summary: four years, countless nights, and every quiet moment remind you that loving him is effortless, and everything you’ve ever wanted.
a/n: thought about this idea last night and finally decided to try my hand at writing
warnings: none, all fluff
word count: 1.7k
You didn’t think nights like this would ever feel ordinary. But somehow, they do. Somehow, they’ve become the steady rhythm of your life with him.
The apartment is quiet in the kind of way you don’t often get to experience. It’s late in Baton Rouge, the kind of sticky summer night where the cicadas hum outside the cracked window and the soft golden light is spilling through the blinds, dust floating lazily in the beams as if the whole world has slowed down just for you. The faint hum of the fridge is the only background noise. You’re stretched out on the couch, legs tucked underneath a blanket you dragged from the bedroom, your body sinking deeper into the cushions as your mind drifts.
It’s one of those evenings where time feels slower, stretched thin and sweet. Your textbooks are stacked on the coffee table, left abandoned after hours of highlighting and note-taking. The soft ache in your shoulders is a reminder of how long you’ve been bent over them, but none of that matters now. There’s a different kind of calm in the air, the kind that makes you breathe deeper without realizing it.
The living room feels like home. Your home. The photos taped crookedly to the fridge, the two mismatched mugs on the counter, the pair of shoes kicked haphazardly by the door—none of it belongs to just you anymore, but to both of you together. Even the blanket wrapped around you smells faintly like laundry detergent and his cologne, that warm, grounding scent that always makes your chest ache in the best way.
And then he’s there.
He sinks into the couch beside you like he’s been heading toward it all day, like this is the only place he’s meant to end up. His presence is warm, steady, and familiar. He doesn’t say anything at first—just leans back, one arm sliding comfortably across the back of the couch, the other hand reaching instinctively for your legs. He lifts them, settles them over his lap, his fingers curling lightly around your ankle as if he needs to keep some part of you tethered to him.
It feels so natural, it almost startles you sometimes. The way being with him doesn’t require effort or thought, just this quiet, unshakable ease. Four years in and somehow it only feels stronger.
You glance at him, studying the slope of his shoulders, the way his hair curls a little messily at the ends from the humidity, the sharp line of his jaw softening when he finally turns to look at you. And there it is—the small, familiar smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, the one that always manages to undo you.
“You look tired,” you murmur, brushing your toes against his thigh beneath the blanket.
He shrugs, though his lips twitch upward again. “Camp’ll do that to you.”
The words are easy, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. Still, he looks content sitting here, like this is the only place he really wants to be. His thumb traces small circles absentmindedly against your leg, grounding you in a way nothing else could.
For a while, you just sit like that. No noise, no rush, just the rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his hand against your skin. It’s comfortable, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you say softly, voice lilting, teasing almost. You tilt your head to look at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded with tiredness but also sparkling in that way they do when he’s thinking.
Joe’s mouth curves into the barest smile. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.” You nudge him with your toes. “What about?”
He shrugs, but it’s a practiced shrug, the kind he does when he’s pretending to be casual but something is sitting heavy on him. “Us.”
That makes your chest warm. “Us,” you repeat, softening, waiting for him to go on.
Joe rubs his thumb absentmindedly along your calf, his eyes on the slow motion of it before flicking up to meet yours. “You ever think about… like… what’s next? After this?”
Your heart does a quiet somersault. You’ve been together for almost four years now, since that first messy, perfect night at Ohio State when he spilled his drink on your shoes and then spent the whole night making you laugh until you forgot they were sticky. Four years of games, exams, injuries, long drives, late-night fast food runs, tearful fights, and quiet reconciliations. And now here you are, LSU grad students, your lives entwined like it was always supposed to be.
His eyes flick to yours, steady and unhurried, like he knew the question was coming eventually. Your brows lift slightly, but there’s no hesitation. “All the time,” you admit, leaning your head against the back of the couch, studying him. “Do you?”
His smile deepens, slow and deliberate. “Every day.”
“What do you think about?” you press, your voice just above a whisper.
He doesn’t look away. “Marrying you.” He shifts, sliding his hand up from your shin to your knee, grounding you there. He exhales, like he’s been holding it in. “I see us. Married. I see you walking down the aisle, looking insanely beautiful in a white dress, and I’m standing there wondering how the hell I got that lucky.”
Your throat tightens instantly.
Joe’s voice is low, steady. “I see kids running around our house, and they’ve got your smile, probably driving me crazy, but you’re there, and I don’t even care about anything else because you’re mine and I’ve got everything I ever wanted.”
The words land heavy and soft at the same time, like they’ve been waiting in the air for years and finally found their way out. Your breath stutters, and you feel heat prick at the corners of your eyes before you can stop it.
You blink hard. Your vision blurs. You can’t help it.
Joe notices, of course he does. His whole body angles toward you, his free hand reaching to brush along your shoulder, gentle. “Hey,” he murmurs, brow furrowing in that way that kills you. “What’s wrong, baby?”
You shake your head, laugh breaking halfway into a sob. “Nothing. I just—” You shift a little, pulling the blanket higher as your hand lifts almost without thinking, sliding into his hair, threading through the soft strands. He tilts his head slightly into your touch, almost unconsciously, and something inside you twists at the tenderness of it. “I just love you so much. And I want that with you so bad.”
Your fingers drift down from his hair to the line of his jaw, brushing lightly against his skin. His stubble is rough beneath your touch, and the contrast makes your chest ache even more.
His thumb moves up your calf in slow, soothing strokes, his chest rises and falls with something thick and unspoken. His eyes don’t leave yours. He leans into your hand, pressing his cheek more firmly into your palm. “You’ve got it,” he says quietly, fiercely. “You’ve already got it. I promise you, I’m going to marry you. I don’t care how long it takes or what happens.”
The certainty in his tone, the way he says it like it’s already decided, like it’s already fact—it undoes you completely. Tears threaten to spill over, and you laugh through them, shaky and overwhelmed. “You promise?”
His lips brush your temple, soft and deliberate. “I swear. You’re it for me. Always have been.”
A few of your tears slip free, and you don’t even try to wipe them away. Instead, you laugh again, watery and overwhelmed. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Yes, I can,” Joe counters, his thumb sliding circles over your knee. “I can, and I mean it. You think I don’t go to bed every night imagining you with my last name? You think I don’t picture us loading up a car with baby seats someday, and setting up a nursery, arguing over paint colors and what crib to buy?”
“Oh my god, you’d be so picky about the crib,” you cut in, smiling through the tears.
“You’re damn right I would,” he says, “but you’d be worse.”
“True,” you admit, “And our daughter would be bossy as hell.”
He smirks instantly. “Yeah, like you.”
You nudge him with your foot. “Okay, then our son’s going to be stubborn like you.”
He huffs a laugh, pulling you closer. “So basically we’re screwed.”
“Or,” you say softly, “we’d be perfect.”
There's a pause, Joe grins, eyes crinkling, but then his expression softens again. “I want all of it with you. The loud stuff, the boring stuff, the hard stuff. All of it.”
Your chest feels like it’s going to burst. You curl your fingers tighter in his hair, other hand reaching for his on your knee, interlacing them. “God, Joe.”
He leans closer, forehead brushing against yours now, voice nothing but a whisper. “I don’t care what anyone says. You’re my forever, have been since day one.”
You close your eyes and just breathe him in. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cologne and the warmth of him, the smell you’ll always associate with safety. “You mean it?” you whisper back.
Joe tilts your chin gently so you’re looking at him again. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”
The blanket slips slightly as you shift closer, pulling yourself into his side, your hand still cradling his face. He doesn’t let go of your legs, doesn’t let go of you at all. If anything, he holds tighter, like anchoring himself to the same future you’re already picturing.
You can almost see it—the small house, the wedding day, the kids running barefoot in the backyard. The version of the two of you that grows up but never apart. And it feels so real in this moment that you can’t stop smiling.
And then he pulls you into his lap, like he can’t stand the distance anymore. You go willingly, curling against his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you. He kisses your temple, your damp cheeks, and finally your lips.
══ ꒰ New Year, New Nothin' ꒱ ══ POST WINTER BREAK FINAL PART
-ˋˏ this post may contain NSFW content - enjoy at your own risk - don’t like it, don’t fuckin read it ˎˊ-
-ˋˏ Note/Warnings: The following part contains insight of a toxic and manipulative relationship. While all actions were consensual within the context of the story, the emotional dynamics may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being — it’s okay to skip this part if it feels overwhelming. Take care of yourself ── Support resources and hotlines are listed below:
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741.
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). ˎˊ-
-ˋˏ Previous parts ── [ Part 1 ] , [ Part 2 ] , [ Part 3 ] , [ Part 4 ] , [ Part 5 ] ˎˊ-
-ˋˏ Word count: 13,685 ˎˊ-
˗ˏˋ I recommend playing the song when I cue it later in the fic, but it's totally optional. It just enhances the mood and adds context. Feel free to listen before, during, or after! ˎˊ˗
Joe hissed through his teeth as he dabbed at the split in his lip, flinching at the sting. Blood bloomed into the tissue, already soaked and torn. His knuckles were busted—raw and swollen, a few specks of dried blood caked between the creases of his fingers. He looked rough. Felt worse.
The frat house, once thundering with music and laughter, now sat in eerie silence. Cups were overturned, furniture out of place, echoes of chaos clinging to the walls. Everyone had cleared out hours ago. But Joe hadn't moved.
Not really.
He stared at himself in the mirror, the weight of his own thoughts dragging heavy behind his eyes. His face looked fucked up, but it wasn’t his lip or hands that hurt the most—it was whatever was unraveling in his chest.
He was angry. So fucking angry.
A quiet knock on the door pulled him from the spiral. He crumpled the bloodied tissue and tossed it into the trash, the lid clanking as it closed. Then he swung the bathroom door open, jaw tight.
Ja'Marr stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “You alright, man?” he asked, voice low and cautious.
Joe scoffed under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching as he touched his lip again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just fine.”
Ja'Marr stepped inside, eyes flicking from Joe’s face to his hands and gave him a look. The kind of look that said you can lie, but I’m not buying it. He leaned back against the sink next to him, arms folded.
“That had to be about more than a stupid video, right?” Ja’Marr asked, voice low and steady. “Wasn’t just the guy runnin’ his mouth.”
Joe didn’t answer.
Ja’Marr stepped further into the bathroom, into Joe’s line of sight, making sure there was nowhere to look but him or the mirror. “Joe,” he pressed, “am I right?”
Joe’s jaw clenched, his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek as his gaze darted away—then reluctantly found its way back to the mirror.
He stared at himself. The busted lip. The bruised knuckles. And underneath it all, the guilt bleeding through his expression.
“She didn’t deserve that,” Joe muttered, voice rough, quiet.
Not the push. Not the stares. Not the laughs. Not the bullshit that followed. And sure as hell not all the burdens Joe carried with himself.
Ja’Marr didn’t say anything right away. He just gave a small nod, like that truth was a step in the right direction—even if it was too late.
They sat in thick silence, the kind that buzzed with everything unspoken.
Joe’s hands rested on the edge of the sink, knuckles still raw, red soaking into the white porcelain like a warning. He didn’t look at Ja’Marr when he finally spoke again.
“You know where she is?”
Ja’Marr nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Joe’s eyes stayed on the sink. “She alright?”
Ja’Marr exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. “Physically? Sure. But… come on, man. You know the answer.”
Joe scoffed under his breath and leaned against the wall, running his tongue over the split in his lip. “Fuck.”
Joe’s jaw clenched. “I can’t explain it. Not to her. She wouldn’t understand.”
Ja’Marr shook his head, voice steady but firm. “You need to stop acting like your situation’s some kind of unexplainable mess. Doll, out of everyone, would probably get it the most. But you keep shutting her out, not even giving her the chance to understand.”
Joe shoved off the wall, pacing now. “She thinks I did it on purpose. That I just—what? Decided to shove her in front of everybody to prove some fucked up point?”
“She thinks you’re an asshole,” Ja’Marr said plainly. “And right now? You’re not exactly proving her wrong.”
Joe stopped. Turned. “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think that’s been on a loop in my head all fuckin’ night?”
Ja'Marr exhaled, taking a step closer. “Then talk to her, Joe. Show her that side of you, man. Be real for once.”
Joe's expression hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And what the hell am I supposed to say, huh? ‘Sorry I shoved you in the pool and made you look like a fuckin’ joke in front of everyone. It’s just that my ex cheated on me over and over, and I was too much of a pussy 'in love' to do something about it. She used every ounce of love I gave her against me, and now I can’t even hug a girl without feeling like I’m gonna lose my shit’? Is that what you want me to say?"
Ja’Marr blinked, taken slightly off guard.
Joe laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sounds real fucking sane.”
“She doesn’t need your life story, Joe,” Ja’Marr said after a moment. “She just needs to know it wasn’t about her. That you do, in fact, care. Even if you can’t say the words, you’ve gotta try.”
Joe leaned forward, bracing his arms on the sink, staring himself down in the mirror yet again.
“She looked at me like we had never met. Like I was a fuckin' stranger,” he said quietly.
"Because you treat her like one," Ja'Marr said bluntly. "You want people to understand you? You need to come to terms with the fact that not everyone will. People are going to judge you. That’s when you decide who you’re gonna open up to. Your past hookups? They didn’t deserve to know what you had for dinner.”
Ja'Marr huffed, his eyes filled with understanding and something deeper—validation. “But Doll? She’s shown you time and time again that she’s not just another one of Joe Burrows hookups. And I see it, man. Deep down, you know that too."
Joe’s gaze dropped to the floor, a painful silence stretching between them. Ja’Marr was right. He knew it. But admitting it? Admitting that he was terrified of letting anyone in again—it felt like a weight too heavy to carry.
➽──❥
Ja’Marr had expected Joe to show up the next morning.
Hell, maybe not morning—they hadn’t crashed until nearly five a.m., and Joe looked like he'd been hit by a truck emotionally and physically—but Ja’Marr figured once the sun was up, Joe would be too. He thought the words had landed. Thought maybe, just maybe, Joe had finally let his guard drop enough to do something about it.
But morning came and went.
Then the next day.
And the next.
Three damn days.
Three days of Joe disappearing into himself, retreating behind that same stone-cold silence he always used to protect himself. Ja’Marr didn’t say anything—he’d learned not to push too hard—but every time he saw Joe walk past his phone without reaching for it, or smoke another blunt in silence for hours on the deck, he felt his patience fray.
By the third night, he’d had enough.
Joe was slumped on the couch, hoodie on, hood up, chewing absentmindedly on the drawstring while some random game played on the TV. He looked half-present, like he was watching the world from a few inches outside his own body.
Ja’Marr dropped onto the couch beside him with a heavy sigh.
“You know, I really thought you’d go see her by now.”
Joe didn’t respond. Just shifted his jaw and stared straight ahead.
Ja’Marr kept going. “It’s been three days, man. And you’ve just been here, sulking and doing what? Coming up with excuses?”
Joe’s voice was low, defensive. “You don’t get it.”
“I do get it, man,” Ja’Marr snapped, turning to face him fully. “You’re scared. You don’t wanna fuck it up more than you already have, so instead, you’re doing the one thing that guarantees you lose her. Nothing.”
Joe’s jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. “Appreciate it, bro. Really making me feel awesome about the whole situation. Shits’ not easy, alright? Give me some time.”
“No,” Ja’Marr agreed, “It’s not easy. But it’s not complicated either. You said you didn’t mean to humiliate her. You said she didn’t deserve that. You know you panicked, and you know she doesn’t understand why.”
Joe finally paused the game, controller dropping to his lap as he looked over, eyes shadowed and voice low. “What if I show up and she’s already over it?” he muttered. “What if she realized I’m not worth all the chances she’s given me.”
Ja’Marr scoffed. "Then at least she hears the truth from you. And If she’s really done, then she deserves the chance to say it to your face. You owe her that much, man. Don’t leave her with any more questions."
Ja'Marr's words hung in the air, a weight Joe couldn’t shake off. That one hit. Joe closed his eyes, swallowing hard. He felt a knot tighten in his chest. He hadn’t felt this feeling in a long time—the feeling of guilt gnawing at him. It twisted inside, clawing at his insides like a constant reminder of how far he’d fucked up.
Joe had built up his walls for so long—so high, he let out a breath as he rubbed his hand over his face, shaking his head like he could shake the feeling loose. He can’t.
“She waited for you,” Ja’Marr said, quieter now, the edge in his voice softening. “After that night—she didn’t blow up your phone, didn’t pull some big dramatic scene like any other chick would. Shit, Nylah straight-up offered to help her key your car, and Doll still said no.”
He gave Joe a pointed look. “She gave you space, man. That means she was hoping you'd come back on your own. She was waiting on you to do the right thing. And now? It’s been three days. Three days too fuckin' long.”
The weight of it was suffocating, the pads of his calloused fingers rubbing at his forehead like he could scrub the guilt clean off. But then—his hand dropped, and his eyes snapped to Ja'Marr.
“Wait—” he blinked. “Nylah wanted to key my car?!”
Ja'Marr raised his hands, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Man, she had the keys out and everything. Said she’d carve ‘fuckboy’ right into the hood. I was ready to block her like it was fourth-and-goal.”
His grin faded as he shook his head, the weight of the moment settling in. He fixed Joe with a pointed stare. “Doll had every reason to let that happen, but she still told Ny to chill out.”
For a moment, the silence hung heavy, before Ja'Marr's voice broke through, softer this time. "I don’t know what I’m gonna say."
Ja’Marr shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then start with that.”
➽──❥
「Now playing : Celebrate by James Arthur」
Flashback:
“Just look at all these scars of mine–”
Joe's blood boiled as he paced around the cramped apartment, hands clenched into fists. The pounding in his head only grew louder, the frustration building like a storm in his chest. He could barely even look at her—Esmae, standing in the middle of the room, her tear-streaked face twisted in a mix of hurt and something darker, something manipulative.
"You don't get to keep doing this shit to me, Esmae." Joe's voice cracked with anger, the words falling from his lips like venom. His fists slammed onto the nearest kitchen counter as he turned to face her, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.
“You should probably check my vitals–”
Esmae didn't flinch. Instead, she wiped the tears from her face, but the look on her face was dangerous. A smirk was playing at the corners of her mouth, a sickly smile that didn’t match the tears.
"To you?!" She shouted back, her voice raw and throaty, matching his volume with ease. "Fuck you, Joe! You don’t get to keep doing it to ME!"
“Anxiety can be deceiving, lets the demons relax. Relax–”
Joe could barely keep his composure as she marched up to him, fire in her eyes, fists balled at her sides. "You—You fucking make me crazy!" she spat, her breath coming in sharp bursts. "You put me in these situations where I just want to feel... feel love, Joe! You don’t give me love! And that’s all I wanted from you!"
Her words hit him like a slap to the face. Joe’s stomach twisted, but he couldn’t back down. Not this time.
“Just ride the feeling when you feel it b-b-beating to fast–”
"Love you?" he barked, shaking his head in disbelief, his voice low, deadly. "You make me fucking sick, Esmae. Fucking sick. I don't put you in situations to fuck a new guy every damn week, that’s your batshit crazy ass, not because you want me to love you. You keep chasing something I can’t give you. I don’t owe you anything," Joe said, his voice deep and low, as he turned and walked toward the living room.
Esmae’s face twisted with rage, her eyes flashing. She was quiet for a second, taking a deep breath before she hit him with the one thing she knew would dig at him.
"You cheated on me last week after we made up!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "Joe, you fucking said you loved me and cheated the next day!"
“Its a throwback to the old days–I I slip back to my old ways–”
His stomach lurched at her words, his body stiffening, the weight of her accusation sinking deep into him. The heat in his chest grew, a wave of confusing guilt crashing over him. He couldn’t figure out why he felt so bad doing the same things to her that she’d done to him. All he’d wanted was for her to feel how he’d felt, to understand the pain she’d put him through—but it always backfired, gnawing at him until it ate him alive.
In this moment, though, that guilt was drowned out by a surge of anger. He spun around fast, the sudden movement catching her off guard. She stumbled back, following too close behind him that her chest slammed hard into his as he turned to face her head-on.
“Tryna catch your breath in a hurricane–”
“I said I loved fucking you, Esmae. That’s the truth. You want me to love you? To give a shit? You know I don’t, and you know damn well that’s why you keep playing your game. You cheat, we make up, and you cheat again. God forbid I play your game!” His chest was heaving with the intensity of his words, the anger bubbling over.
Esmae’s face twisted, but she didn’t back down. No, she was too good at this. She let the tears flow freely now, sobbing in a way that almost made Joe hesitate. Almost.
But then it was like a switch flipped. Joe could feel his whole body tensing, the knot of anger and betrayal tying him tighter. She didn’t get it. She’d never get it.
"Cut the shit, Es. You’re so fucking good at playing the victim, every single time. Stop pretending like you give a shit when you only care about one thing—making me fall for your shit so you can tear it all apart again. You don’t care about me. You care about controlling me. And I’m sick of it.”
“While everybody celebrates–”
Esmae’s tears kept coming, but her words were sharper than ever. "You want to pretend like you don’t care? You wanna act like I’m controlling you? Look at you, Joe. You’re just as fucking messed up as I am. You keep coming back, just like a dog to its owner, because you fucking like it. You like the chaos. You like the way I make you feel. And that’s why you can’t leave.”
By the end of her sentence, Joe could see the sick look in her eyes. It was almost her natural gaze anymore, cold and calculating, as if she took pleasure in his discomfort.
“They don’t know i’m trapped–”
“You think I like this?!” His gaze locked on her, unwavering, even as his heart pounded in his ears. “You make me feel like I’m fucking crazy for wanting more!”
“Show me how to numb the pain–”
Esmae stood there, the tears still flowing, her lips trembling, her expression a twisted mix of innocence and rage. It was the same damn look she always wore when she knew she had him right where she wanted him—vulnerable and angry. She wore it like a weapon, using it to twist the knife deeper into the wound she’d created.
“Oh Lord, oh Lord–”
But as she stood there, her eyes wide with that familiar act, Joe felt the last threads of his patience snap. His blood boiled, his heart pounding harder in his chest as he took a step forward, closing the gap between them. The control he’d managed to hold onto shattered, and all he could think about was how much he hated her for making him feel this way.
"You don’t get to pull that shit with me anymore, Esmae," he spat, his voice low, dripping with venom as the words burned through the air like acid on his tongue. "I’m done." He meant it—God, he meant it. But it wasn’t that simple. It never was with her. Because he’d meant it two weeks ago, when she’d done the same thing. And the week before that. And the week before that. This was their endless loop.
“I’ve come a long way from nowhere–”
And right on cue, just like every time before, Joe didn’t even make it two steps.
His keys barely jingled in his hand before she was on him — fingers clawing at his shirt, grabbing hold of him with a desperate strength that didn’t match the frailty in her voice.
"Baby," she gasped out, the word slicing the heavy silence between them, small and broken, but sharp enough to land right where she aimed.
“A phone call coulda saved my life–”
He stiffened, the muscles in his back locking up like he’d been hit.
He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve left her standing there, alone with her lies.
But when she said his name like that — when she said "Baby" like it cost her something — it sank into him too deep, threading through his ribs, anchoring him there.
"Baby, J... look at me," Esmae whispered again, her voice breaking as her trembling hands slid up to his face, palms framing his cheeks.
Her thumbs brushed the heat blooming across his skin, and she tilted her head, soft and coaxing — like she was something fragile, something worth saving.
“Fake love, I don't fall for that–”
And there it was. That look.
Wide, glassy eyes, lashes spiked with tears, mouth trembling like she was seconds away from shattering.
“So, when they call me, I don’t call back no more–”
It would’ve fooled anyone else — hell, it used to fool him too. But not anymore.
Joe knew what lived behind that look. He knew that the tears were just another weapon, another hook to drag him under again. But still — still — he didn’t rip away. Because when Esmae touched him like this — like he meant something in her life — it worked every fucking time.
"I fucking love you," she sobbed, her voice crumbling as she pressed her forehead against his. "You... you can’t leave me. Not like this. Please, J. Please."
Joe clenched his jaw so hard he felt it pop. He knew this script by heart; The desperate tears, the trembling hands, he pretty little lies. Even if the love was fake, it didn't matter, it worked.
“I don't wanna hurt myself no more, no more, no more–”
Her hand slipped down, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tugging it with a gentleness that was so painfully rehearsed it made his chest ache.
She guided his hand to her waist like he was a puppet and she knew the strings to pull — and like a goddamn fool, he curled his fingers into her shirt, dragging her closer.
The corner of her mouth quivered, twitching into a half-smile — sad, sweet, and so fucking cruel — because she knew she had him. She knew.
"I can’t breathe without you," she whispered, breathless, her voice cracking against his thick air, "Don’t you see that?"
“It’s a throwback to the old days–”
Joe’s chest burned as he tried to swallow around the lump rising in his throat, tried to breathe around the suffocating weight pressing down on him. Her nails dug into his jawline, biting into his skin, holding him there like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. But it wasn’t fear.
"I love you, baby. I fucking love you," Esmae whispered again, the words trembling against the charged air between them. Her thumbs moved in slow, tender circles over his flushed, clammy cheeks, the gentleness at odds with the storm raging inside them.
“I slip back to my old ways–”
Joe’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as his eyes dropped — just for a second — to her reddened lips. Then his gaze dragged back up to hers, locking onto those glassy, tear-heavy eyes that had broken him a hundred times over and still somehow held him together.
And there it was. The reminder as to why he was addicted to this—to her.
“It’s the wrong time to break–”
The reminder hit him harder than he could brace for.
Joe was scared — not just of losing her, but of what it would mean if he did.
Because deep down, in the parts of himself he tried to ignore, he didn’t believe he deserved better than this.
What if this was it? What if this chaos — the screaming matches, the gut-wrenching apologies, the vicious cycles that left him hollow — was all he was ever meant for?
Somewhere deep down, buried beneath the noise she filled his head with, he knew it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. That love shouldn’t feel like a battlefield— The “what ifs” were louder.
“Its the right time to breathe–”
What if no one else could ever love him? Maybe she didn’t love him the way he needed...But at least she said she did.
At least she looked at him like he was something worth fighting for, even if it was only to win.
What if he walked away... and there was no one waiting on the other side? Maybe this fucked up relationship between them was all he was ever going to get.
“They don’t know i'm trapped–”
If he left, he wasn’t just losing her. He was risking the possibility that he might never be loved again. If he left her, he risked proving himself right—risked proving that he was as unlovable, as disposable, as worthless as he feared.
Esmae caught the faraway, hollow look in his eyes — the one that scared her more than his anger ever did — and before he could slip away from her completely, she yanked his face down to hers, her nails digging into his jaw.
“J?” she whispered, urgent, snapping him back to her.
Joe blinked, like he was shaking off a fog, his breath shallow and uneven. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, swollen and chewed raw.
A twisted smirk ghosted across his mouth, the kind that never quite reached his eyes anymore, and his hands shot out, grabbing her waist roughly, dragging her flush against him until there wasn’t a sliver of space left.
“Show me how to numb the pain–”
“Y’love me?” he breathed, low and broken, his forehead resting against hers, almost taunting.
“Oh Lord–”
Esmae nodded quickly, almost frantically, her wide, tear-glossed eyes locked onto his. “And you love me, huh?” she muttered, voice dark, dangerous.
“Oh Lord–”
She gave a shaky smile, tilting her chin up, her lips brushing his, feather-light, teasing.
Joe’s chest heaved once—twice—before he snapped.
His mouth crashed against hers, all fury and desperation, pinning her back hard against the edge of the kitchen counter. The sharp press of it dug into her lower back, but she barely noticed — too consumed by the way his hands roamed everywhere at once: gripping her hips, fisting her shirt, tangling in her hair.
Their kisses were messy, wild, breathless — lips sliding, teeth clashing, gasps and her broken moans filling the small kitchen like a thunderstorm tearing through.
“‘Cause I don't know how to celebrate–”
Joe’s hands slid up her sides roughly, pushing under her shirt, his calloused fingers burning against her skin. Esmae whimpered into his mouth, clawing at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, like she could fuse them together if she just held tight enough.
He groaned low in his throat, grabbing both her wrists in one big hand and pinning them above her head against the cabinet, forcing her completely under him, under his control.
Their chests heaved against each other, the air between them heavy, electric, toxic.
Esmae pulled her head back slightly, their noses brushing, her breath shaky against his mouth. “Say it,” she panted, her voice trembling, wrecked.
“Can anybody hear me?--”
Joe blinked at her, dazed—lost.
“Say—” he started, voice low, feigning confusion—but he didn’t get the chance to finish.
“Tell me you love me,” she breathed—soft and sharp all at once, like the words weren’t a question but a command she’d repeated a hundred times before. Like she already knew the answer.
“Can anybody hear me?--”
And those three words? They slipped from his mouth in reflex, not meaning or in promise. A reflex he’d mastered to avoid the uncertainty of what would follow if he didn’t say them.
Saying “I love you” became his lifeline—a desperate need to feel wanted, to anchor himself in something, even if it was false.
And when he told her he loved her, she smiled because she had yet again, won—like love was a game and he was just a player proving he’d do anything—he would say anything, to stay on the board.
“‘Cause I don't know how to celebrate–”
And an hour later, their bedroom felt like a stifling, suffocating box, dark and thick with humidity, the air heavy with the remnants of sweat, lingering heat and the scent of sex.
The silence between them was almost as tangible as the tense atmosphere, thick and unyielding. His body trembled, the tension coiled so tightly within him that every muscle screamed for relief. Both groaned as he pulled out slowly. He wanted nothing more than to collapse, to let the frustration and anger settle over him like a blanket. He had allowed himself to fall into this same fucking loop again.
“Its a throwback to the old days (old days)--”
Instead, he slipped his boxers on, the motion automatic, but his eyes remained fixed on her. She lay there, a blissed-out smile plastered across her face, her skin glistening with sweat, the sheen catching the dim light from the night sky seeping through the windows in a way that made her seem almost untouchable.
His lips curled into a gentle grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He couldn’t let himself linger on the way she looked right now—so innocent, so unaware. He turned and walked to the bathroom, running the faucet until the water was warm. His hands moved with precision, soaked a washcloth, wrung out the excess water, and grabbed a pack of her makeup wipes, the muscle movement kicking into gear.
“I slip back to my old ways (old ways)--”
He stepped back into the room, where moonlight spilled across the floor in cold silver streaks, casting shadows on the four walls that had witnessed it all—this twisted routine, this aching repetition. A space they shared that felt more like a prison than a haven.
A sigh slipped from him as he stood over her, watching the way she lay there, trying to push away the storm brewing in his chest. She shifted, her eyes flicking open with a soft whine, but she didn’t say anything, just gave him that look.
“Its the wrong time to break–”
“I know. Gotta get you cleaned up though,” he murmured, voice softer than he meant it to be. He pressed the warm washcloth to her sticky core, the friction of it causing her to hiss, her body still sensitive. Her reaction was instinctive, but then she hummed softly, a sound that crawled under his skin and made his chest tighten. Her hands found their way to his face, her fingers trembling slightly as they cradled his flushed cheeks, her thumb brushing gently over his skin.
“I love my man,” she said, her voice soft, sincere.
“Its the right time to–”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, a wave of nausea washing over him so fast that his body went cold, his pulse stuttering in his veins. But what could he do? Dare he show it? No, instead, he hummed low in his throat, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her lips.
She lay there, so fucking innocent, as he wiped away the remnants of her tears with a makeup wipe. Erasing the smudged mascara streaking down her face from crying. It was all too familiar. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d see her face like this again.
“(Breathe, hurricane)--”
He tossed the wipes aside, the sound of them hitting the floor sharp in the silence, before he climbed back into bed beside her. She immediately curled into him, the motion instinctual, her body molding against his, but it wasn’t quite right. It felt forced, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. Why had he allowed this? Why had he convinced himself that this was it for him? The question lingered, unanswered, in the quiet darkness. He just had. There wasn’t much more explanation than that.
He traced abstract patterns on her bare back, his fingers grazing over the soft skin, trying to distract himself from the ache in his chest. Slowly, he noticed her breathing soften, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest telling him she was drifting off. He glanced down at her, making sure she was asleep, her face now relaxed in a way that made him want to protect her. Like it was an instinct, but it was a pattern.
“Tryna catch your breath in a hurricane–”
But as his chest tightened, a deep ache in his throat grew too much to ignore. He swallowed hard, the lump lodged there refusing to go away. His head hit the pillow with a soft thud, and he let out a shallow breath, his chest hitching before it fell into a slow, uneven rhythm.
Then, for the first time in a long time, his body allowed a single tear to slide from the corner of his sorry blue eyes. The teardrop slipped down his temple and soaked into the pillow.
A silent confession of all the things he couldn’t say, all the things he never would.
“While everybody celebrates–”
End of flashback—
The memory bled into the present like a slow poison, thick and suffocating. Joe could still feel her hands on him if he let himself — still hear the way Esmae had breathed those words into his mouth, pulling things out of him without mercy. It didn't matter how many times he'd promised himself it would be different. He'd always ended up right where she wanted him — drunk off her lies, drowning in the idea that maybe this was the only kind of love he’d ever get.
He dug his fingers into his jeans, staring at the peeling paint of the apartment door in front of him, willing himself to move — to think. Still debating whether to knock — to risk it — His chest tightened like a vice, breath shallow and ragged. His feet felt locked in concrete, his mind caught in a tug-of-war between get the fuck out of here and don’t you dare.
Every excuse in the goddamn book raced through his head, excuses he had perfected with Esmae — It would’ve been so easy to turn around, to slip away before anyone ever knew he was there.
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking so tight it ached. That look — the hurt he had put there — clung to him more viciously than any memory of Esmae ever had.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.
This wasn’t the same.
Doll wasn’t Esmae.
But he looks for her in everyone.
Joe had convinced himself he wasn’t built for anything good. Wreckage — that was all he knew how to leave behind. But—he had to do this.
Even if he couldn’t find the right words, even if he made it worse just by being here, he needed to see her.
He needed to make sure she was okay—even if she hated him for it. Even if she never wanted to look at him again.
Joe swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it settle deep in his chest.
Because fuck — he didn’t need to fix anything. He just needed to know she was breathing—that somehow, he hadn’t completely broken her.
Joe was still working up the nerve to knock when the door swung open.
There she was — Doll — standing in the soft warm light of the apartment, bunny slippers on and wrapped in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame—Joes. Joes hoodie.
A pair of lazy shorts peeked out from underneath, the frayed edges brushing her thighs. Her hair was a little messy, thrown up like she hadn't cared much, and her skin was bare of makeup, fresh and natural.
But she didn't look like she’d been crying. She didn't look broken—she looked... okay.
Almost like she was about to head out — her apartment keys dangled from one finger, and a wrinkled ten-dollar bill was balled up in her other hand.
The second her eyes landed on him, she froze. Her body stiffened, her mouth parting slightly like she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or let her emotions do the talking.
They stared at each other, the tension pulling tighter and tighter like a noose around their necks.
Doll blinked once, slow, almost like she needed a second to believe it — that Joe was really standing there after three full days of radio silence. After leaving her alone with nothing but silence and the weight of everything unsaid.
Joe shifted on his feet, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his fingers curling into tight, frustrated fists. He was willing himself not to say something stupid. Not to ruin this any more than he already had.
"I was about to head out," Doll said finally, her voice so soft he almost missed it.
“You—” she started again, but her throat caught, and she had to clear it before she could continue, this time even softer, more unsure.
"Do you need something?" It wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t cold — it was honest. She was just trying to make sense of why he was standing outside her door like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
The way she said it — half-cautious, half-guarded — hit him in the chest like a punch.
Joe swallowed hard, his eyes grazing her face — the curve of her cheek, the soft swell of her lips — close enough now to see the faint tremble she was trying so hard to hide.
His voice, when it finally scraped out, was hoarse and broken.
"You," he said.
Doll’s breath caught.
"What?" she asked, blinking up at him like she wasn’t sure she heard right.
Joe never said shit like that. Not to her. Not to anyone.
And he realized it too late — what had just slipped out — and panic ripped through him like fire.
"I mean—fuck, like—" he stammered, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, already flushing from the embarrassment clawing up his neck. "I just—I like—uhm—"
He kept fumbling, every half-formed thought crashing and burning before it reached his mouth.
Doll’s brow arched, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes — subtle, but unmistakable. She tilted her head slightly, watching him like he was some strange, fascinating thing under glass. Was that…was Joe panicking?
Joe Burrow? Cocky, untouchable Joe? She almost laughed. Almost.
"Where uh—where y’headed?" he blurted finally, desperate to change the subject, his words tumbling out so fast they barely made sense.
But it was too late. He already showed her too much. Her head tilted, slow and curious, almost like she was trying to figure out if he was about to lie again.
"Joe..." she said softly, her voice tugging at something in his chest he didn’t want to name. Her hand tightened a little on the door, grounding herself. "Why are you here?"
The words hung between them, heavy and impossible to dodge. Joe swallowed hard, his mouth opening and closing like he might come up with some excuse.
"Just wanted—" Joe started, but the words tangled in his throat. He let out a rough sigh, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "Just needed to make sure you were alright," he muttered, his voice gruff, almost embarrassed by how small he sounded.
He shifted on his feet, glancing at her in a quick, nervous flicker. He shifted awkwardly, shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets.
"Which—" his mouth twisted into something almost bitter, "—you look like you are. So."
The attempt at casualness fell flat, the words limp and useless between them.
And Joe hated how stupid he felt standing there, like he was the only one who hadn’t moved on. Doll stayed quiet, her arms crossed loosely, watching him. She hadn’t said a word, and it only seemed to make him more frantic.
The words came out faster now, each one feeling like a punch he wasn’t sure how to land. He didn’t look at her, instead focusing on the floor, his shoulders tight with unspent energy. Joe’s frustration built up in him, quick and hot, and before he knew it, the words were tumbling out.
"You just—" He scoffed, voice cracking under the weight of it all. "You just make it seem like nothing happened. Like you’ve —fucking, moved on or somethin’, and I’m just—" He laughed bitterly, the words almost too much for him to say. "Just say it. I’m the fucking mess, right?"
The words felt heavy, like they held something from the past, and they echoed in his mind like some old curse he couldn’t shake. "Fucking mess." He could hear Esmae’s voice in his head, the venom they’d spit at each other when everything was falling apart. That phrase—he hated it, but it clung to him now, and he hated it even more because he felt it was true.
Doll’s eyes didn’t waver, though. She just stared at him, her gaze unwavering, and for a moment, he thought she might say something sharp, something to slice through the tension like a blade. But she didn’t. Instead, her voice was quiet, but firm, steady as she finally spoke.
"I never said that," Doll said, each word measured, carefully chosen. "I would never say that."
Joe let out a low, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Just—why aren’t you yelling at me? Why didn’t you blow up my phone with threats? Or key my car? Fucking punch me or something, Doll." His hands fisted at his sides, the frustration finally bubbling over, raw and ugly. "Why haven’t you gone batshit on me? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He went zero to a hundred as the anger seeped into his words quickly, but there was something underneath it—something so much more vulnerable that it almost cracked him open.
He didn’t know what he wanted from her, just that he needed her to do something. To feel something, anything, that wasn’t so damn quiet and calm. He thought maybe he needed to see her break, just like he was— like how it was with esmae. But…no, that wasn't it. He didn't want to see that.
"You want me to yell?" she asked, her voice low, almost curious, but there was something fragile behind it. "You want me to tear into you? To make this even worse than it already is?"
Joe froze at the words. The question hit harder than anything else had. His chest tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He didn’t know if he wanted her to tear into him or if he was just scared of how quiet she was.
Doll took a slow, steadying breath, her shoulders rising and falling as if preparing herself for something she couldn’t escape. "I’m not going to do that, Joe," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I want to, but I won’t."
She let the words sit between them, unwavering. "Because you already know. You know what you did. You know what's done is done. I don’t need to yell at you to make myself feel better. I’ll still be angry. I’ll still feel humiliated. And I'll still go to sleep tonight crying over it. None of that disappears if I just— yell at you."
Her words weren’t sharp, but they hit harder than any scream could have. And in that silence, Joe realized it wasn’t the anger or the yelling he had been afraid of—it was the weight of the truth in her calm.
He exhaled shakily, hands balling into fists at his sides.
"I’m sorry, okay?" he said, voice raw, almost broken. "I know that’s not enough, but... I am. I’m sorry."
He rocked on his heels, restless, eyes darting anywhere but her. A dry, bitter laugh slipped out as he dropped his gaze to the ground.
"I’m a fuckin' coward," he muttered under his breath, almost like he was admitting it to the pavement instead of her. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the ground.
Joe’s words tumbled out, rough and frantic, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. He let out a bitter, broken laugh, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. "You’re not her. You’re not," he said, voice cracking at the edges.
"But I’ve convinced myself that I keep thinking you could be. And that’s not fair—to you. N’ It’s not you. I know it’s not you." He stepped back, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, like just standing there was getting too heavy to bear.
"I’m sorry, Doll," he muttered, voice low and rough. "I—I don’t know how to fix this—any of it. N’ I keep needing it to just stop. but it won’t. It won’t."
He finally forced himself to look at her, "You’re not her," he said, almost a whisper.
Doll wasn’t sure who Joe was talking to anymore—whether he was trying to explain himself to her, or just grappling with whatever storm was inside his own head. His chest rose and fell faster, his breaths shallow and uneven. His face was flushed, the color spreading across his cheeks.
For a long moment, Doll didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. She just watched him — really looked at him—Her chest tightened, and before she could talk herself out of it, she shifted back a step, reaching behind her to push the door open wider.
"Come in," she assured softly, the words catching in her throat. "You look like you could use a minute to breathe."
Joe blinked at her, thrown for a second, like he didn’t quite believe she meant it. His hands flexed at his sides again, like he was fighting himself — but finally, he gave a small, broken nod.
➽──❥
Doll had never seen Joe like this.
Usually, he just barged in — kicking his shoes toward the corner, tossing his wallet and keys onto her nightstand without a second thought. But tonight, he lingered behind her, hovering awkwardly by the door like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.
The hesitation sent a chill down her spine. She kicked off her slippers, hung her keys on the little hook by the door, and glanced back at him — still standing there, silent, watching her with that heavy, unreadable stare. Like a shadow clinging to her every move.
She didn't say anything, just wandered toward the living room, the space softly glowing with the warm light from the lamp in the corner. She sighed, sinking into the worn couch with a little bounce, patting the cushion beside her absentmindedly.
Joe didn’t move right away. Eventually, he dropped onto the opposite end, keeping a full cushion’s distance between them. Facing her.
She studied him for a second — the way he shifted like he couldn’t get comfortable, the way his eyes darted around the room before finally settling on her. “Your face,” she said casually, nodding toward the bruises and the faint cut on his lip. “That from the fight?”
At the mention of it, Joe’s body went stiff. His tongue darted out, running carefully over the healing split, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. Just nodded once, sharp and small.
“Didn’t know y’ even knew about that,” he muttered, squinting at her like she was an unexpected puzzle piece. For all he knew, she was still crying in the bathroom to Nylah when everything went down.
Doll shrugged, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Nylah was taking me home when we heard the yelling.” She traced the seam of her sock with her fingertip, voice light. “She pulled me away once we realized it was you... Figured you were just pissed over something stupid. Someone bump into you? Take the last beer?” she teased, giving him a small, crooked smile to soften the subject.
Joe huffed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he shook his head.
“No. The dude fuckin' deserved it—"
“Mm. Doubt that.” Doll tilted her head, smirking a little wider. “But, you know I hate violence so… It probably wasn’t even necessary.”
Joe snapped his gaze to hers, jaw tight. “Yeah n’ I don’t really give a fuck what you like or don't when it comes to someone runnin' their mouth about y’.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “Playin’ that video over and over again, laughin', talkin' filthy...”
The words dripped from his mouth, bitter and heated. Doll’s smirk faltered, falling into a small frown as the air between them thickened.
Joe's breath caught in his throat when he saw it — the way her eyes went a little glossy, the realization hitting her harder than he meant for it to. He sat up straighter, panic flashing across his face.
“Shit—no. I’m sorry—” he rushed out, hands half-reaching toward her before falling uselessly into his lap.
Doll shook her head, blinking fast. “No, it's fine—it's fine,” she murmured, voice a little hoarse. “I accepted there was probably a video. I just... what were they saying?”
Joe hesitated — just for a second — caught between what he wanted to say and what he probably should. Because if he told her the truth... if he told her what those assholes were really saying… It would show too much.
Make it obvious he cared — way more than a fuck buddy ever should.
But the thing was, he’d always protected her name— ever since the hookups started turning into hangouts, and the hangouts turned into her staying the night. This time, though... it was different.
Doll scoffed, drawing his attention back to her. She was staring down at her lap, picking at her nails. “What?” she said bitterly. “Were they talking about how stupid I looked? How embarrassed I should be?”
Joe shook his head immediately, jaw tightening. He swallowed hard, forcing the hesitation out of his voice.
“Doll...” he muttered, rolling his eyes — not at her, but at the idiots he wanted to knock out all over again. “They didn’t give a shit about what happened. They couldn't have cared less.”
She looked up at him sharply, searching his face for the lie. Joe dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “All they cared about was the free fuckin' show they got. Talkin' about how good you looked... in the lace... set...”
His voice trailed off, shame flooding him when he saw her face fall. The memory hit her hard — her dress going see-through, her purple lace showing to a room full of strangers.
“Right,” Doll snorted sourly, leaning back against the couch. “Even better. Not embarrassing — just slutty.”
Joe's head snapped up, his voice cutting through the air. “Stop it.”
Doll blinked, thrown by the sharpness. She frowned, her arms folding defensively across her chest.
“You’re not a slut 'cause you wore lingerie,” he said, low and fierce. “I can fuckin' guarantee there were at least ten girls there who didn’t even have underwear on — planning to get railed on whatever surface they could find that night."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, like he was trying to get her to hear him. “This isn’t on you, Doll. None of it.”
The words hung between them, heavy and raw. Doll stared at him — really stared — at the way his jaw tensed, at the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped his knees. Like he was holding something back. Like he was terrified of letting something slip.
"Why'd you push me, Joe?" Doll asked, her voice thick with the confusion she couldn’t shake. She’d swallowed the question too many times, buried it beneath silence and stolen moments, but now—it refused to stay down.
Her eyes searched his face, desperate for something honest. Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited for something—anything—that would explain the feeling in her gut.
Joe ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking nervously around the room as he avoided her gaze. He was clearly stalling, and Doll could feel it. She didn’t rush him, though. She knew how he worked—how he liked to dance around the truth, to put it off, to make excuses. But this time, she wasn’t going to let him.
“Joe,” she started, her voice soft but steady.
Joe shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her. His eyes darted to the floor, his chest rising and falling with a few shaky breaths. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice low. “I was just... pissed about the whole thing. It wasn’t thinking straight n’ then you mentioned Esmae n’ just… I don't know.”
Doll tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing as she studied him, not buying his answer for a second. “Pissed?” she repeated, her tone still calm, but there was a slight edge to it now. “I was pissed that night too, but I didn't think to push you into the pool joe.”
Joe didn’t respond right away, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He was trying to find something that would make sense, something that wouldn’t make him sound like he was in over his head. But he could feel her watching him, and it made his throat tighten.
“I–,” he said finally, his words strained. “I was just frustrated Doll, shit happens y’know.”
Doll shook her head gently, her voice still gentle, but the concern in it was growing. “That doesn’t explain it, Joe,” she said softly.
Joe looked up at her for a split second, and then his gaze dropped again. He ran his hands through his hair again, frustration starting to bubble to the surface, but he didn’t want to lash out. Not at her. But he couldn’t seem to find the right words.
He opened his mouth to say something, growing angry towards her and himself, but knowing he shouldn't be towards her.
But Doll’s eyes softened, and she gave a little sigh, her voice warm but still insistent. “I hate when you think im stupid.”
His lips pressed together tightly, and he finally looked her dead in the eye. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, his pulse racing. This was harder than he thought. Talking to her like this was different than anything they’d ever done before. And he hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made him feel.
“You’re not stupid… I… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, the words raw and uneven, like they scraped their way up his throat. His gaze dropped to the floor, shame blooming in the silence between them. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t think straight. I was confused, Doll. Everything felt like too much, and I panicked.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling like the weight of it all might crush him. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. And… fuck, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this shit.”
“You haven’t told me anything Joe, you’re avoiding the question,” Doll said, fed up.
The silence between them stretched long and heavy. Five minutes passed, maybe more. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the building and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Doll’s fingers picked absently at a loose string on the hem of her shorts, her thoughts racing.
Eventually, she let out a small, quiet sigh and stood, brushing her palms on her thighs.
“Maybe we can talk about this when you’re actually ready,” she said softly, almost kindly—but the space between them yawned wide with her detachment. A quiet kind of resignation. Her words held no venom, just… she didnt want to hear any more lies or excuses. “Until then… you can go. I have—”
Joe lurched up from the couch like something had snapped inside him, the words ripping out before he could swallow them down.
“I wanted it, Doll,” he blurted, his voice rough, almost desperate.
She froze. Doll froze mid-step as her shoulders rose slightly, stiff with surprise, eyes widening and unsure. “What?” She breathed out heavily.
He drew in a shaky breath, fingers dragging across the back of his neck like he needed something to ground him. He couldn’t believe he was saying this—No, he couldn’t believe he was allowing these feelings.
These weren’t just words tumbling out of him, they were things he’d spent time forever trying to bury. Feelings he had trained himself to forget.
Actually, Joe wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Not really. It was too tangled—too much. But one thing he knew, with a quiet, bitter certainty, was that somewhere in the middle of it all, he was feeling…heartbreak.
To him, it wasn’t just complicated.
It was heartbreaking.
“I wanted it and–and that freaked me the fuck out and I just fucking… panicked.” His voice cracked on the last word. He looked at her now—really looked—and his chest rose and fell fast and uneven, “I didn’t do this shit because I didn’t want to kiss you. I did. And that's what scares me, Doll.”
The words hit the air with weight, like they cost him something to say. Doll sat still, eyes wide, lips parted like she might respond—but she didn’t. Because, was there a right thing to say?
And the silence?
It swallowed him whole.
It wasn’t peaceful or forgiving—it was sharp, biting, the kind of silence that echoed louder than any scream. It wrapped around his ribs and squeezed, fed on the fear he tried so hard to bury.
The longer she said nothing, the more it twisted inside him.
It picked at every nerve, clawed at his brain, gnawed at the parts of him that had never learned vulnerability.
Because the longer she said nothing, the longer he had to sit with his fear of uncertainty.
Joe’s brows drew together, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked away. A sharp breath hissed through his nose before he stood and stepped back, suddenly pacing like the quiet was something he had to outrun.
His defenses were slipping before he could reel them in. He hated the silence—especially with Doll. Because somewhere in his mind, silence didn’t mean peace; it meant hatred.
And hate? Joe could handle that from anyone else. He was used to it. Didn't bother him. But not from Doll. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t want that from her.
Still, instead of saying that—of asking her to speak or admitting the silence scared him—his bitterness flared, sharp and defensive.
“Right,” he muttered under his breath. “Knew you wouldn’t get it.”
Doll blinked, confused by the sudden turn. “Joe—”
“No one fucking gets it,” he snapped—not loud, but sharp, like his voice had been whittled down to something brittle. It cracked, thin and unsteady. “I try to explain it and I sound like an idiot. I feel something and it comes out wrong. Or it’s not enough. That’s why I don’t even fucking bother, you know?”
She started to rise from the couch, like she could fix it just by being closer—but he shook his head, fast and tight, still not looking at her.
“I sound like a fucking headache every time I try,” he muttered, too quickly. Like he hated how much it sounded like a confession.
“Joe—”
“I’m not like you,” he snapped, cutting her off with a bitter edge. “You’re good at this shit. At being soft. Talking things out. That’s not me. It’s never been me. Do you get that?”
The silence that followed was different now. Charged. Tense. Like the air between them had narrowed into something sharp.
Doll’s brows pulled together, her throat working around a word she hadn’t chosen yet.
He dragged a hand down his face, like he could scrub away the frustration, the shame. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were raw, cornered.
“I pushed you because I felt something I didn’t know how to fucking feel,” he said, voice low and jagged. “It hit me, and I panicked. I didn’t know—I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
He laughed once—sharp, empty. “So I pushed you. And we were just too fucking close to the pool, okay? I didn’t mean to humiliate you. Or make you cry. Or make you hate me.”
His jaw clenched, throat working like it physically hurt to keep going. “But when you sit there like—like this! Fuckin’ quiet… It feels like confirmation. Like, yeah, of course I’m too much. Of course I ruin shit the second it starts to feel real. And out—out of my control.”
The next words came out hoarse, like they scraped against his ribs on the way up. “I don’t need you to fix me, you know.” He paused, as if even those words couldn’t quite leave his mouth without something hinting at the anger from the past inside him. “I don’t want anyone to fix me. That’s not what i'm asking for. But—”
“Joe,” Doll said softly, stepping toward him.
But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Like something in him had cracked open and now everything dark, everything he’d buried, was pouring out faster than he could catch it.
“I knew I’d fuck this up,” he muttered, pacing like he couldn’t outrun his own thoughts. “Of course I did. Everyone sees me for what I am, through all my shit…the damage—a fucking mess—”
“Joe,” Doll said again, her voice firmer this time, but he either didn’t hear her or didn’t want to.
He scoffed to himself, sharp and self-directed, dragging a hand through his hair. “What the hell are you even saying?” he muttered to himself under his breath, like he was arguing with the voices in his own head.
He dropped onto the edge of her couch, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressed hard into his face like he could shut everything out. Doll reached out on instinct, her chest aching, but the second her fingers grazed his arm, his head snapped up—eyes distant, fixed on the floor like it held all the answers.
His expression twisted, bitter and hollow. “Fuck up what, huh?” he said, voice low and cutting. “There’s nothing here to fuck up. We’re not anything. I made sure of that.”
His laugh was sharp and empty. “We hook up. We have a situationship at most. And I’m sitting here—begging you to understand my mind? What the hell is that about?” He shook his head, furious with himself. “I don’t beg. I don’t explain myself. Not to anyone. What the fuck— What the fuck am I doing?”
His breath hitched again, and he let out a strangled laugh, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could shut the whole world out. But when he pulled them away, the room didn’t feel right. It felt too sharp. Too quiet. Too distant.
His chest rose once, then again—faster this time. Shallow. Erratic.
He blinked, like he was trying to shake something loose, but the edges of the room blurred instead of clearing. His hands trembled where they hovered near his face, fingers twitching like they couldn’t find something to hold onto.
“Shit,” he muttered, barely audible.
Doll’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs and her heart at the sight of Joe—coming undone, raw and defenseless in a way she’d never seen before.
How he blinked like he couldn’t focus, like the room around him had shifted and he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. His hands twitched in midair, then dropped suddenly to his legs, digging into his thighs as though he needed to feel something solid to remind himself he was real.
“Joe.” Her voice broke on his name, fragile and full. “Joe.”
She stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching something wild and hurting. Her hand lifted, hovering for a beat before settling over his chest—right where his heart was trying to claw its way out of him. She could feel it hammering against her palm, frantic and uneven.
Then she lowered herself to her knees in front of him, not demanding his attention—just offering it. Her presence was soft, steady. Grounding.
“Hey,” she whispered, her thumb brushing just slightly over his shirt. “You’re okay.”
His head shook slowly, like he could shake the whole moment off. His mouth parted, dragging in shallow, broken air.
“I’ve never—” His voice cracked, sharp and unsteady, like it physically hurt to force the words out. He looked away, jaw tight, shame flickering beneath the frustration in his eyes. “This doesn’t happen to me… not—in front of—.”
“I know,” she murmured, her eyes locked on his. A soft, aching smile touched her lips—something that said I see you, not I pity you. “But it is now. And I’m still here.”
Joe’s gaze met hers, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something more than his hardened gaze—something softer. And in that moment, he didn’t look like the cocky, confident guy he always chalked up to be. He looked heard.
"Tell me what you're thinking, Joe," Doll's voice was soft but insistent, like she needed him to speak, to let it all out.
Joe’s gaze flickered, his eyes darting away from hers before he met them again. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. For a moment, it was just him, trapped in the noise inside his head, trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the feelings he couldn’t make sense of.
He shifted, the tension radiating off him, his jaw clenched like he was at war with himself. His breath hitched, and then—finally—he let out a breath he’d been holding for what felt like forever.
"I think..." he hesitated, the words coming out in a rush. "I think I want to kiss you."
Doll’s heart skipped, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his.
“You— you can,” she said softly, almost as if she were giving him permission, but there was something more to it. It wasn’t about permission—it was about letting him know it was okay, that she was okay with it.
But Joe shook his head, his lips raw and red, “I can’t,” he whispered, his words carrying the weight of something deeper, something that went beyond just a kiss. “I can't.”
Doll’s heart tightened at the raw vulnerability in Joe’s voice. He was close—so close—and yet the distance between them felt as wide as the world. He was fighting something, something more than just his need for control, something deep and buried under years of walls he had built around himself.
It wasn’t just fear of kissing her. It was fear of something else. Fear of what would happen if he let himself go, even just a little. The exact fear that got them into this mess.
His chest trembled beneath her hand, a shallow, uneven rhythm that betrayed everything he was trying so hard to hide. Doll could feel it—every suppressed emotion thrumming beneath his skin, every jagged breath like it hurt to breathe at all. He was unraveling in front of her, but not with noise or anger.
He looked past her, not really seeing the room, like the past had come back to suffocate him. His jaw clenched, not in defiance, but in restraint. A quiet, desperate attempt to hold back the flood. But it was already rising.
Doll didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She stayed kneeling before him, her hand still pressed lightly over his chest—steady, grounding. She didn’t need the full story to recognize the look in his eyes. She’d seen it before—in herself, in moments when grief and memory twisted together and made it hard to breathe.
Joe’s hands had balled into fists at his knees. Tension rippled through his arms, his shoulders, his throat. Every part of him was bracing for something, some blow that hadn’t come but felt inevitable. And still, he wouldn’t look at her.
She could almost see the echoes of the boy he used to be—the one who had trusted too easily once, who had been hurt deeply for it. The one who had learned to mask softness with sharp edges.
And now, here he was, sitting in her living room, shoulders curled forward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he just folded in enough, the past might pass him by unnoticed.
Her touch didn’t try to fix him. It didn’t reach with expectation. It simply stayed.
Joe hadn’t spoken in a while—not much other than mumbles. His eyes weren’t focused on her, or anything at that. They were somewhere far off, hazy and distant.
“I’ve never—” he started, then cut himself off, swallowing hard. “I used to think fighting meant love,” Joe said suddenly, his voice low, almost lazy, like it came from somewhere outside himself. “Like… if it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t real.”
Doll barely breathed. She looked up toward him with the slow, aching dread of someone witnessing a man unravel in real time. But Joe didn’t look at her. Didn’t seem to remember she was still there.
“She’d scream at me,” he murmured, so quietly it was like the words weren’t meant for anyone but himself. “Tell me I was distant. Empty. That she didn’t feel safe with me.”
He stared at the floor like it held the wreckage he still carried, his jaw tense, his voice slipping in and out like something cracked. “I’d just sit there, still. Tryin’ to figure out what I did this time. What part of me made her cry like that. I hated seeing her cry— because of me.”
Dolls hand slowly dropped from his chest to his knee, not moving otherwise. “And then she’d fall apart. Beg me not to leave. Say I was the only one who ever really saw her. That we were meant to be. That she’d die without me. Would mention the future.”
He let out a bitter breath that trembled at the edges, his eyes glassy, unfocused.
“She picked me apart to put me back together and taught me that it was love. It was our love.”
There was a silence so thick it buzzed in Doll’s ears.
Joe finally looked—just barely, like he was afraid to. His eyes landed on her, full of something haunted. Shame, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or both. They didn’t hold the fire she’d grown used to. Just the slow, suffocating grief of someone who had been taught that love meant bleeding for someone else while staying quiet about the wounds.
He looked away again, swallowing hard. Shoulders tense. Breathing uneven.
Joe leaned back, the couch creaking under his weight as he exhaled a shaky breath. His hand pressed into his temple, rubbing at it like the pressure there was too much, like his thoughts were tangled beyond untangling. "I felt trapped," he muttered, his voice low and rough.
"But I think," Joe’s voice faltered for a moment, the words heavy in the air, "I was just addicted to the way she loved me. The way she needed me.”
He seemed to be bracing for Doll to kick him out, not wanting to hear his sap story. Doll shifted a little closer, letting her arm gently brush against his. The contact was light, but grounding. Joe barely reacted—his breathing had slowed, his words coming out soft and fractured, like he was more memory than man in that moment.
“She used to call me a ghost,” he murmured, almost as if the words were slipping out before he could stop them. “Said I’d leave eventually. That I always did. And, I guess... she wasn’t wrong.”
He ran a hand through his hair, voice thick with the weight of it all. “I tried to end it. A thousand times. So did she. But it never really ended. God, this... this went on forever. It still is. Everytime im back home” He finally admitted, the truth settling like a stone in his chest.
He let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "That was it, I guess," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The kind of love I was meant to know. Nothing more... nothing less." His voice cracked slightly on the last words, as if admitting it out loud made it feel even more like a weight he couldn’t shake off.
Doll had shifted, still kneeling beside him but now closer, just next to his head, her presence hovering like a quiet reassurance as he deliberately avoided meeting her eyes.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, Joe let out a breath, barely a whisper. “I don’t know why I’m saying any of this,” he muttered, his voice thin, fragile.
Doll’s gaze softened, the sharp edge of her confusion melting away into something more tender. She leaned forward slightly, her words quiet but unshakable. “Because you’re safe,” she whispered, the words gentle, yet firm in their softness.
His eyes flickered to hers, a brief glance before his head tilted slightly to the side.
Did he feel pathetic for falling apart like this, for melting into this vulnerable, raw space—practically begging her to listen, to understand, to somehow excuse him for everything? Yes, he did. He felt every ounce of that.
But in that moment, with her calm, unwavering gaze on him, he didn’t feel quite as foolish. She made it easier, somehow, chipping at the walls he’d spent years building.
Doll could feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet still hanging in the air. She could tell he was fading into that quiet, distant space where the past consumed him.
It made her ache in a way she couldn’t explain—knowing that this was probably one of the few times he got to deal with these feelings with support.
But as she hovered there beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, a quiet realization shifted in her chest. The world Joe had just shared was complex, jagged, and full of scars. And the truth was, her own story didn’t look much cleaner.
Slowly, she pulled back a little, just enough to look at him properly. His face was still turned away from her, and the dim light from the lamp cast shadows across his features, making him look even more worn than before. But his vulnerability, that strange softness that had crept into his eyes, was still there.
She spoke gently, her voice steady despite the rawness she could feel rising in her chest. “I get it,” she said, her gaze soft but searching. “Love’s not pretty for me, either. It wasn’t something I ever learned how to do right, or—maybe it wasn’t something I wanted to do right. And even when I tried… when I thought I had it, it always ended up hurting the more I tried.”
Joe’s head shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward her, though they seemed still distant. Doll could feel the quiet weight of the unspoken question, the curiosity about what kind of love could have hurt her that much. She didn’t push him to ask it. Instead, she just let the silence hang a moment longer before she continued.
“He said he loved me,” she whispered, her voice low. “But he didn’t know how to show it. Instead, he made me feel like I was never enough. Like I was constantly in the wrong for wanting something real. I spent so much time trying to be what he needed, trying to make him stay, that I lost myself in it. And in the end… he left anyway.”
Joe’s lips parted, like he was about to speak, but Doll wasn’t finished. Not yet.
“Love is… fucked,” she murmured, the words falling heavy in the quiet room. “But you’ve got to give yourself some slack. This is our first time at life. And it’s hard.”
Her voice wavered slightly, then steadied, softened by something deeper—a quiet acceptance, a truth she had stopped outrunning.
For a beat, Joe said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile trying to form through the wreckage of the night.
“You said ‘fuck,’” he whispered, a trace of surprise in his voice, like the word felt strange coming from her mouth.
Doll blinked, then let out a small huff of a laugh, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, well,” she mumbled. “Felt like the only word that fit.”
Joe nodded faintly, the joke softening the weight between them for just a second. But his eyes didn’t fully let go of what still sat inside him. That tightness. That ache.
Silence stretched again, this time gentler. Less suffocating.
Doll shifted slightly, her knees aching beneath her but she didn’t move away. She stayed close. She stayed still. And Joe let her.
“I don’t think I want love right now. Not from anyone.” She let the words breathe, unafraid of the silence that followed. “And I don’t think you do either.”
Joe’s body stiffened, almost imperceptibly. But when his eyes finally lifted to meet hers, there was no anger, no defensiveness. Just exhaustion. A kind of worn-out ache that ran deep.
“I don’t,” he said, voice gravel-rough and hoarse with everything he wasn’t saying. “Not from anyone.”
His words didn’t land like a punch—they just hung in the air like a quiet surrender. Not a rejection of love entirely, but of the chaos it had brought them both.
So they sat. Not talking. Not arguing. Just breathing in the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything from either of them. Joe still laid back, spine against the couch, his jaw slowly unclenching. Doll stayed close, knees on the floor, hands resting on her thighs, not needing to fill the space with more.
Eventually, after what could’ve been minutes or hours, Joe exhaled, turning his head just enough to glance at her. His voice cracked through the hush like a worn-out thread.
“So… what do we do now?”
He asked it like she had the answers. And maybe, to him, she did.
Doll gave a faint, tired smile, more feeling than expression. “I think… we’re just here. That’s all we need to be right now.”
Joe didn’t respond immediately, but something in him shifted—just a little. His eyes didn’t harden. His hands didn’t close into fists. Instead, he nodded once, slowly. Like staying in this moment, however uncertain, was enough.
Just two people, bruised and breathless from the past, choosing—for tonight—to sit in the wreckage, side by side.
And for now, that was enough. The silence between them stretched, thick and heady.
Doll could hear the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the muted sound of wind brushing against the windows. But mostly, she heard her heart thudding against her ribs—steady, but wary.
“Actually, can I—” Joe’s voice broke the silence as he sat up, gruff and unsure. He cleared his throat. “I wanna try somethin’”
Doll sat next to him on the soft couch, just inches from him. Her eyes flicked over to him, her expression soft. “Okay– yeah, sure.”
The room held its breath with them. She turned toward him fully, preparing to ask what he wanted to try, but the words caught on her lips as she noticed his gaze—how it dropped from her eyes to her mouth and lingered, then slowly drifted back up.
And then he kissed her.
No warning. No flourish. Just the quiet, aching press of lips meeting lips. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was soft—so soft. A whisper of a kiss, more feeling than movement. Like it wasn’t built to last, but they still wanted to slow every second of it.
Joe’s hands found her waist without thinking, his fingers curving instinctively around the familiar shape of her hips—automatic, hesitant, haunted. Just like he used to with Esmae. The gesture betrayed him, dragged out of some distant place in his body that hadn’t learned the difference yet. This wasn’t Esmae. This was Doll. And somehow, that made it worse.
It was the kind of touch that spoke louder than anything he could say—an echo of all his sleepless nights. His thumbs brushed softly over the hem of her shirt, anchoring him to the now.
To her. To something terrifyingly real. Something he couldn’t hold onto too tightly, afraid of what it might do to him… or worse, what he might do to it.
Doll’s hands rose slowly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch him, until her fingers curled against the rough stubble on his jaw. Her thumbs brushed the sharp line of it with feather-light strokes, tracing the place where tension lived just beneath his skin. Her touch steadied him, anchored him—not to the moment, but to her.
They pulled apart just slightly, lips grazing in hesitation, foreheads nearly touching. His breath hitched as their eyes opened. Her lashes fluttered, and for the briefest second, they just looked at each other—really looked.
And then, like magnets dragged back together, they closed the distance again.
But this time, It didn’t last long.
Doll felt it—the shift. The way his shoulders stiffened beneath her touch, like his body had suddenly remembered something it didn’t want to feel. When they pulled apart, it wasn’t with drama or regret, just a quiet reluctance.
Joe didn’t look at her. His gaze slid to the far corner of the room, fixing on nothing, everything. His face had gone still—too still. And Doll knew; if he looked at her again, his eyes might betray him.
He looked like he was on the edge—like one more second, one more word, might undo him completely. He’d already let her see too much. More than he ever let anyone see. More than he meant to.
And the kiss?
And now… he couldn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on the wall—anywhere but her. As if he could pretend it hadn’t happened, if he just kept looking away.
“Joe,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching as his eyes stayed stubbornly turned away. “Jus’ wanted to see if it’d make me feel somethin’,” he said quickly.
Her heart stuttered. Fluttered in her chest and then tightened all at once. “Did it?” she asked, voice cautious. Careful.
He paused. Too long.
Then, quietly—almost too quiet to catch—“No.”
He stood up, the shift in energy so immediate it made her feel dizzy. The couch dipped and sprang back, and the warmth of his presence evaporated with the motion.
Doll stayed frozen, her hands still in her lap. She looked up at him. He was back in that shell, that too-familiar armor. The same stone-cold expression she’d seen a hundred times before.
“But, y’ didn’t either though, right?” he asked. He said it too fast. Too casual. Like he needed her to confirm they felt the same so he could forget it ever happened. So he could chalk it up as some stupid, weak moment and bury it deep with the rest of the memories he’d rather never face. His face had already hardened. That familiar, unreadable mask slipping back into place like armor.
Doll swallowed.
There was a part of her that wanted to tell the truth—that yes, she did feel something. Maybe not butterflies. Maybe not fireworks. But something.
But she knew he couldn’t hear that—not right now. And besides, after everything they just said about not wanting anything serious, not with anyone, especially not with each other, what right did she have to say otherwise?
So she nodded, swallowing the sharp sting like it was glass cutting down her throat.
“No,” she said, voice tight but edged with a bitter laugh. “Of course not.”
Joe held her gaze a moment longer, and for just a flicker of a second, something shifted behind his eyes—was it sadness? Relief? Fear? Uncertainty? She couldn’t tell. Before she could fully grasp it, he cleared his throat and looked away.
“Good,” he murmured. “Yeah. Good.”
He turned away, heading towards the apartment's front door, his shoulders broad and tense, fists clenched at his sides.
Because what do you do when the signs say one thing, but the silence screams another?
When someone’s history has taught them to hide so well.
It’s impossible to know what’s real and what’s a mask.
The highway stretched out ahead of them, headlights cutting through the early evening gloom. Joe sat behind the wheel of his beat-up rental car, one hand on the steering wheel, the other lazily draped over Briar’s thigh. Briar was in the passenger seat, her LSU hoodie pulled tight around her, speakers playing soft R&B—but mostly they were talking. Or, more accurately, she was talking, and he was half-laughing, half-interjecting, perfectly content to listen.
They’d decided to drive home together for Thanksgiving—flights for broke college students weren’t exactly friendly—and somehow, the quiet hum of the tires on the road had invited nostalgia.
“You remember that time we tried to build that treehouse behind your house?” Briar asked suddenly, elbow resting on the center console.
Joe snorted. “Oh yeah. Brian, Zacciah, Trae and I were supposed to do all the work. You just… supervised.”
Briar laughed, elbowing him lightly. “Hey! I helped! I held the hammer and everything.”
“You held it upside down and hit yourself in the forehead,” he reminded her with a grin.
“Details!” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. “You guys made it sound like I wasn’t part of the team. But I was there the whole time, encouraging.”
Joe shook his head, chuckling, eyes on the road. “Encouraging, sure. But the real truth is—you were always tagging along behind us like some tiny shadow. Little sister following her big brothers everywhere.”
“Hey,” she protested, mock offense in her voice. “I was strategically following you guys. To make sure you didn’t get into too much trouble.”
“Trouble?!” Joe laughed, turning briefly to glance at her, his grin wide. “We were the kings of trouble.“
She laughed again, remembering. “Yeah, and I was just there to make sure the house didn’t burn down.”
The car went quiet for a moment, the hum of the tires and distant radio filling the space. Joe’s eyes flicked toward her, smiling softly. “It’s crazy, you know… how we’ve grown up together. All those years in Athens… Zacciah, Trae, Brian, me, you tagging along… never thought we’d end up here.”
Briar looked out the window, watching the Ohio countryside blur past. “Yeah… I remember thinking I had the coolest big brother and his best friends. You guys were like… untouchable in my little world. I just wanted to be part of it.”
“You were always part of it, Bri,” Joe said, voice quieter now, a little soft around the edges. “Even if I didn’t notice it at the time. You were always there… steady, funny, annoying, smart. Always there.”
She smiled, warm and a little wistful. “I guess some things don’t change. You’re still… steady, funny, annoying, smart.”
Joe laughed, shaking his head. “Wow, that’s like… the least flattering way to compliment me ever.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking. “But it’s true.”
They drove on for a while in companionable silence, letting the memories roll between them like the endless miles. Old Athens streets, old friends, the laughter of their childhood—somehow all of it felt like it had been leading up to this moment.
Joe glanced at her, catching her profile in the dim dashboard light. He remembered thinking, even back then, that she had grown up into someone impossible to ignore. Someone who had always been there… and maybe always would be.
Briar caught his gaze, and they shared a small, secret smile. No words were needed.
Because some things—like best friends, shared history, and unspoken trust—lasted longer than roads, longer than time, longer than anything.
And as the Ohio skyline grew closer, so did the quiet realization that their story had been building since the very beginning.
The car slowed as they rolled into their neighborhood, the familiar red-brick houses and bare autumn trees greeting them like old friends. The sun was dipping behind the hills, casting long shadows across the streets. Joe parked in front of Briar’s house, taking a deep breath.
“You ready for this?” he asked, glancing at her.
Briar shrugged, trying to keep her voice casual. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s just get this over with.”
They stepped out of the car, the cool Ohio air hitting them. From the porch, voices carried—laughter and chatter, familiar and tense all at once.
Jim and Robin Burrow were already there, waving enthusiastically. “Joe!” Jim called. “Y’all made it!”
Joe grinned and waved back, stepping forward. His parents always made him feel at home no matter where he was.
Briar’s parents were also on the porch, Brady and Helen, smiling but with a subtle stiffness—thanksgiving energy with a side of carefully concealed tension. And then there was Brian, leaning against the railing, arms crossed. His expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief.
Joe’s brow quirked. He knew Brian’s look—always had. That “I’m judging everything you do” glare. But honestly, he didn’t care. Not anymore.
Briar’s sneakers squeaked on the porch steps, and she stepped forward first. “Hi, Mama, Daddy,” she said cheerfully, hiding the tension threading through her chest.
“Baby Bri!” Helen said, pulling her into a quick hug. “It’s good to see you!”
Brady shook his head, smiling faintly. “About time you two got here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Briar muttered. Then her eyes flicked to Brian, standing stiff and silent. “Hi, Brian,” she said carefully.
“Bri,” he said flatly, no warmth in his voice. His glare drifted toward Joe. “And you.”
Joe simply smiled, stepping forward confidently. “Hey, man,” he said casually.
Brian’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know you two were… hanging out again.” His emphasis on you two wasn’t subtle.
Briar rolled her eyes under her breath. “We’re just driving home together, Brian. He is my Bestie.”
“I can see that,” he muttered, voice low and sharp, “and I don’t like it.”
Joe shrugged, unfazed. “Not exactly looking for your approval.”
Brian’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the air grew thick. Memories of past years—old fights, arguments, hospital visits—were simmering just beneath the surface.
Briar’s chest tightened, trying to swallow the rising tension. She hadn’t seen Brian in months, and the anger was still fresh, barely patched over. “Brian… it’s fine. Really. Don’t make it weird.”
Brian snorted, stepping aside but keeping his eyes on Joe. “Whatever.”
Joe caught Briar’s subtle sigh and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about him,” he murmured quietly.
Briar offered a small smile, grateful. “Thanks.”
Meanwhile, Brian’s glare lingered, following Joe as he hugged Brady and Helen. He hated seeing his little sister laughing at Joe’s jokes, her relaxed, familiar energy around him—something he’d lost with them both a long time ago, something he couldn’t control anymore.
Joe didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow to his disapproval. Briar, for her part, didn’t flinch either. She had her own life now, and Joe is part of it regardless and Brian’s feelings weren’t going to change that.
Dinner in the Matthew’s house was lively—Jim and Robin telling stories, Brady teasing Joe about LSU, and Helen bustling around, making sure everyone had enough food. Cousins and aunts and uncles everywhere. Brian lingered at the table’s edge, making pointed remarks, but Briar and Joe barely noticed.
They were too busy reminiscing quietly in their own corner—laughing about childhood games in the yard, football in the driveway, and the times Joe and Brian had dragged her into trouble. Memories of her little sister self, following them around, the years of laughter and chaos, made the present tension fade just enough to remind her why she loved this time of year… and why she loved the person sitting next to her.
Joe caught her gaze and smirked. “You still remember me catching you climbing the tree in the backyard?”
Briar laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, God. You scared me half to death, and then you told Brian I was being reckless.”
“And then Brian laughed at you,” Joe added, smirking.
Briar rolled her eyes. “He did. Typical.”
Joe shrugged. “Some things never change. Except now,” he said, glancing around at the family chaos, “we get to make our own rules.”
Briar smiled softly, leaning into him just slightly. “Yeah. We do.”
And even though Brian sat nearby, silent and seething, neither of them cared. They had each other, the memories of the past, and the quiet thrill of building their own path forward.
The house was unusually quiet. Their parents had gone out early to brave the Black Friday lines, leaving Joe, Briar, and Brian behind.
Joe was sprawled across Briar’s bed face down, stuffed from Thanksgiving dinner, one arm draped lazily over the edge, the other around her waist. His curls were tousled, eyes half-lidded in a perfect food coma. Briar was tucked next to him, giggling as she poked his side and ruffled his hair, trying to wake him just enough to get a reaction.
Brian walked past the open door, catching the scene, and rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.
“This some fucking bullshit.” he muttered, heading next door to his own room.
Briar jumped up quickly and closed the door behind her, laughing at his reaction. She climbed back onto the bed, curling up next to Joe who had flipped on his back, grumbling quietly but didn’t move too far away.
She rested her head on his shoulder and let herself drift into a short cat nap, the warmth of his body and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing lulling her to sleep. Thirty minutes later, she stirred, stretching lazily and realizing Joe was still completely zoned out.
She leaned closer, lightly pecking his jaw and softly nipping at his neck to wake him up.
Joe groaned, blinking slowly. “Now why?” His voice was thick with sleep and annoyance.
“I missed you,” she whispered with a mischievous grin. “And I’m bored. Wake up.”
He yawned, shifting to look at her. “I’m cuddling with you, Bri. That’s enough. Stop kissing my neck.”
“Nope,” she said, grinning, leaning in again.
He squirmed slightly, half amused, half exasperated, and half turned on. “Keep it up like your brother’s room isn’t right there… he’s really gonna hate me.”
“And that means?” she asked, confused, tilting her head.
Joe just shook his head with a lazy smirk, settling back against the pillows. “It means…if you keep kissing on my neck, I will fuck you! Now go back to sleep.”
Briar giggled shocked, but snuggled closer into his chest. “Okay, okay… I’ll behave.”
And just like that, they drifted back into a cozy, quiet half-sleep, laughter and teasing fading into the warmth of the room. Brian might have hated it, but Briar didn’t care—Joe was there, and that was all that mattered.
As Briar and Joe settled back into the bed, a muffled voice came through the wall.
Brian.
He was on speakerphone with someone, voice loud and irritated—clearly not caring who heard him.
“I swear they doing this shit on purpose,” Brian muttered. “Done told the whole family they not together! But I walk by and they in her room cuddling.”
Joe and Briar both froze.
Then exchanged the same exact look.
Oh, so he wanted to talk trash?
Bet.
Briar scooted closer to Joe, whispering, “He’s literally obsessed with us.”
Joe buried his face in the pillow to stifle a laugh. “He really is. What a hater.”
“And he thinks I’m annoying?” she whispered indignantly.
Joe turned his head toward her, eyes sparkling. “Wanna mess with him?”
Briar grinned. “Always.”
They went quiet for a second, listening again.
Brian continued, “In there kissing on his neck and shit. Can’t stand either on of they asses. When she said she couldn’t get a flight here, I was happy as hell. Just for his ass to save the day and get the damn rental. Man I wish I was still an only child.”
Joe sat up, offended on both their behalves. “Okay, that’s enough.”
Briar crossed her arms. “He’s lucky I don’t go in there.”
Joe smirked. “Nah. Let’s ruin his night instead.”
They fell silent—conspiring.
Then Joe snapped his fingers. “I got it.”
He raised his voice deliberately, the acting painfully dramatic:
“Mmm fuck right there Briar!” He moans out.
Briar caught on instantly, moaning back.
“Ugh fuck Joey.. mmm baby yes!”
The wall went dead silent.
Brian had definitely heard that.
Joe continued loudly, “Fuck pretty girl! Oh shit we gotta be quiet! Fuck don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He shakes the bed a little, the head board hitting the wall.
Briar shriek-moaned, “I can’t be quiet, it feels so fucking good. Oh I’m close baby! Fuck it’s in my stomach bae!”
Joe added, louder, “Yea you like that shit don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“What’s my name baby?!”
“Daddy!” She moaned. Shit sounded a little too real. Joes dick stirred a bit.
From the other room, Brian groaned loudly in disgust. “Oh my GOD. They’re fucking! Bruh Trae come get me before I fuck this white boy up.”
Click.
Joe and Briar instantly dissolved into quiet laughter, clinging to each other as they shook the bed from laughing so hard.
“Oh, he’s SO mad,” Briar wheezed.
Joe wiped tears from his eyes. “Good. He started it.”
She nudged his shoulder. “We make a good team.”
He looked at her a moment—longer than he meant to.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We always have.”
“What’s that look?” She questioned.
“That last moan sounded a bit…. Too real.” He said voice dropping an octave, eyes dark.
She smirks.
“What? When I called you daddy?” She says softly, batting her lashes.
He bites his lip.
“Stop playing Bri.”
“Or what?” She challenges.
He pulls her on top of him, straddling his lap.
“I don’t know. You tell me pretty girl.” he says.
She grinds down earning a moan. His hands go right to her ass feeling the curve of it.
She leans down deciding to continue what she was doing earlier.
She trails kisses down his neck, slow, nipping in the soft spot where his neck meet his shoulder.
He grinds up into her moaning.
He grabs her and flips them on to their sides. His leg slots between hers. They are pressed close.
“Gimme a kiss.” He says
She pulls away and looks at him surprised.
“Nah don’t look at me like that pretty girl. Let me taste you. Just a little. Please?”
His lips brush against hers.
“Bestie.” She says.
“We’re not besties right now.” He says flicking her bottom lip with his tongue slow.
“You want a kiss?” She says.
He nods very eagerly inching closer.
She takes his bottom lip in her mouth sucking it. His eyes roll back and he groans.
He rolls his hips and she moans. The friction feels good. Her leggings are thin, his thigh is right against her pussy.
She grinds back as Joes tongue invades her mouth.
Hands are everywhere. Under his shirt, clawing at his back a little making him shiver. Inside her leggings, squeezing the swell of her ass helping her grind down on his leg. Snapping the waist band of her thong against her skin making her jump.
They are kissing so wildly. Biting lips, sucking on each other’s tongue, he pulls away to attack her neck.
Moans and grunts are hushed.
The grinding continues. Briar needs to feel his body heat. She pulls away and he whines. She yanks her shirt off leaving her in a bra. He gets the hint, yanking his off.
He pulls her right back in grinding his hard dick against her pelvis, thigh pressed against her pussy. Friction is just delicious.
“Fuck pretty girl. I- I think I’m close.” He says against her lips.
“Me too Joey.” She whimpers. They grind harder chasing that release. Bodies rolling. That whole bestie thing? A load of horseshit right now.
He pulls away from the kiss to focus and chase his release. He is moaning and whimpering.
“Hmmmmm fuck. M’ so close. P-please. Fuck don’t stop.” His eyes are fluttering, lulling as his chest heaves.
Briar is no better. She is trembling. His thigh is flexing against her clit. She is a whimpering begging mess.
She just wants to be close.
“J-Joe come cl-closer. Please. Hold me M’ close too.” She breathes out.
He pulls her closer, hips snapping like no tomorrow.
“Cum with me Pretty girl. Please. Please.”
Briar is panting in his ear, “I’m cumming. I’m cumming. Oh fuck.”
That knot in her stomach releases. Her back arches. Joe holds her tight as he comes undone.
He makes a low grunting pitiful noise, body jerking as he cums in his boxers. It’s whiny and needy.
They both lie there. Sweaty. Sticky. And very confused.
“This was just a thing right?” He asks.
“Or for sure.” She agrees.
“Okay cool, cool.” He feels a bit better about what just went down.
He gets up and Briar giggles. His gray sweats are DRENCHED.
He grabs a clean pair of briefs from his duffle bag, his body wash soap, and a rag.
“Aye shut it. That thong of yours is definitely soaked.” He says heading towards her connected bathroom. She walks in after him. He is already in the process of washing up.
“One my dick is out.” He says covering it with his rag.
“We just dry humped boy bye. Dick was hard. I felt it. I can see it if I want to.” She says rolling her eyes.
He rolls his eyes back.
“And two… go lay back down. Princess’s get after care treatment.” He says.
“Just give me cuddles and kisses, I wanna actually wash up as well… I um… squirted.” She says shyly.
He smirks but doesn’t say anything about it. “Okay.”
After they both wash up and change, Joe helps Briar change the sheets and they both lie down to cuddle. Little kisses here and there. Hushed giggles. Innocent.
“We are weird best friends aren’t we?” Briar asks slowly nodding off.
“Yea. What works for us may not work for others… and that’s okay.”
“I like our weird.” Sleep finally taking over.
“I do too Pretty girl. I do too.”
He gets comfy and lets sleep take over him.
Little did they know… it was only going to get weirder.
Has Einstein girl ever made her Joey whimper for her?
it happens more often than you think ;)
the room is dark. the moon illuminates the apartment bedroom, simultaneously illuminating the lovers in the sheets.
joe’s hands are clenched around the sheets, his neck straining as he forces himself to hold back moans. her hands are splayed across his stomach and chest, her pussy gliding with ease over his hard and swollen dick.
he’s been hard ever since he watched her absolutely kill her speech.
she grinds against him, the swollen tip of his cock kissing her clit with every pass. she gasps and moans softly, her head tossed back. the moon illuminates her skin, casting shadows on her body. joe fights to hold himself together, especially as his eyes peel open and watch her.
her tits wiggle with each grind. her shoulders are defined with her exercise. her head is tipped back, her jaw slack. she’s a goddess, and she’s using him as if he was her personal fuck toy.
“baby,” he whispers, his voice straining just short of a whimper. she knows what he wants. she can feel it in how his abs tighten under her touch, how his cock twitches when she flexes her hips towards the base.
“i know,” she whispers into the dark room. she does know. she knows he wants to feel her wet cunt around his cock. she knows he wants her to fuck him stupid.
but she doesn’t give him what he wants. not immediately.
she pauses her hips at his tip, and she swivels. she presses down, moaning as she feels his tip press against the swollen button of her clit. she slid her hands up to squeeze his pecs, his nipples hard under her touch.
“Y/N,” he whines, his voice straining. she pauses and unsticks herself, strings of arousal connecting them. she reaches between them and she grabs ahold of his hot, wet cock. she circles her wet slit, before she slowly sits down onto him.
and fuck if he doesn’t whimper.
she’s warm and she’s wet. his hands fly to her hips, a small whimper leaving his soft lips. he bucks his hips, pushing his cock further into her tight pussy. she rides him. slow. sensual. he meets her pace, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut.
“fuck,” he whimpers, “baby,”
it’s all he can get out. it’s all he can manage when he’s consumed by how tight she is. he can feel every ridge of her walls, every wet squelch that squeaks past their connection. he feels every single movement and how it electrifies his body.
she goes faster. he meets her pace. his hips snapping against hers. she moans as she feels him hit her deep, so deep she can feel him in her throat. she presses her hands against the stomach and makes herself stand still. it gives him an invitation to fuck up into her as hard as he can.
it never takes him long to cum. he shakes as white hot cum explodes in her pussy, coating her tight and thick walls. she moans, cumming at the same time. she continues to ride him, mixing their juices together. whimpers fill the silence, breaking through the veil of darkness.
“baby,” he whines, “baby, shit,”
she pulls off of him, strings of cum connecting them. his cum slides out of her pussy, dropping onto his softening cock. she leans down, capturing his lips in a breathless kiss. he whines into the kiss, his hands shakily exploring her back.
“again,” he hums, “please,”
she chuckles and kisses at his already marked up neck.
“so greedy,” she smirks, “but I’ll do anything for my boy that whimpers,”
background: y/n goes to a frat party and defies every warning her friends give her about the newest LSU quarterback joe burrow.
(all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved.)
notes: mix of social media/messages and fic writing, short blurb. also why do i lowkey want to go to the masters for the golf? its my dream
word count: 570
warning: implied smut, 18+, not proofread (similar storyline to my lamelo ball x wmba reader series)
As you're in your dorm getting ready for a party, the atmosphere calm as All the Stars by SZA and Kendrick Lamar murmurs in the background with your friend group waiting on you to finish up. Once you did, the group heads to the nearby off campus bar.
Walking into the bar for the party, after a long duration to find a parking spot due to almost being at max compacity, many girls stood around, talked, drinked and other things while the lights flashed. Almost everyone at the event attended LSU, including the athletes.
But you saw a group of people yell as the football players came in one by one, and one locked eyes on you as he walked in. Joe Burrow.
Your friends immediately pulled you to the side right after, like you were a puppy running away from its owner without a leash, as if it were a game. Obviously, you became defensive, but they looked right at you as they grabbed your drink mid-sip.
"Y/N. We're all going to tell you this one time, but Joe's a known player. He's a new quarterback from Ohio State, but he has a girlfriend, and he's just scouting side pieces so he can be pleasured here." Kamryn, your roommate, says as she continues to hold the drink in her hand.
If you deliberately roll your eyes, he wouldn't do that. Plus, if he had a girlfriend, they're probably over because he didn't take the starting quarterback offer somewhere closer you thought.
"Actually, we're not joking. We don't want you to get hurt when he blocks you one day or worse. Just stay away from him, okay?" another one of your friends calmly says as they give you the drink back and they go back to partying with other people.
Just as you start to walk towards him, you feel a hand tap your shoulder. You turn around and its Joe.
"Hey, you dropped your ID back at the bar. I was looking for you," the tall blue-eyed boy says, looking down at you.
"Oh, well thanks."
Keeping it simple as you take the ID out of his hand and you walk up to the bar, he offers to buy you another drink.
"Your outfit is really nice, lemme buy you a drink."
You thought about turning it down, but was this the only chance you'd probably have to talk to him before he goes to someone else? 'Backstabbing' your friends would be horrible, but he seemed nice. So what was the worst that could happen between you two?
After rebuying your drink of choice, somehow you both end up in his car an hour later. Sitting in the passenger seat, talking about why you're both at LSU, what it's like being from Ohio, and the differences in the humidity. You check your phone andsee a message in the group chat from your friends.
Joe saw a small fragment of the messages and immediately smiled. Although on his phone, he saw a text message notification. He ignored it as he turned off his phone, and undid his seatbelt and got into the backseat, then as he let y/n straddle him as he grabbed her shirt, knowing what was about to happen.
The next morning you wake up in your dorm hungover but a sense of satisfaction and soreness coursing through your body, on the other side Joe's phone blows up from his girlfriend Adeline clearly pissed about how shes being ignored per usual.
totallynoty/n
❤️ 2,300 💬 40
Liked by: itskarmyn joeyb_9 journ3y and others
totallynoty/n: we had a TIME last night
itskarmyn: hungover core
username_1: get back on that basketball court girl
journ3y: do we need to talk about what condition your dress is in right now or even where is it?
totallynoty/n: nah im good.
username_2: joe liking this.. whats going on
*load more comments*
authors note: something different because im running off of god knows what right now. hope everyone liked this.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Born to two Haitian third generation ultra wealthy citizens, Daphne Laurent’s first few years of life could be described easily—magnolias, Spanish moss, Southern etiquette, church bells, and charity luncheons. Glitz and glamour came with the life of a Laurent, occupying one of those big ol’ houses by the block with creaky stairs and whispers of portraits of ancestors on the walls. Prepped for greatness, despite not having an active mother—the Laurent family pushed education, excellence, and an admiration for all the carnal—spiritual—material things of life.
so very hard to go , daphne’s aesthetics ؛༊ 𝒯ags
⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 daphne laurent, the epitome of joe’s undoing. sweet, accommodating, and detached from every negative aspect of this life—she’s his sweet escape from it all, his wife and most importantly his “twin flame.” she stuck by it all, through all the crazy exes, the drama, the noise that fought to cloud their heavenly bliss. daphne laurent was an enigmatic, an innocent imagination he wouldn’t let go of. the worst part is that she was real. consistently the realest thing in his life.
⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 power imbalances , slight mischaracterizations / interpretations , foul language , smut / explicit scenes , arguments — basically anything that comes with a relationship thrust into media spotlight .. angst , overly sweet fluff , dark humor ( ? not explicitly implied ) , obvious elitism / classism ( daphne’s family is very wealthy, they have maids, etc. ) , use of the supernatural elements ( i.e. magic, voodoo / vodou, subtle witchcraft, & catholicism )
⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑑𝑦𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑐𝑠 mutual friends to lovers, husband!joe x wife!oc, obviously they’re parents lolzies, college sweethearts, famous x semi-famous private person, overprotectiveness / dom & sub dynamics, spiritual x active participant.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 💌 αurora speaks (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i had former notes here, got cringed out by them. otherwise the current version you are seeing is in the works of editing & revision as of may 2026.
