i’ll stand here
you wanted to be seen {part II.}
Authors note: you asked for him to yearn. you asked for him to sweat. you asked for him to understand.
this is what growth looks like when it’s not dramatic — when it’s uncomfortable and humbling and slow.
part one was about being hurt. part two is about being understood.
and for the record — she didn’t forgive him because he begged.
she softened because he finally stopped trying to control the narrative and just showed up.
thank you for screaming in my inbox. if you wanted to be on my tag list, holler in inbox or comments :)
Part I. right here
i love you. don’t bully me. 🤍
Photo credits: Pinterest
Dividers credits: @cursed-carmine and @saradika-graphics
Tag list: @mrs-delaney @xoxonobodyhome
He doesn’t drive home.
Not right away.
He sits there until the street goes quiet.
Until the restaurant across the road flips its sign to CLOSED.
Until the last dog walker disappears.
He watches her building like he used to watch defenses.
Looking for movement.
A sign. Anything.
Nothing.
At 1:12 a.m., he finally drives away.
—
He doesn’t sleep. He can’t fall asleep.
He lays on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying her face in the hallway.
You wanted to make me feel it.
He did.
That’s the part that won’t let him rest.
Not the headlines. Not the photos. Not the team group chat blowing up.
Her voice.
He reaches for his phone again.
Still nothing.
Morning makes everything worse.
Because the photos are clearer now.
And someone got video.
The corridor.
The flashes.
Her blinking hard against the light.
And the captions.
Joe Burrow finally goes public.
Mystery girlfriend looks overwhelmed.
Body language experts weigh in.
He throws his phone across the couch.
It hits the cushion and slides to the floor.
He runs a hand down his face.
Then he does something he hasn’t done in years when it comes to personal stuff.
He calls his mom.
It rings only once.
“Hi, honey.”
He almost hangs up.
Almost pretends this was accidental.
Instead:
“Mom.”
Something in his voice must give him away.
“What happened?”
He sits down on the edge of his kitchen island.
“I messed up.”
Robin is quiet.
Not panicked.
Just listening.
“With your girl?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I saw the photos Joe.”
Of course she did.
“Is she okay?” Robin asks.
Joe swallows.
“No. She’s not.”
Another pause.
“Did you do it to protect her,” Robin asks carefully, “or did you prove something?”
That one stings.
“I proved something,” he admits.
Silence.
“Joseph.”
He closes his eyes.
“I know.”
“No, Joe,” she says gently. “You don’t. Not yet.”
He exhales, frustrated. “She said I was hiding her. Said I don’t let her exist. I just— I snapped.”
“And what did that get you?”
“She walked through cameras crying.”
Robin doesn’t raise her voice.
But there’s disappointment there.
“You are always so careful with the ball,” she says softly. “So disciplined. So controlled. And you couldn’t pause for ten seconds with the girl you love? That’s not you, Joseph.”
Joe presses his palm to his forehead.
“She thinks I’m ashamed of her.”
“And are you?”
“No.”
“Then why did you treat her like something to unveil instead of someone to stand beside? We told you so many times with dad.”
He doesn’t have an answer.
“She’s a good girl,” Robin continues. “She is thoughtful. She is gentle. She looks at you like you’re more than a quarterback. She loves you fully. Do you understand how rare that is?”
His throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“Now do you?”
“I do.”
“Then stop trying to manage her like she’s a press conference.”
The line goes quiet.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says again, quieter this time.
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Robin replies. “But intent doesn’t undo impact.”
He sits there long after the call ends.
Feeling twelve years old and reprimanded.
And knowing she’s right.
By noon, he’s texted twice more.
I’m sorry. I acted out.
I was so wrong.
No response.
He doesn’t call.
He thinks about it.
Stops himself.
She asked for space.
So he gives it.
Even though it feels like peeling skin.
Around three, his phone buzzes again
Not her.
Ja’Marr.
Just a link.
He almost ignores it.
Then opens it.
Photos.
Not from the stadium.
From outside a café downtown.
She’s sitting at a small table with two friends.
Sunglasses on. Hair up. Hands wrapped around a coffee cup.
But even through dark lenses—She looks wrecked.
Headline:
Burrow’s Girlfriend Seen Looking Emotional After Public Reveal.
Comments are worse for him.
Some cruel. Some curious. Some protective.
Wait she’s actually cute.
She looks sweet. Like really pretty girl.
Why does she look so sad?
If he hurt her I swear—
Joe scrolls further.
Someone dug up her old university article.
Literature major. Graduated with honors. Reads more than she posts.
Another thread:
She once talked openly about OCD in a campus interview. Said she likes order because the world feels loud.
Joe’s stomach drops.
They’re already dissecting her.
Exactly what he feared.
Except—
The tone isn’t vicious.
It’s… curious.
Soft, even.
“She seems normal.”
“She’s not influencer-y.”
“She looks shy.”
He stares at the photo of her laughing with her friends.
It’s older.
Probably from her Instagram before she locked it.
She looks different there.
Free.
Unaware.
He realizes something slow and uncomfortable.
He wasn’t protecting her from this. He was protecting himself from losing control of it.
And there’s a difference.
At five, he drives past her building again.
He doesn’t park.
Just slows.
Her car is gone.
His chest tightens. She’s not home.
That evening, he tries one more time.
Not dramatic. Not defensive. Just honest.
I was scared.
He stares at the screen.
Adds:
Not of the media. Of losing you. And I projected my fears onto you.
He doesn’t delete it this time.
He sends it.
This time, the bubble appears almost immediately.
Three dots.
His heart jumps into his throat.
Then disappears.
Then comes back.
She’s typing.
He actually stands up from the couch without realizing. Starts pacing.
Her message comes through.
You didn’t almost lose me because of cameras.
A pause.
Another bubble.
You can’t just do as you please when you feel like it. You don’t listen.
Joe sinks back down slowly.
Because that’s worse. And she’s right.
He types carefully.
I’m listening now. I will do better.
This time the typing bubble doesn’t come back right away.
Minutes pass.
Five.
Ten.
Finally:
I don’t think this works if you need to control everything. If you act like this. I can’t do it.
His chest caves in.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t argue.
Then I need to learn how not to.
He sends it before he can overthink it.
And for the first time since the hallway—
He isn’t trying to win.
He’s just trying not to lose her for good.
Friday night comes slow.
He almost doesn’t go. He sits in his car two streets away from the field for a full five minutes, engine off, staring at the glow of stadium lights in the distance.
This isn’t his world.
No tunnels.
No security.
No curated entrances.
Just a high school field. Chain-link fence. Parents lining up with thermoses and blankets.
He could still leave.
He doesn’t.
He gets out.
No hoodie up. No cap pulled low.
He doesn’t sneak in.
He walks through the front gate and pays five dollars like everyone else.
The woman at the table blinks twice.
“…You look familiar.”
He gives a small, polite smile.
“Probably not.”
He drops the cash in the box.
No security. No tinted glass. No private corridor.
Inside, it smells like grass and fryer oil.
Teenagers laughing. Whistles blowing. Overhead lights buzzing.
He scans the field. And then he sees him.
Number 12.
Too-big shoulder pads.
Running drills with aggressive, messy enthusiasm.
Devin.
Joe’s chest tightens.
He steps closer to the fence. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t wave.
He just watches.
Like he should have been doing all along.
The whistle blows for water break.
Devin jogs toward the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm—
And then he freezes. He squints.
Looks again.
Joe gives him a small nod.
Devin’s eyes go huge.
“NO WAY—”
He drops his helmet.
Actually drops it.
“JOE?!”
Heads turn instantly.
Joe barely has time to brace before Devin barrels into him, wrapping both arms around his waist like he’s not in pads.
“You came! You actually came!”
Joe laughs— really laughs for the first time all week.
“Yeah, man. I did.”
“I told her you would one day!” Devin blurts. “She said you’re busy and stuff but I knew—”
He stops mid-sentence. Because that’s when he realizes. She hasn’t seen him yet. That means Joe came to surprise them all.
Devin grabs his wrist.
“Come on.”
Joe hesitates.
“Dev—”
“No, come on, they’re over there.”
And just like that—
He’s being dragged.
Across uneven grass. Past folding chairs.
Past parents who are now whispering very loudly.
“Oh my God—”
“Is that—”
“It is—”
Joe doesn’t pull away. He lets himself be led.
No controlling the angle.
No controlling the lighting.
No controlling the moment.
They reach the cluster of people near the fifty-yard line.
Her friends he doesn’t even know.
Her mom.
Blankets laid out. Hot chocolate in travel mugs.
Her mom sees him first.
And actually gasps.
Not dramatic. Just stunned.
Her hand flies to her chest.
“Joseph?”
He swallows.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Devin is still holding his wrist like proof.
“He came!” Devin announces proudly. “I told you he would!”
That’s when her mom’s eyes soften. But there’s something protective there too.
“You came,” she repeats, quieter. “I’m glad to see you.”
“I should’ve been coming,” he answers honestly. “Good to see you too.”
And then—
She turns.
Because she heard Devin call her name.
And she sees him.
Everything in her face changes.
Shock. Hurt. Confusion. Guarded.
Joe feels it physically.
The space between them.
He doesn’t step closer.
He doesn’t reach for her.
He just stands there.
On her ground. In front of her people. Where she has the power.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says.
“I didn’t tell you,” he replies.
A beat.
“I wanted to show up. Not announce it.”
Her eyes flick briefly to the field. Then back to him.
“You don’t have to do this because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m here because I should’ve been.Thats on me.”
Her friends are pretending not to stare.
They’re failing.
Parents are definitely staring.
Phones are already subtly out.
He notices.
And does nothing about it.
No pulling her away.
No whispering.
He stays. Right there.
“If you want me to leave,” he adds softly, “I will. ”
Devin looks between them, confused.
“You’re not leaving,” he says firmly. “I want you to stay.”
Her mom gives her a small look. This part is yours.
She studies Joe for a long second.
He doesn’t look polished tonight.
No post-game glow.
No controlled expression.
He looks nervous.
Actually nervous.
“You can stay,” she says finally. “But you don’t get to control anything.”
His throat tightens.
“I won’t.”
And he means it.
Game starts.
He doesn’t sit next to her at first. He stands at the edge of the group.
Claps when Devin makes a tackle. Cheers like a normal guy.
People definitely know it’s him now.
Whispers spreading down the bleachers.
But he doesn’t move.
Midway through second quarter, she steps closer.
Not touching.
Just… closer.
He keeps his eyes on the field.
“I didn’t come to make a scene,” he says quietly.
“You’re kinda failing,” she murmurs.
A ghost of humor.
Tiny.
But there.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, softer:
“I was afraid,” he admits. “Of throwing you to something I can’t control.”
Her head turns slowly.
“And what that makes me now?” she asks.
“Mine,” he says immediately. Then corrects himself.
“But not mine to control.”
That lands.
She looks at him carefully.
“I don’t fit your world,” she says. “Now I understand why you tried to keep me outside of it.”
His stomach drops.
“No,” he says quickly. “I tried to keep your world untouched by mine. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” His voice is steady but low. “You don’t need to fit my world. I need to show up in yours. That’s how it should work.”
She looks back at the field.
At her little brother.
At the lights.
“And if this doesn’t work?” she asks quietly.
His heart actually stutters.
“Then I sit in those bleachers and watch him anyway,” he says. “Because he deserves someone showing up. Both of you do.”
Her throat moves when she swallows.
“And what about you?” she asks.
“I’ll deal with it.”
That’s the first time he’s not bargaining.
Not trying to secure her.
Just accepting the possibility.
The fourth quarter whistle blows.
Devin scores on a short run.
The whole sideline erupts.
He sprints toward the fence after the game—
And straight into Joe again.
“Did you see that?!” he shouts.
“I saw it!” Joe laughs.
Devin beams.
Then looks between them.
“Can we take a picture, a family one?”
Her eyes flick to Joe.
He doesn’t answer.
He waits.
She hesitates.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
Joe kneels down beside Devin.
She stands on his other side. Mom next to Devin.
A friend holds up a phone.
Flash.
Simple. Normal.
No press line.
No hallway spectacle.
When it’s done, Joe stands.
He looks at her.
Careful.
“Can I—” he starts.
Stops.
“Can I hug you?”
Not grabbing. Not assuming.
Asking.
She looks him.
Long enough to make him sweat.
Then—
“Yes. But that doesn’t fix anything.”
”I know.”
It’s not dramatic. Not possessive. He puts his face to her hair, breathes in her scent.
Careful.
Real.
And he breathes again.
Because for the first time since the hallway—
He felt good being able to hold her.
After the hug, parents start drifting. Phones are definitely out now. Someone whispers his name too loudly.
He feels it.
The exposure. The thing he used to manage.
Instinct kicks in — he almost moves her behind him.
He stops himself.
Instead, he reaches for her hand.
Slow.
Open palm.
Not grabbing.
She looks down at it.
Then at him.
He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t rush her.
She lets him take it.
The grip is light.
Not interlocked.
Not intimate.
But visible.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when a dad raises his phone.
Not when someone says, “That’s Burrow no?”
Not when a some mom smiles at them knowingly.
He stays.
Hand firm at her lower back when they walk off the field — protective, not possessive. Not controlling the angle. Just… there.
Soft.
This is the first time he isn’t managing optics.
He’s choosing her.
As they reach the parking lot, the lights harsher here, she stops walking.
“Don’t do this just because people are watching,” she says quietly.
He turns to face her fully.
“I’m doing this because you were right.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You were scared,” she says.
“Of losing control.”
“Yes.”
“And I paid for it.”
His throat closes.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I don’t know if I fit this,” she admits again. “I don’t fit headlines. I don’t fit speculation. I don’t fit whatever your life is. I know it.”
He steps closer — not trapping, just closing distance.
“You don’t need to fit,” he says. “I need to stop trying to shrink you into something I can manage. You are the one for me. Not for them. For me.”
She looks like she might leave again.
He sees it.
Panics quietly. He steps into her space — not touching yet — but enough that she has to look at him.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you. And I almost ruined it because I was afraid.”
No performance.
No football metaphors.
No deflection.
Just that.
She inhales sharply. He can see the wall wobble.
“Joe—”
“Let me finish,” he says softly. “I was afraid of loving something I can’t control. You’re the only part of my life I can’t script. And instead of being grateful, I tried to cage it. That wasn’t fair. What I did was wrong on so many levels.”
That hits.
Parents still nearby. People pretending not to watch.
He doesn’t lower his voice.
“I was wrong.”
A long beat.
She whispers:
“You made me feel small.”
“I know,” he says immediately. ““And I hated myself the second I saw it. I will spend as long as it takes making sure you never feel that way again. I almost lost the best thing in my life because of my pride.”
Tears wells up in her eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
He needs it.
She can feel it.
He wants reassurance. Relief. Proof she’s still his.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
That one word shatters him.
“Not because I don’t want to,” she adds quickly. “But because I need to know this isn’t just panic. I need to know you won’t pull away again when it gets loud.”
He nods.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that yet,” she says gently.
He exhales.
“Then I’ll prove it.”
And for the first time —
He isn’t asking her to trust him.
He’s accepting he has to earn it.
There’s noise around them.
Car doors slamming. Parents laughing. Her mom calling Devin’s name across the lot.
Life moving on.
She studies him like she’s measuring something invisible. Not his words. His stillness.
He doesn’t reach for her again.
Doesn’t try to pull her back in.
Doesn’t try to fix the silence.
He just stands there.
Open.
“I can’t promise anything,” she says finally. “Not yet.”
He nods. “I know.”
A beat.
“But you can walk me to my car,” she adds quietly.
It’s small.
It’s not forgiveness.
It’s not a kiss.
It’s not a guarantee.
It’s permission.
He swallows.
“Okay. I would like that.”
They walk side by side.
Not touching.
Not performing.
Just… walking.
Halfway there, their hands brush by accident.
He doesn’t grab.
He lets his hand stay open.
And this time—
She’s the one who laces her fingers through his.
Light.
Careful.
Real.
He doesn’t squeeze.
Doesn’t anchor.
Doesn’t claim.
He just lets her hold him.
And for the first time since the hallway—
He understands.
Love isn’t something you manage.
It’s something you stop trying to control.
