
“That throw was crazy!”
“My dad said you’re like a wizard but for football!”
Joe shot a helpless look toward the kitchen. “I thought we had a rule,” he whispered loudly.
His dad called back, “We DO. But they’re children. Good luck enforcing anything.”
One nephew tugged Joe’s sleeve. “Were you scared to play again?”
Joe swallowed. I knew that look. I knew exactly what those words hit inside him.
He crouched down so he was eye-level. “No,” he said softly. “I was excited.”
“You won,” one of the boys said proudly. “You won your first game back!”
“Ain’t that somethin’,” Joe murmured, a shy smile creeping in.
I watched him for a moment—watched how his shoulders relaxed, how his jaw softened, how the tension from weeks of rehab and worry seemed to melt a little under a pile of hugging, loud, relentless nieces and nephews.
This place grounded him more than he’d ever admit.
One of the littlest tugged at my hand then. “Auntie y/n, did you see Uncle Joe yesterday?”
“I did,” I said, smiling. “I saw everything.”
“He was really good, right?”
“The best,” I whispered.
From across the room, Joe met my eyes—brief, soft, almost apologetic.
The argument from weeks ago still lived quietly behind both of us, still left marks he tried to pretend weren’t there.
But today wasn’t about that.
Today was about this hallway, this kitchen, this laughter, this table that barely held all of us.
Today was about his family wrapping around him like they always had.
Robin pulled Joe into a hug next, smoothing a hand over the back of his hair. “We’re proud of you,” she whispered into his shoulder.
He closed his eyes for a second, just long enough for me to see the emotion flicker across his face before he covered it with a smile.
Dinner was loud.
Everyone talking over everyone, passing plates, handing food down the table, nephews whispering to each other about how Joe probably broke the “don’t talk football” rule a little but it was okay because he won a game.
Joe sat beside me, thigh pressed to mine under the table, fingers brushing my knee every so often like he couldn’t stop reaching for me even while he talked to his cousins. Every so often he’d glance over, giving me this small, grateful look—the kind that said thank you without him saying a word.
At one point, his dad tapped his glass. “Alright,” he said, “before we all go into food comas, I wanna say something.”
The room quieted—slowly, because no Burrow knows how to stop talking immediately.
He looked at Joe.
Not like a star quarterback.
Not like a headline.
Just like his son.
“We’re happy you’re healthy,” he said. “And we’re happy you’re home. That’s all that matters.”
Joe’s eyes shifted down, hands tucked under the table.
His fingers found mine instantly.
And he squeezed.
A quiet squeeze.
A thank-you-for-not-giving-up-on-me squeeze.
A I-heard-every-word-you-said-that-night-and-I’m-still-learning-from-it squeeze.
After dinner, when the plates were stacked and leftovers were being tucked into mismatched containers, Joe slipped up behind me, pressing his chin to my shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Thanks for bein’ here today.”
I leaned back into him slightly. “Where else would I be?”
His breath warmed the side of my neck. “I know I wasn’t… good. During all this.”
I didn’t answer right away.
His arms slid around my waist, pulling me gently against him.
“But I’m tryin’,” he whispered. “I promise I’m tryin’.”
And there it was.
The piece he never gives the world.
The softness he hides until he feels safe.
The truth tucked under the hard edges.
I placed my hand over his. “I know,” I said quietly. “I see it.”
A soft exhale left him, like he’d been holding it in all day.
One of the nephews ran past then, screaming something about pie, completely unaware of the moment happening between us.
Joe laughed into my neck, arms still around me. “God, I love these little monsters.”
“I know you do.”
He kissed my cheek once, gently. “And I love you for surviving them with me.”
I nudged him lightly. “You’re the one they tackle. I just spectate.”
He smiled—soft, real. “Best thing I saw all day was you walkin’ through that door with me.”
And for a moment, with the kitchen warm and crowded and noisy around us, with family moving in every direction, with love humming under everything…
He looked at me like last night’s win wasn’t the important one.
This was.
Us.
Here.
Together.
Still choosing each other even after the hard parts.
Still learning how to come back
—not just to football—
but to each other.
——-
Joe’s parents’ couch was old in the best way—soft from years of bodies sinking into it, the cushions molded to memories, and warm in that familiar-family-home kind of way. Joe and I had somehow settled into the corner of it, legs tangled, his arm lazily across my shoulders, my hand resting on his stomach. The bustle of Thanksgiving was still happening around us—kids running circles around the living room, an uncle snoring in a recliner, the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background.
Joe’s baby nephew had decided I was his seat of choice, curled up against me until he got bored, then wiggling until I shifted him upright in my lap. He kicked his legs wildly, squealing at Joe, spitting bubbles, grabbing at my sleeves. Joe kept poking his tiny sides to make him giggle harder.
“Look at you,” Joe teased, leaning close, voice warm. “Full-time auntie. You’re gonna spoil this kid rotten.”
“He’s already spoiled,” I said, bouncing the little one gently. “I’m just participating.”
Joe smirked. “You participate a lot.”
“Well,” I said, arching a brow, “I happen to like babies. That clear enough for you?”
He nudged my shoulder with his. “Could be clearer.”
I laughed and shoved him lightly. “Stop.”
He caught my hand and kissed my knuckles—quick, soft, casual. The kind of thing he didn’t think twice about anymore.
We didn’t even notice Robin walking into the living room until her sharp inhale made the entire room freeze.
“Y/n—” she choked out, hand flying to her chest. “Y/n fucking m/n.”
Every voice in the house shut off.
Every kid stopped running.
Every uncle paused mid-sentence.
Even the baby in my lap turned toward her like what did I do?
Robin blinked wildly, eyes darting from my face to my hand like she was trying to solve a crime.
“And—excuse my French—” she said, pointing accusingly, “but tell me why there is a big ass rock on your ring finger.”
My heart tripped over itself.
I froze.
Actually froze.
The whole room stared at me.
At my hand.
At the ring.
At the diamond Joe slipped onto my finger a week ago at a secluded place, when he asked me in the softest, most private way possible. A moment we promised we’d share today, when everyone was together, when it felt right.
But today got busy.
And loud.
And comfortable.
And happy in that easy way where big news didn’t feel urgent anymore.
I hadn’t even realized my hand was out, exposed, resting against Joe’s chest with the ring in full view.
My eyes went wide.
Joe didn’t miss a beat.
He just burst out laughing—full bodied, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. The kind of laugh that told me he’d been waiting for this exact reaction from his mom.
“Joe—Joseph Lee—” Robin sputtered, coming closer like she needed to examine the evidence up close. “WHAT is on her finger?”
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, still grinning. “Would you believe me if I said that’s exactly what you think it is?”
“JOE!” she shrieked.
He laughed harder.
“I put a ring on her finger a week ago,” he said casually, as if announcing we’d bought new throw pillows.
“A WEEK?!” Robin slapped her hand against her chest again.
“And you didn’t tell us?” his dad called from the kitchen.
“We were here last night!” one of his brothers yelled.
“And this morning!” a niece added.
The baby in my lap started clapping like he understood the drama.
Joe pressed a hand to my knee, grounding me gently. Then he looked up at all of them, his smile softening into something warm.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell y’all sooner,” he said, shrugging a little. “It was the plan to tell everyone today. But we’re running on, like… four hours of sleep since last night.”
Robin gaped at him. “FOUR—Joe, oh my—my heart—why would—how did—why didn’t—”
“Mom,” he interrupted gently, eyes playful, “breathe.”
She didn’t.
She marched straight toward us, cupped my face in both hands, kissed my forehead, and then turned to smack Joe’s arm. “You almost gave me a heart attack! You should have WALKED into this house with a megaphone announcing it!”
Joe winced, rubbing his arm. “I’m sorry! We were tired!”
I hid my face against the baby, laughing so hard my stomach ached.
One of the nieces ran over first. “Auntie y/n, does that mean you’re really gonna be part of the family?”
I smiled, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “I already was.”
Joe slipped his hand into mine then, squeezing gently. “But now it’s official.”
The room erupted.
Cheering. Crying. Talking over each other.
Aunts hugging me.
Nieces touching the ring.
Uncles patting Joe’s back like he’d accomplished something monumental.
Someone opened champagne.
Someone else recorded everything on their phone.
The baby in my lap kept babbling like he was the spokesperson for the announcement.
Joe watched it all, leaning back against the couch, arm around my shoulders.
He tilted his head toward me, voice low and warm in my ear. “You okay?”
I looked at him—the love in his eyes, the pride, the way he was holding himself like he finally got to breathe again—and nodded.
“I’m happy,” I said quietly.
He smiled.
Slow.
Soft.
Full.
“Good,” he murmured. “Me too.”
And then he kissed my temple, lingering there, while the entire Burrow family celebrated around us—loud, chaotic, overwhelmingly loving.
Arch is basically a human space heater — and you take full advantage of it.
It happens constantly. Grocery store? Your hands disappear under his hoodie. In the parking garage? You slide cold fingers up the warm muscles of his back. In line at Starbucks? You’re already snuggling up to his ribs like you pay rent under there.
Tonight, it’s the worst (or best) — Texas winter decided to show up with a vengeance, and you’re freezing before you even make it to the car.
“Arch,” you whine dramatically, rubbing your palms together like a cartoon character stranded in the Arctic.
He smirks, unlocking the door. “What? Didn’t bring gloves because you knew you could use me as one?”
Instead of answering, you shove both hands straight up the front of his hoodie, fingers meeting bare skin and solid abs.
Arch jerks — the cold hitting him like a jolt of electricity.
“Jesus—!” he hisses through a laugh, body tightening under your touch. “Warn a guy!”
You grin, wiggling your fingers mischievously. “Hmm. Warm…and toned.”
His hands instinctively come to your waist because your sudden clinginess throws him off balance. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“You’ll live,” you say sweetly, pressing closer like he’s your personal furnace.
Arch’s laugh vibrates through his chest. “You good, girl?”
“Better than good,” you murmur, sliding your hands higher until his abs jump again. “Perfect.”
He shakes his head with that helpless smile — the one he only uses when you’re being a menace and he secretly loves it.
“You know,” he leans down to kiss your forehead, “most people just wear a jacket.”
“Most people don’t have you,” you counter, chin lifted smugly.
He tucks an arm around you, guiding you toward the car while your hands remain firmly under his hoodie like you’ve glued them there.
“Keep touching me like that,” he says, eyes sparkling with amusement, “and we’re never making it to dinner.”
You bite your lip, snuggling in even closer as he opens the passenger door.
“That’s the idea,” you whisper.
Arch rolls his eyes — but he doesn’t move your hands.
Can we get arch and gf who’s pregnant and his always rubbing her bump. Or kissing on her bump and talking to it.
Arch has always been affectionate.
Touchy. Warm. Always finding some excuse to have his hand on me—my waist, my thigh, the small of my back. That was nothing new. I’d gotten used to the way he gravitates toward me like it’s instinct, like his body just knows where mine is supposed to be.
But pregnancy?
Pregnancy unlocked a new level of obsession.
Specifically: my bump.
It starts small. Barely noticeable at first. Just a softness that wasn’t there before, a subtle curve that only I could really see when I stood sideways in the mirror. I’m barely out of the first trimester when Arch notices it for real.
We’re in the kitchen. I’m standing at the counter, reaching for a glass, when I feel it—his hands sliding around my waist from behind. His palms are warm, big, familiar. He presses his chest into my back, chin resting on my shoulder.
“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.
I laugh. “I’m sweaty. I just threw up ten minutes ago.”
He hums, completely unconcerned with facts. “Still glowing.”
His hands shift lower, settling on my stomach. He freezes.
I feel it before he says anything. The way his grip changes, gentler somehow. Reverent.
“…is it bigger?” he asks quietly.
I glance down. “Barely.”
He moves his hands anyway, spreading his fingers like he’s trying to memorize the shape. “I swear it’s bigger.”
“Arch,” I tease, “you see me naked every day.”
“Exactly,” he says seriously. “I’d know.”
From that moment on, he’s gone.
Completely gone.
Every morning, before he even fully wakes up, his hand is there. Sliding under my shirt. Warm palm resting over my belly like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes I wake up to him already touching me, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s soothing himself.
“Good morning,” I mumble one day, voice thick with sleep.
He smiles lazily, eyes still half-closed. “Morning, baby.”
Then, softer, almost shy: “Morning, bump.”
I snort. “You did not just say that.”
He absolutely did.
When I sit on the couch, he sits sideways just so he can face me, one hand permanently anchored to my stomach. If we’re watching TV, he’s not even looking half the time—he’s just staring at the slight rise under my shirt, thumb tracing it absentmindedly.
I catch him doing it constantly.
In the grocery store, his hand is on my belly like a protective shield. In public. Around people. Zero shame.
“Arch,” I hiss once, swatting at him. “People can see.”
“So?” he shrugs, palm still firmly planted. “They should know I’m proud.”
Proud. Like he had something to do with it or something.
At night, it’s worse.
I’ll be changing into pajamas when I feel his eyes on me. Burning. Focused. Not even trying to hide it.
“What?” I ask, pulling my shirt over my head.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low. Then he steps closer, hands already reaching. “Come here.”
He kneels in front of me without warning one night, dropping down like it’s instinct. My breath catches as his hands slide up my thighs, thumbs pressing lightly into my hips. He leans in, presses a kiss just below my belly button.
I gasp. “Arch—”
“I know,” he murmurs quickly. “Just kissing. I promise.”
And he does. Soft, reverent kisses. Like my stomach is something sacred. His hands cradle me, careful and warm, like he’s afraid of hurting me even though I’ve told him a hundred times he won’t.
“You’re doing such a good job,” he whispers against my skin.
I blink. “Doing what?”
“Growing our baby,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Sometimes he talks to it.
That was not something I expected.
We’ll be lying in bed, his head propped on my chest, hand splayed over my stomach. And he’ll just… talk.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “It’s Dad.”
I laugh the first time. “You’re ridiculous.”
He looks up at me, completely serious. “I want them to know my voice.”
Them.
My heart does a stupid little flip every time.
He tells the bump about his day. About practice. About how excited he is. About how much he loves me. Sometimes he just hums quietly, low and steady, like it’s calming him too.
When we go to the doctor and hear the heartbeat for the first time, Arch cries.
Full-on cries.
He squeezes my hand so tight I think he might break my fingers, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep it together and failing miserably.
“That’s—” his voice breaks. He clears his throat. “That’s our baby.”
After that, the obsession escalates.
He googles things. All the time. Comes up to me with his phone like he’s presenting evidence.
“Did you know the baby can hear us now?”
“Yes, Arch.”
“Did you know they can taste what you eat?”
“Yes.”
“So when you crave strawberries—”
“It doesn’t mean they like strawberries,” I cut in.
He looks unconvinced.
He kisses my bump goodbye every morning before leaving. Every. Single. Morning.
If he forgets, he comes back.
I’m not exaggerating.
One day I’m standing in the kitchen when the front door opens again. Arch jogs back in, slightly out of breath, drops his bag.
“Forgot something,” he says.
He crouches, kisses my stomach quickly, then looks up at me, satisfied. “Okay. Now I can go.”
I just stare at him. “You’re insane.”
“About you,” he says easily.
As my bump grows, he adjusts without thinking. Walks slower. Puts his arm around me more. Pulls me closer in crowds. Always positions himself between me and anything remotely threatening.
At night, he curls around me like a shield, one arm draped over my belly, hand resting there like it belongs.
Sometimes I catch him just staring at it when he thinks I’m asleep.
Soft smile. Wonder in his eyes.
“Arch?” I murmur one night.
He blinks. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” I say quietly. “What are you thinking about?”
He exhales, thumb brushing my skin gently. “That I get to love you like this. That you’re carrying our baby. That this is real.”
His voice drops. “I’ve never loved anything more.”
And I believe him.
Because the way he looks at my bump—at me—isn’t just obsession.
It’s awe.
It’s devotion.
It’s Arch Manning, completely, hopelessly in love with the life we’re building together.
Joe walked out of the locker room with a cardboard box tucked under his arm.
It felt wrong that it was so light.
A pair of cleats.
A couple shirts.
His old towel.
Nothing that weighed even a fraction of what his chest carried every second of every day.
The hallway was quiet—too quiet for a place that used to buzz with noise and laughter and shouts bouncing off concrete walls. His footsteps echoed as he moved toward the exit, eyes down, jaw clenched.
And then he saw it.
Right by the open space near the lockers. The same stretch of floor where Bradley had toddled around that last time they were here. One tiny hand braced against the wall, the other holding Joe’s finger. Wobbly legs. Big proud smile. Joe laughing, crouched low, cheering like his kid had just scored a touchdown.
“Look at you, buddy,” he’d said. “You walkin’, huh?”
Bradley had fallen. Of course he had. Then popped right back up, laughing like it was the best thing in the world.
Joe stopped walking.
His chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
For a second, he swore he could still see him there—curling his fingers against the wall, babbling nonsense, grinning like this place belonged to him too.
Joe swallowed hard, eyes burning. He shifted the box in his arms and forced himself to keep moving.
Don’t stop.
Don’t look too long.
Just get out.
The doors opened to the outside. Cold air hit his face. Cameras clicked immediately.
“Joe!”
“Joe, over here!”
“Can we get a comment?”
He didn’t slow down.
He walked straight ahead, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on nothing. The box pressed tighter to his chest like a shield.
“Joe, is this about your sudden retirement?”
He ignored it.
“Joe—fans are shocked—”
Still nothing.
“Joe Burrow!”
His hand tightened around the box.
“Joe, don’t you think you owe everyone an explanation as to why you just up and quit?”
That stopped him.
Joe turned so fast it startled the reporter.
His eyes were red—not teary, not soft. Hard. Hollow. Furious.
“I don’t fucking owe anyone a fucking thing,” Joe snapped, his voice sharp and loud enough that the entire group went silent.
The cameras kept rolling.
“I lost my one-year-old son to a fucking drunk driver,” he continued, chest rising hard. “A month ago today.”
The reporter’s face drained of color.
Joe stepped forward, pointing at him, hand shaking. “This world is fucked up because of people like you. You think you’re entitled to my grief? To my pain? To answers you don’t deserve?”
The box slipped slightly under his arm and he readjusted it without breaking eye contact.
“I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat,” Joe said, voice cracking for just a second before he forced it steady again. “Do you honestly think I want to be anywhere near the place that my son took his last steps?”
No one spoke.
Joe shook his head slowly, disgusted. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
He turned and walked off, leaving stunned silence behind him.
⸻
Home was quiet when he walked in.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that never stopped feeling wrong.
Y/n was curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders even though the heat was on. Her leg was propped up on pillows, cast still there. The TV was on, volume low, some show playing that neither of them were really watching anymore.
She looked up when she heard the door.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Joe set the box down by the door and crossed the room in three steps. He knelt in front of her, resting his forehead against her knee carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to stand.
She reached for him immediately, fingers threading into his hair.
“You’re back sooner than I thought,” she whispered.
He nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “I couldn’t stay.”
She didn’t ask why.
She never did anymore.
Her thumb brushed over his temple, slow and grounding. “You okay?”
He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “No.”
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle. “Come here,” she murmured.
Joe climbed onto the couch beside her, tucking himself into her side like muscle memory hadn’t forgotten how to do this. She rested her head against his shoulder, and he buried his face into her neck.
“They tried to stop me,” he said quietly. “The media.”
She stiffened slightly. “What did they say?”
He hesitated. Then told her.
All of it.
She didn’t cry. Not like before. Just pressed her lips together and nodded slowly, one hand rubbing circles into his back.
“I’m glad you said it,” she said after a moment. “Someone needed to hear it.”
Joe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t go back there. I don’t think I ever could.”
“I know,” she said gently. “You don’t have to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were tired. Older. Still beautiful. Still the woman he loved more than anything left in this world.
“I don’t know who I am without him,” he admitted.
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “Neither do I.”
They stayed like that, holding each other in the quiet house, the weight of their loss sitting heavy but shared.
Outside, the world kept moving.
Inside, they were still learning how to survive a day without their little boy.
And for now—
Y/nburrow: today marks one whole month since my little boy left this earth. One month since I chased him around the house. One month since I heard his contagious giggle. One month since I saw his beautiful smile. I am unsure of how to continue with life at this point, but I’m trying. I miss my little boy. Joe misses his little boy. How do we navigate the loss of such a beautiful, innocent life? One that woke up calling for “momma and dada?”
Joeyb_9: Bradley Lee burrow. Please let me switch spots with you. Watching your momma struggle in a way that shouldn’t be possible, hurts. I’m struggling in ways I can’t even put into words, hurts. I miss you boss man. We had so many plans. You were so close to learning how to throw a football without falling over. I’ll miss you forever bubba. Daddy and mommy will see you soon. I’m so sorry buddy.
Joe came back to the world screaming.
Not a groan.
Not a startled breath.
A scream—raw, torn straight from his chest like he was being ripped apart.
“NO—NO—NO—”
His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, his body jerking against the bed as if he were trying to run while trapped. His heart was slamming so hard it hurt. Sweat soaked his hair, his neck, his chest. His hands clawed at the sheets, fingers curling like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there.
“Bradley—” he choked. “Where’s my son—please—”
“Joe, hey—Joe, look at me.”
Hands pressed firmly to his shoulders. Calm voices layered over each other.
“You’re in recovery.”
“You’re safe.”
“Joe, breathe.”
But he couldn’t. His chest was caving in, air scraping his lungs uselessly. His vision swam with flashes—hospital lights, blood, a tiny body that wouldn’t move, Y/n screaming his name—
“I couldn’t save him,” Joe sobbed, shaking violently. “I couldn’t—please—please don’t let him be gone—”
A nurse leaned closer, grounding, steady. “Joe, you just had surgery. You’re waking up from anesthesia.”
His head thrashed side to side. “No—no—I saw it—I saw him—I held him—he was—”
Another nurse injected something gently into his IV. “We’re giving you something to help calm you down.”
Joe’s breathing stuttered, then faltered, then slowed just slightly—but the tears didn’t stop. His face twisted in grief so deep it scared the people watching him.
“I watched my wife break,” he whispered hoarsely. “I watched her scream for him. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t—”
The first nurse exchanged a look with the second.
“I’m going to get his wife,” she said quietly. “She’s in the waiting room.”
⸻
Y/n was mid-sentence with Robin when the nurse approached.
“Mrs. Burrow?”
Her stomach dropped instantly. “Yes? Is he okay?”
“He’s awake,” the nurse said gently. “But he’s… very distressed. It seems he had an extremely vivid dream while under anesthesia. We think seeing you might help ground him.”
Y/n didn’t hesitate. She stood immediately, heart pounding. “Of course. Let me—”
She glanced down at Bradley in Robin’s arms. He was babbling softly, chewing on his teether, completely unaware of anything beyond the bright world in front of him.
Robin tightened her hold on him. “I’ve got him,” she said quickly. “Go. Be with Joe.”
Y/n leaned down and kissed Bradley’s curls, her chest tight for reasons she didn’t fully understand yet. “Mama will be right back, okay?”
Bradley giggled, reaching for her face.
She forced a smile and followed the nurse down the hall.
⸻
Joe was still crying when she walked in.
Not loud anymore—just broken, shaking sobs that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes snapped to the door the second it opened.
And when he saw her—
“Y/n,” he gasped.
Relief hit his face so fast it looked like pain.
He reached for her immediately, hands trembling. She rushed to his side, taking his face in her hands, pressing her forehead to his.
“Hey,” she whispered urgently. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
His hands slid to her wrists, gripping like he needed proof she was solid. “You were— you were screaming,” he choked. “You were begging me— and I couldn’t—”
She felt her throat close. “Joe… baby, listen to me. You had surgery. You were asleep.”
He shook his head violently. “Bradley—”
She froze.
“Where is he?” Joe demanded suddenly, panic flaring again. His grip tightened. His breathing spiked. “Why isn’t he with you—why didn’t you bring him—where is my son?”
“Joe,” she said quickly, trying to keep her voice steady. “He’s okay. He’s with your mom.”
His face went white.
“No,” he whispered. “No—don’t say that—don’t say he’s with my mom—”
“Joe,” the doctor stepped in calmly, holding up a hand. “Your son is alive. He’s healthy. He’s not injured.”
Joe’s eyes darted wildly. “Then why can’t I hear him? Why can’t I see him?”
The doctor spoke gently. “Some patients experience extremely vivid dreams while under anesthesia—especially emotional ones. Your brain can create scenarios that feel completely real. What you experienced felt real, but it wasn’t.”
Joe’s chest rose and fell erratically.
Y/n climbed carefully onto the edge of the bed and pulled him into her as best she could around the monitors. “It wasn’t real,” she whispered into his hair. “I promise you. I’m okay. Bradley’s okay.”
His body shook against hers. “I saw him die,” he sobbed. “I buried him. I watched you break. I watched myself—” His voice cracked. “I watched myself lose everything.”
Tears spilled down Y/n’s cheeks as she held him. “It was a dream,” she said softly, over and over. “Just a dream.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Robin stepped in, Bradley nestled against her shoulder, already sleepy from the long wait. His curls were damp with sweat, his little fingers curled loosely in her shirt.
Joe saw him.
Actually saw him.
His breath caught so hard it hurt.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god—”
Robin approached slowly, carefully, like she was handing over something fragile beyond measure.
Joe reached out with shaking arms. “Please,” he begged. “Please give him to me.”
Bradley was placed gently against Joe’s chest.
The second his son’s weight settled there—warm, real, breathing—Joe broke completely.
A sob tore out of him, loud and unrestrained, his arms wrapping around Bradley like a shield. He buried his face into his son’s hair, inhaling him desperately.
Bradley let out a soft little sigh and melted into him, tiny body relaxing instantly, thumb finding its way to Joe’s shirt as he drifted to sleep.
Joe cried silently now, tears streaming down his face, his lips pressed to Bradley’s curls again and again.
