thankful for my… ✧ JOE BURROW
✰ description: sometimes plans unravel in the most unexpected ways, and the moments you never see coming turn out to be the ones that matter most. in the chaos of victory and love, a carefully held secret finds its perfect, dazzling release.
✰ pairing: bengals!joeburrow x popstar!reader // you are in love masterlist
✰ a/n: pushing the joe is careless when he's emotional as fuck agenda day by day. i hope this comes across how i envisoned in my head!!
wc: 12.9k warnings: language, slightly suggestive. taglist: @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @softburrow @burrowbarbie @nineverce @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv @jbnine99 @rossieburrow @burreauxs @needtokeepfeelingsincheck
M&T Bank stadium still hummed with the aftershock of triumph, a low, living thrum that clung to the seats and rose from the turf like heat from sun-baked concrete. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it, the kind of resonance that settles in your bones and refuses to let go. It wasn’t just a win; it was the kind of victory that rippled outward, startling the country, shifting the whole narrative in a single night. It was the kind of raw, unfiltered joy that was lodged in your chest, pressed against your ribs, making it hard to breathe and impossible to look away. The John Madden Thanksgiving celebration table sat just a few feet away from him as he parted the crowd like the red sea, wide-eyed and utterly ensconced in quiet wonder, emotions threatening to take control of him: the glistening turducken centered like a trophy, the sides arranged with almost ceremonial precision, the whole iconic spread glowing under the unforgiving lights. It made the moment feel larger than life, steeped in history and childhood dreams.
It felt like the world had paused for him, for this, the culmination of a childhood fantasy and a nearly impossible comeback folded together into one electric, sacred sliver of time.
He stood among it all, helmet off, curls flattened in places from the sweat that was still cooling along the nape of his neck. A black beanie concealed the mess that was his hair, meant to tame the strands but also shield him from the chilled Baltimore air. His cheeks were flushed, skin hot from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something far more fragile sitting just beneath the surface. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the tail-end of the game’s intensity still pulsing through him. His teammates drifted around him, shouts echoing through the open-air expanse, but Melissa’s voice cut through the chaos like a direct line. “Joe,” she called, angling the camera towards him for an interview, “Look around here. We were talking about how crazy this is. But what is this moment? You know, take in this moment on Thanksgiving night. What are you most grateful for?”.
Joe drew in a long, shaky inhale, the kind he took only when he was trying to gather himself and his thoughts, trying not to let the world see how heavy his heart felt. His voice had already gone rough from the game, from the shouting and the yelling he hadn’t done in nearly two and a half months, but now it carried something deeper, a rasp born of emotion sitting high in his throat. His eyes shimmered under the bright lights, not quite with tears, but not quite dry either, catching the golden stadium glow like they were reflecting the entire night back at him. He blinked slowly, lashes wet, and when he exhaled, it wasn’t a smile or a laugh or even disbelief; it was something softer, something that was cracked open within him. Something human. Something raw. Something that made the air around him feel suddenly quieter, more intimate, despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.
His gaze swept the stadium, taking in the stands still buzzing with orange and black, the sideline commotion, the sky splintered with the remnants of fireworks. He had dreamed of this exact night since he was a boy: Thanksgiving football. Prime time. The whole country watching. And now he was standing in it, after clawing his way back from ten weeks of pain and hell and uncertainty. Every muscle in him still hummed with that memory, the rehab, the fear of setbacks, the quiet nights studying film knowing he couldn’t play yet, and the relief of finally being back felt almost…overwhelming.
“I’ve always wanted to play on Thanksgiving night,” he said, voice warm but pulled tight, a little breathless, carrying the weight of every dream he’d ever held as a kid watching games on the couch, imagining himself in the stadium under those bright lights. Every syllable trembled slightly, the grind of his voice thickened by energy, but also fatigue that he hadn’t felt in what felt like years, and the mere relief of just being back on the field. “I’m just…most grateful to all the people in my life that helped me through these last ten weeks,”. His throat closed up mid-sentence, and he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple jumping as if each word cost him something. It wasn’t just gratitude; it was the culmination of fear, determination, and months of doubt, all coiled up inside him and spilling out now. “Certainly wasn’t easy for me,” he added, voice quieter. Every word he spoke carried memory: from the lonely nights of rehab, to the endless repetition of drills, or the frustration of seeing what he couldn’t do, and even the ache of wondering if he’d ever come back the same. It was a quiet nod to every sleepless night, every tiny victory, every hurdle, every person who had stayed patient and steadfast with him while he clawed his way forward.
He let out a small, half-laugh that sounded more like a release than amusement, a sound that was almost musical in its fragility. It was the laugh of someone who had been holding his chest together for too long, letting the tension go in one breath, one tiny exhalation. He knew how difficult this was for him, how it had tested his patience, his body, his mind, which meant he understood, at a visceral level, how difficult it had been for those around him, the people who loved him, who had worried silently and worked tirelessly to lift him up. That laugh carried both humility and recognition. He wasn’t standing here alone. Every hand that had held him up, every voice that had encouraged him, every sacrifice they’d made had led to this.
His hand went instinctively to the back of his neck, rubbing the damp skin there, grounding himself the way he always did when he was on the brink of feeling too much. “You know, all the things that I’ve been through in my career so far…,” he shook his head, voice faltering as he pushed through it. “I’ve got people that just want the best for me and work really hard to put me in great position to go and play well, get back out on the field,”. Another breath. Raspy. Heavy. The kind that said more than the words ever could; that said “I didn’t know if I’d make it back in time,” that said “I fought like hell for this,”.
“Physical therapists, trainers, doctors. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these,” he added, almost under his breath, the humor in the line soft and worn around the edges. He blinked hard, once, twice, looking up at the lights like he was trying to keep the tears right where they were—not falling, not yet—not here, not now, not in front of the country. But the emotion sat stubbornly in the corners of his eyes. When he finally looked back at Melissa, the smile he offered was small, trembling at the edges, vulnerable in a way only people who truly loved him would recognize. “And…,” his voice dipped lower, gentler. “It’s fun. It’s just fun to be back out here with the guys and experiencing this,”. He said it like it was the simplest truth in the world, like beneath all the pressure, all the expectations, all the cameras and narratives and scrutiny, he was still just a man who loved the game. A man who missed his team. A man whose heart finally felt steady again.
Melissa nodded, giving him space to breathe, space to sit in it—ten weeks of pain and pressure and doubt crashing into one night of glory spearheaded by him. Everyone around them could sense it too, the way his presence had bent the entire sport back into shape tonight, the way the field itself seemed to shift under the gravity of his return. What he did out there wasn’t just skill; it was the unmistakable signature of a rare, high-caliber player, the kind who alters narratives and restores hope simply by stepping onto the turf. And tonight, everyone witnessed that truth. He blinked again, more rapidly now, and you could see the red gathering at the rims of his eyes. His voice had grown hoarse, ragged at the edges, and when he spoke again….
He didn’t even notice the shift in himself.
He didn’t notice that he was about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross.
He didn’t notice he was seconds away from changing both of their lives.
“And...I’m thankful for all my loved ones and friends. I have a really great support system,” his tone steadied for a brief second, but only barely, the slightest shake still threading through the words. His eyes flicked briefly toward the suite, toward the people who had cheered him on, who had sent messages that made him feel like he wasn’t alone in this, who had waited and hoped alongside him for every minute of those ten weeks. “I’ve been through a lot this season, a lot in my life, a lot just trying to get back out there,” he admitted, “And it’s because of them, because of all of them, that I can stand here tonight, feeling…alive, complete, ready to play the game I love. I can’t say enough about how much that means,”.
His eyes then shifted. Not from the suite, but just from who he was looking at.
His eyes found her.
Radiant and untouchable, the melody in the background of his chaos, the chorus that carried him home, the center of his world, his calm in every storm, the quiet fire that had always drawn him back, his love, his woman, his angel, a song he could never forget.
“But, you know, those people make a group effort for you,” he continued, eyes softening as a blush crept up his face. “Sometimes there’s one person, just one, whose influence eclipses everything else, whose presence shifts the entire axis of your life,”.
“Which is why I’m most thankful for my fiancée.”
The words tumbled out of him, effortless and careless in a way that only true emotion could allow. There was no hesitation, no pause to consider the significance or the optics, no trace of rehearsed diction. It wasn’t a proclamation. It wasn’t a calculated reveal like they had planned to do. It was simply him. Heart-first, reckless, untamed. The way his voice carried it, light with a boyish awe and threaded with the relief of victory, made it feel like a private truth spilled into the public world by accident, but without a trace of regret.
This was the way he always was when his emotions took the wheel. It had happened the first time he told her he loved her, that first night in his new house, snuggled in the comfort of their silly blanket fort, a quiet confession that slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, leaving both of them stunned and breathless. It had happened again, the first time he told her he wanted this—her, them, their life together—for real, a private truth that had been too heavy to hold in any longer, escaping in the only way he knew: carelessly, with sincerity, completely unguarded.
And here it was again, spilling into the open air of the stadium, across cameras, across the eyes of the entire world, in a single, simple word that left no room for doubt. Happiness had loosened every guard he had, unraveling his usual apprehension in sharing anything too important about his private life because of his fear that it would be taken away by forces outside of his control, in favor of unbridled euphoria. He was so ridiculously, so completely content in that moment—back on the field, thriving, and looking directly at the person who had been his anchor through every hard day, every painful setback, every night he stayed awake because he couldn’t get his brain to turn off.
It wasn’t meant to shock anyone. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own, and maybe hers. The word floated in the air, shimmering as though it carried a light of its own, impossible to ignore, impossible to retract. It felt like the first real breath after weeks of holding back, like the first sight of a sunbeam cutting through an endless storm. The joy in his chest made him reckless in the most authentic, endearing way: heart-eyed, unabashed, and completely, completely in love with his person.
He lifted his hand, almost absent-mindedly, waving toward the suite with the kind of sincerity that couldn’t be faked. His eyes softened, corners crinkling with laughter, and because he was thinking of her. The movement was fluid, uncalculated, the natural motion of a man pointing to the epicenter of his universe without a single thought of anyone else watching.
“She’s sitting right up there with our family,”.
Our family.
It was just her, his parents, and some of their friends.
But he said our family.
His words came to him as if they were as casual as breathing, as inevitable as the truth of what he felt every day. They had been waiting quietly, patiently, nestled in the corners of his heart for months, ever since that sweltering July night in Portofino—the night he had proposed, the night the summer heat had made everything shimmer and pulse with a kind of magic that had stayed with him ever since. And now, finally, they emerged on their own terms, carried with such unassuming force that the stadium felt it, the cameras captured it, and millions of people at home heard it as plainly as if they were standing right there beside him.
The camera followed his gesture, panning slowly upward to the suite, capturing the moment in full clarity. The fans who were still in the stadium gasped, a ripple of surprise running like electricity through the remaining crowd. Murmurs bounced across the stands, a collective double-take from thousands of eyes, hearts skipping in unison. But it wasn’t just the stadium; the moment had already exploded beyond it. Millions of fans across the entire world, at home, in bars, on social media feeds, glued to their screens, paused mid-sentence, mid-scroll, mid-laugh, frozen in disbelief.
“Fiancée? Since when?”
“Did he just say what I think he said?”
“I knew it! I called it all along!”
“Oh. My. God.”
“They're getting married!”
It’s remarkable how a single word could ignite a wildfire. Spoken with effortless mitigation, it carried none of the hesitation, none of the caution he usually wore like armor. Not that he hadn’t whispered it countless times in private, not that it wasn’t already theirs, but now it spilled into the public sphere like a bolt of lightning—bright, impossible to ignore, charged with what felt like lifetimes of love and quiet devotion.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, collectively suspended in the gravity of Joe’s words, caught in the brilliance of that simple, devastating declaration, existing only in that gesture, that smile, that simple wave pointing to the person who had always been on his mind, even in moments that were solely about him. It was effortless and explosive all at once, a casual reveal that no one, not the fans, not the announcers, not the millions watching remotely, could ignore. Even the commentators were momentarily dumbfounded, voices catching as they tried to process what had just happened. The stadium lights, the celebration, the lingering echoes of victory—everything faded to the background. All that remained was that word, that wave, that sheer, unfiltered, careless joy that was Joe in the purest, happiest form anyone had ever witnessed.
Joe’s teammates, still lingering nearby, couldn’t contain themselves. They leaned into one another, laughter spilling freely, shaking their heads in disbelief, nudging each other with knowing smirks and half-whistles. “Dude…did he just—?” Mike muttered under his breath, eyes wide, trying not to laugh too loudly. Chase chuckled, elbowing Mitchell, “Bro…he didn’t even think about it, did he? Just…said it,” a low whistle escaped from the corner of the group, and Ja’marr added, shaking his head with a grin, “Oh this boy’s crazy, she gon’ have words for him later,”.
He wasn’t aware of the things they were saying, the audience, the headlines, the chaos his words had just created. He was just trapped in the golden haze of happiness, the kind that came from winning, from being back, from loving someone who had been his constant. His eyes shone, rimmed with the faintest glimmer of tears he hadn’t bothered to brush away anymore, and his grin spread slowly, deliberately, unraveling every thread of stress, worry, and exhaustion that had wrapped around him for weeks. Nothing mattered but the truth in that word, the person he pointed to, and the excitement that had poured unchecked from his heart for the world to witness. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was her.
“She’s my best friend,” he continued, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched Ja'marr's face shrivel up in mock offense.
She truly was; even his oldest friends knew this fact. He laughed with her until his stomach hurt, made silly jokes that only she found funny, and got completely wrapped up in nerding out about everything from superluminal time travel to the most ridiculous pop culture obsessions, because she got him in a way no one else ever could. Around her, his smile went completely loopy, eyes lighting up in that easy, playful way that made him look impossibly happy and impossibly in love all at once.
And it wasn’t just the big things, it was never just the big things. He glowed every single time her name lit up his phone screen, the kind of glow his teammates pretended not to notice because it was embarrassingly obvious, the kind that made him look sixteen again and hopelessly in love. His heart still did that ridiculous little kick every time he pushed open the door and found her there—curled up on the couch, humming in the kitchen, half-asleep in one of his hoodies—whatever version of her the universe handed him, he always paused for a beat like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. He’d just stand there and take her in, soft and stunned, wearing that small, private smile that only existed for her. And even after all this time, after everything they’d weathered and built and held onto together, he was still endlessly, stupidly, head-over-heels excited just to be near her, like loving her had never stopped feeling brand new.
“My favorite person in the world. My rock,” he spoke before he let out a sigh, the kind of sigh that came from being so infatuated with a person that just thinking about it made his heart hurt. And it wasn’t for the cameras, not for the millions watching, but again, simply because thinking of her always did that to him. His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his neck melting away, and the strain across his brow smoothed, as if her presence, even from afar, could hold him steady like a warm, invisible hand.
“I don’t think I would have made it through any of this without her constant support and patience. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around when things like this happen, but she pushed past all of that every single day with me. Made sure I didn't lose myself to the game too much,” he added, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he exhaled through the memory of all those days, the text messages checking in while he was rehabbing, the flowers she sent to the staidium every week for ten weeks straight, the quiet encouragement that had carried him when his own confidence was on the verge of dwindling. His breath wavered, hitching just once, almost imperceptible, and yet it was enough to reveal the depth of everything he felt, the tenderness that he usually kept buried behind his focus and intensity. “She’s really the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me,” he said next. There was no pretense here, no careful wording, no performative tone. It was him, completely exposed, as though he were letting the world look straight into the core of his heart.
“And I don’t need a holiday to show that I’m thankful for her, but since the opportunity is there…” his lips curved into a gentle, earnest smile, fragile yet luminous, the kind that could soften an entire room without a single word beyond it.
“This win’s just for her.”
Meanwhile…
She was perched casually in the suite, one arm draped lazily over the back of the plush plum colored couch, the other cradling a crystal-clear glass of sparkling water that caught the stadium lights and fractured them into tiny, dancing prisms across her fingers. She wore the vintage Bengals sweatshirt she’d grabbed from Abercrombie just days ago, the deep orange and black hugging her in all the right places, a perfect blend of comfort and understated pride. A black mini skirt and sheer black tights completed the look, sparkling subtly under the soft glow of the overhead lights, while her custom boots—sleek, polished leather engraved with Joe’s number and signature—completed the outfit in quiet, personal significance. Her hair tumbled in loose, carefree waves, catching stray flashes of light as she shifted slightly, brushing her shoulders in a lazy cascade of soft curls. She leaned back just enough to be comfortable, turning occasionally to chat with his parents and close friends, smiling warmly, laughter slipping easily between them as she took gentle sips of her drink.
The suite hummed with a layered, living warmth. The kind that only followed a desperately needed win. Voices overlapped in soft waves: Robin was laughing into her phone, updating family members who couldn’t make it to the game, her excitement bursting through each breathless sentence; Jimmy stood at the glass with his arms folded, gaze fixed on the field below, wearing the proud, quiet smile only a father could. The Thanksgiving Turkey celebration replayed on the TV in the corner, the players' voices drifting through the room in cheerful ribbons of noise, each highlight bursting in flashes of orange and black.
But all of it blurred at the edges for her.
She felt suspended in this strange, tender pocket of stillness, present but invisible, part of the room but floating just outside of it, as though everything around her moved at a different pace than she did. The bright hum of postgame energy washed past her while her focus held steady, anchored entirely and unwaveringly on him. The world buzzed, celebrated, carried on around her, and yet her heart beat to the rhythm of just one presence, one gravitational pull.
Joe.
Throughout the game, she had been a careful observer, eyes flicking between the field and the scoreboard, heart thudding with every snap, every throw, every breakaway run. The adrenaline of the crowd and the tension in the stadium were mirrored in her own pulse, an unrelenting drum that tightened and loosened with each play. She cheered, clapped, and laughed, but there was a constant undercurrent of worry threading through her excitement—for his health, for the injury that had sidelined him for weeks, for the intensity of the night and the pressure he carried on his shoulders.
She’d been proud, but every completed pass, every scramble, every touchdown had sent a surge of relief and joy coursing through her, mixed with a careful, almost protective anxiety. By the fourth quarter, she realized she had been holding her breath nearly the entire time, and when the final whistle blew, a rush of elation and exhaustion collided inside her. Watching him win, back where he belonged, better than ever and absolutely unstoppable, she felt an overwhelming mix of pride, love, and a kind of breathless awe she could barely put into words.
And of course, the cameras had found her throughout the night. They panned to her a few times—naturally, inevitably—because her name carried importance that you couldn't just push under the rug for one night, because stardom had its own gravity in a place like this. Each time, she managed a small smile, poised and polite. But what steadied her most was the moment a familiar melody drifted through the stadium speakers during a break. One of her songs. She felt her breath loosen, her shoulders drop just a little. Because she knew him. She knew that somewhere down on that field, even in the haze of adrenaline and pressure, the sound of her voice, though just a recording, just a chorus, would help him breathe a little easier too.
Everything felt perfect for the first time in a long time. For a moment, she felt like she was just a girl. Just his girl—not an internationally renowned musician, the woman with a stadium-sized spotlight shadowing her every step—watching the man she loved living out his childhood dream, glowing under the stadium lights in a way that made her chest ache with adoration.
And then…she heard Joe’s voice fill the suite, drifting from the TV mounted on the wall.
A mischievous, eager smile lifted her lips, already anticipating the moment that was about to unfold. She knew in her bones that Joe would never touch a single bite of the spread without first scrutinizing its origin. He was impossibly particular, impossibly careful; nothing passed his lips without the assurance of who made it and where it came from, and she found the thought impossibly endearing.
But before any of that could settle, a single moment hit her like a lightning strike.
She heard it before she fully registered it. His breath when he said it. His smile. His drawl. His softness. The word.
Fiancée.
The sound of it slipped into her like a chill on a winter's night. Her hand froze mid-sip, suspended halfway to her lips. Her mouth went dry in an instant, the kind of dryness that felt like her soul had short-circuited. Her glass wobbled dangerously between her fingers—a tilt, a slip, the faintest tremble—threatening to spill straight onto the pristine white carpet. Her heart did this ridiculous, panicked stutter, skipping a beat and then racing to catch up, and for a split second, the entire world seemed to mute itself around her. “Oh my god,” she said out loud, stunned, breathless, barely aware of the sound leaving her own mouth. “Did he just…?”.
She turned numbly toward his parents, wondering if they knew about him doing this, but instead caught the exact moment their faces shifted into that perfect, chaotic mixture of glee and shock. Wide eyes, hands flying to mouths, eyebrows shooting up like someone had detonated a confetti cannon in the suite. The room, which had been buzzing with laughter just seconds ago, collapsed into stunned silence. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the glass, squeezing so hard she nearly dropped it. Her brain felt like it was losing connection, glitching, flipping through disbelief and awe and panic all at once.
This wasn’t the plan.
They had agreed, agreed, to soft-launch it next week. They had walked through every detail together, sitting cross-legged on their couch in the soft glow of a late-night lamp, mapping out a plan that felt gentle and private and theirs. Tonight was supposed to be only about him. That had been her wish from the beginning. He’d worked too hard, fought too long, bled for every inch of this comeback; she wanted the spotlight to be his and his alone. That’s why she had told him, insisted, really, in that playful but immovable way she used on him when she was protecting him, that she’d casually wear the ring during the next home game. She’d act like she didn’t notice the cameras, like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, let the internet slowly catch fire in that controlled, graceful burn: whispers first, then theories, then the inevitable frenzy.
A perfect slow ignition.
Then, once everything was buzzing but still manageable, they would announce it officially days later. Clean. Calm. Strategic. Something they could shepherd together, hand in hand, without the chaos of surprise. But now, he’d done something nobody had seen coming. He’d blown it open with one careless, but love-soaked slip, tossing the word into the world like a match into a field of dry grass.
He just, he had said it so casually. So casually. Like it was nothing. Like the word wasn’t a seismic, life-altering revelation to the entire world. Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would detonate across every social media platform within seconds. And in that casualness was the dizzying, sickening beauty of it; the exact way he’d always been when he was really, truly happy. She’d realized this quality from the very first night they’d met, when joy loosened every guard in his body, made him reckless with emotion, made the truth of his heart spill out before he even realized he’d opened his mouth. He didn’t calculate this as he did with everything in his life; he didn’t make a single plan—he felt, and he spoke.
That was who he was with her.
And God, seeing it happen like this, so pure, so vulnerable, made her knees go weak.
She felt a full-body swirl of disbelief and elation, a woozy, stomach-dropping rush that burned through her like champagne bubbles rising too fast. This was him. Her Joe. Her impossibly earnest, impossibly sincere man, who defaulted to honesty when he was overwhelmed with feeling. Her man, who was so in love, so proud, so cracked-wide-open with happiness that he’d let something like that slip without even realizing.
Awe unfurled in her chest, breath-stealing, luminous awe. “Wow. He’s really…he’s so?” she thought.
So in love that he might stop breathing. So unfiltered. So undone by this high he was on that his heart spoke faster than his head.
And he didn’t even know.
“We’re as stunned as you are, sweetie,” Robin smiled after placing a comforting hand on her’s, assuring her that it was going to be just fine, though she honestly wasn’t worried about it; she was just…shocked. “Joey can be…loose-lipped when you’d least expect,”.
She let out a soft chuckle as she nodded, telling Robin she knew all about Joe’s tendency to drop a bomb at the most unpredictable moment, before she felt her phone start vibrating like it had a heartbeat of its own. One buzz. Two buzzes. Three. She fumbled to pull it out, but stopped mid-motion, a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude that this many people actually cared. There were texts from her assistant, her agent, her publicist, and friends and family. Alerts from her manager, from the NFL network, from news outlets, from her socials. Social media accounts she hadn’t even followed were blowing up. The internet was literally imploding, and the mere volume of messages and posts made it impossible to keep up. She couldn’t even look. She didn’t want to.
All she could stare at was the headline on her screen: FROM PRIME TIME TO LIFETIME 🥂 SHE SAID YES!
“That was fast,” she whispered to herself, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she stayed rooted to the spot. Drink in hand, her body leaning into the plush couch for support, she felt every carefully constructed shard of composure crumble in one careless, perfect, beautiful moment. Her eyes were wide, glistening with equal parts disbelief and joy, and she could feel a slow, thrilling flush creeping up her neck as her heart raced in wild, unrelenting beats. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry, to run to him…all at once, a chaotic symphony of emotion that left her stupefied with delight.
“I can’t believe he just said that,” she murmured, a slow, astonished smile spreading across her face. “I can’t believe this is really happening,” she thought, letting the thought roll over her again and again, each time sweeter and more surreal than the last. She could speak about it openly now that people were sure to ask her about it, she could post pictures, she could share it with the world, because at last, finally, the quiet, private world they had built together had broken into full, dazzling life.
God, she wished she could just jump onto the field right then and there. But things are never that cinematic or storybook in life. So, she'd do what she'd always do. She would wait for him outside the locker room before their flight back, pacing just enough to feel the floor beneath her boots, yet unable to shake the fluttering in her stomach. Every step, every exhale, carried the anticipation of seeing him again, the him who had just carried an entire team, an entire stadium, an entire nation, through a night that felt impossible and turned it into success. She needed to see him, to hear him, to feel the ease of that familiar, loopy smile that always melted her, the one that made every impossible thing feel achievable, as though just being near him could rewrite the laws of gravity. And above all, she wanted to congratulate him—not just on this hard-fought win, not just on finally living out a lifelong dream, but on the quiet, relentless courage it had taken to fight through ten weeks of pain, of doubt, of clawing back to the very field that had felt, for a time, unreachable.
The words he had spoken still lingered, thick and warm, hanging in the air as if refusing to dissipate. They vibrated around her, echoing in the walls, threading through the carpet beneath her feet, coiling inside her chest, and tightening her heart in the best possible way. Fiancée. Just that one word, spoken with careless ease, carried the promises whispered in private and dreams built together. It swirled through her veins like electricity, dizzying and intoxicating, leaving her breathless, cheeks flushed, heart hammering, and a constant, unrelenting sense of amazement that this, all of this, was really real.
That she finally had everything she had ever wanted.
Thankful for my Fiancée.
In that one word, everything shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t just his word, or hers, or anyone else’s. It was theirs. A quiet, blazing, irrevocable truth that existed only between them, and yet the whole world had somehow caught its reflection. The world outside could wait. For her, for him, this moment was infinite.
An hour had passed since the chaos of the stadium had begun to fade, easily replaced by the quiet hum of post-game energy lingering like a faint echo in the walls. His parents had gone back to the hotel to freshen up before their flight, leaving the hallway almost still, except for the occasional shuffle of staff or distant clatter of equipment. The air was warm in contrast to the cool air outside, tinged with the faint scent of turf, cologne, and the remnants of celebration.
She walked through it slowly, each step deliberate, the press of the tile under her boots grounding her even as her heart raced. Staff and assistants passed by, offering quiet congratulations with polite smiles, murmuring low, “Wishing the best for you two on your new Journey!” or “So happy for you!”. She returned small, measured smiles, nodded politely with words of gratitude, but beneath the surface, she was a storm of nerves and anticipation, her pulse a rapid drum that seemed to only get louder with every passing moment.
Little did anyone know, though, that this moment—this perfect, chaotic, joyous moment—was the culmination of a story that had already been quietly unfolding for months. They had been on this journey together for a long while, carefully navigating it in the quiet spaces between the public eye, in whispers and glances, in laughter and soft, stolen touches. And now, after months of planning, patience, and quiet devotion, the world was about to witness only the tip of what they had already promised each other in the private language of their love.
Her hand drifted up instinctively, brushing lightly over the glint of the ring she had slipped onto her finger on her way down—a breathtaking, constellation-forged circle that seemed to hold the night sky within it, a perfect, luminous token of a single word that had changed everything.
Yes.
The cool metal against her skin steadied her for only a heartbeat before the reality of everything crashed back in, warm and overwhelming. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath the ring, that impossible diamond causing this woozy, effervescent swirl that always hit her when life shifted under her feet because of him. This was unique, though; this was the new future they’d just stepped into, the new tidal wave of attention she knew was about to hit them. And yet…what thrummed through her chest felt achingly familiar. The dizzy rise of butterflies, the breathless shift of the atmosphere, the way her knees went a little weak—it was the same feeling she’d had the second time she saw him, after that Fourth of July weekend in the Hamptons. Back when every cell in her body seemed to jolt awake the moment she opened the door and found him standing there, backlit by the Los Angeles dusk, looking at her like she was the only person he’d flown across the country for.
The same vertigo. The same warmth sweeping through her in one unstoppable rush. The same quiet knowing in her bones.
Back then, it was the shock of seeing him on her porch when she least expected it.
Now, it was the shock of realizing he had just called her fiancée on national television.
And somehow, impossibly, both moments felt like the universe gently placing a hand on her back and nudging her further into a life she’d already started falling for.
She remembered that weekend in Los Angeles like it was yesterday, because it had felt impossibly fated, too specific, too perfectly timed to be anything but the universe pressing them closer. She’d flown into LA, secretly, for studio sessions for her new album, exhausted and half-asleep on her couch, when a soft knock echoed through her quiet house. She opened the door expecting a delivery, maybe her assistant, maybe a friend, certainly not him—Joe Burrow, standing there on her porch in the late California evening, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blue hoodie, duffle bag resting against his leg, looking equal parts nervous and determined.
“Hi.”
That was all he had said to her before a minute of silence had nestled its way between them. But it wasn’t uncomfortable silence; it was silence born from disbelief, from excitement, from the impossible closeness of realizing he was actually standing on her doorstep right now.
And the shock of it hit her like a delayed current, because this wasn’t just any man. This was the man she’d met at a party she hadn’t even wanted to attend—the kind of gathering that made her skin itch, all champagne smiles and whispered commentary behind manicured hands. People had been gossiping about her the entire night, eyes tracking her like she was a spectacle instead of a human, like what she was going through was some kind of TV series and not her real life, and she’d spent most of the evening trying to disappear in plain sight.
But he hadn't been like them.
He’d been the only one in the room who didn’t look at her like she was a headline or a cautionary tale. The only one who didn’t judge her, didn’t gawk at her, didn’t treat her like she was either too much or not enough. He was the only one who had simply seen her—quietly, gently, without agenda.
And now, outside of that Hamptons haze, outside of the noise and the flash and the scrutiny…he was here. Standing in front of her, hoodie wrinkled from the flight, hair messy in a way that made her chest tighten, hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be standing on her porch but couldn’t stop himself from showing up anyway.
She never did ask how he’d gotten her address, remembering that it definitely hadn’t come up at all during that weekend they’d met, not even during the dinner they went to the next night, but he offered it up immediately, stumbling through an explanation before she could even open her mouth. One of their mutual friends from that party had given it to him after Joe spent nearly an hour trying to figure out how to ask her without seeming like a creep. He didn’t want to ask her because that'd ruin the surprise detail of the whole thing, and it also would come off a little too stalker-ish for his liking. And he definitely didn’t want to ask anyone who might gossip. So he went to the one person he trusted, who they both trusted, made them swear not to tell a soul, and even then he’d hesitated, second-guessing himself the entire ride to Beverly Hills.
He told her he'd flown out for work, meetings stacked back-to-back with Body Armor and Alo, but the second he realized she was in the same city, something in him refused to ignore it. He’d shown up without warning, eyes hopeful yet equally as unsure, mumbling, “I, uh…didn’t want to be in the same city as you and not see you,”. And just like that, just from the way he said her name in the soft glow of her porch light, with that nervous little smile and charm, her world had tipped again.
That entire time he was there with her felt like a fever dream—soft around the edges, warm in the middle, the kind of memory that glows even as it forms, like it already knows it’s going to become important. After she’d let him inside and watched him hover awkwardly by the entryway, unsure of where to stand or what to do with his hands, she’d nudged him gently toward the kitchen with a smile and told him to sit, relax, breathe while she made them a bite to eat, knowing he likely was too nervous to eat anything all day. She’d moved around her counters in that quiet, instinctive rhythm she had whenever she cooked for someone she cared about, pulling out peppers, slicing chicken, setting rice to simmer. She didn’t tell him she remembered—how he’d once mentioned during that party, offhand, that spicy chicken with rice and peppers was something he practically lived on during his LSU days. She just made it, like muscle memory, like a private offering wrapped in familiarity and care.
He sat there watching her, elbows on her counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, smile softening as every second passed. His gaze wandered around her house with curiosity, taking in the little details that made this space unmistakably hers—the soft glow of the magnets on the fridge she had collected from her travels, the stacks of notebooks and lyric sheets artfully scattered across the living room table, her grammy's placed neatly on a shelf by the TV, the subtle scent of vanilla and citrus that clung to the air. Then he took her in, really took her in, watching the way her hair caught the light, the tilt of her head as she moved around her kitchen, the way her fingers danced over the knife handle and the cutting board as she chopped onions for the rice. He listened intently, letting her words wash over him, the laughter in her voice when she told him how she’d been thinking about him all day, and the way she described the movie recommendation he’d sent last night—the X-Men film she hadn’t seen yet. “Maybe we could watch it later,” she said with a teasing lilt, “Since you’re already here,”. His smile softened at that, a little unsure, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be this close, yet every fiber of him wanted it.
And at some point between the sizzle of peppers hitting the pan and her glancing back to find him smiling at her like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, he’d admitted, almost sheepishly, that he didn’t want to intrude. Didn’t want her to feel obligated to let him stay over. Didn’t want her to think he assumed anything—because he hadn’t planned any of this. Showing up at her door. Being invited inside. The way he felt being near her. None of it.
But she’d insisted anyway, gentle but firm, voice quiet in the soft lamplight of her kitchen. The idea of him tucked away in some random West Hollywood hotel room—with paper-thin walls, no privacy, no safety—felt wrong in a way she couldn’t fully articulate. Something in her tightened at the thought of him alone, restless, orbiting the same city but not her. It tugged at a deeper place in her chest, a place she hadn’t examined yet but trusted instinctively. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t rational decision-making. It was something more peaceful, controlled, whispering from somewhere behind her ribs: It’s safe. Let him in.
And he did. And she did.
Even then, they were both trying to be respectful of whatever thin, buzzing line they were toeing—pretending they didn’t feel it, pretending they weren’t already leaning toward each other in ways neither of them wanted to unpack yet. So that first night, after eating dinner and watching the movie, they didn’t sleep in the same bed. He took the guest room, leaving his duffel neatly by the chair like he didn’t want to accidentally take up too much space; she stayed in her own room, curled beneath familiar blankets that suddenly felt strangely too big, too cool, too empty. Through the quiet of the house, she could hear faint shifts, his footsteps soft on the hardwood, the quiet rustle of fabric, a low exhale like he was trying to steady himself.
And on opposite sides of her home, they lay awake with identical thoughts looping endlessly, “He’s here. He’s really here. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? I told myself I wouldn't do this again...but why does this feel so…different? Why does this feel so right?”. She stared at her ceiling as if it could give her answers, the glow from the city slipping through her curtains and painting the room in soft gold. He stared at his own, arms folded over, heartbeat irritatingly loud in his ears, the guest sheets warm from everything he wasn’t admitting. Neither of them slept more than a handful of minutes, their minds stretched tight with awareness of each other, of the unspoken thing blooming between them, of that soft, pulling ache that comes when something is beginning but neither of you has found the courage to name it yet.
But the second night? That line dissolved without either of them realizing it. No dramatic moment, no decision made out loud. It just…happened, quietly, like gravity doing what gravity does once you finally stop resisting it. She’d walked down the hallway to grab something from her office, passing the cracked door of the guest room, and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the laces of his sneakers, though he had nowhere to go. He looked up when he sensed her there, and the expression he wore—the soft, shy, almost nervous smile he only ever had in those earliest days—knocked the air out of her chest. It felt like the whole house went still around them.
She leaned against the doorframe, pretending she had some actual reason to be there. He cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t been staring at the carpet, thinking about her. She made a passing comment about how the AC in the living room was rattling too loudly for her to sleep. “So,” she said lightly, “Um…the AC in the living room? It’s… rattling. Loud. I don’t think I’ll be able to take a nap with it like that,”. He nodded, trying to act normal and as if he wasn’t debating whether he should knock on her door for the past half hour. “Oh,” he murmured, trying for nonchalance and failing adorably, “Yeah, well… the mattress in here is kinda weird. Too firm. Too cold. Too…” his eyes lifted, met hers, softened. “…too unfamiliar,”.
None of that mattered, though, because none of it was the truth. The truth was that they were drawn together like two halves of a thought, finally completing themselves.
And without either of them being able to say who moved first, they drifted toward each other. Soft steps, nervous smiles, electric silence. One moment they were standing in the hallway, and the next they were in her bedroom, the hum of the city outside blending with the quiet rhythm of their breaths. Climbing into her bed happened as naturally as exhaling. He took his side, she took hers, the space between them thin and trembling.
It was awkward for maybe…three seconds? Then their bodies found each other like they’d done it a thousand times.
They fit. Perfectly. Effortlessly. Like puzzle pieces that had been carved apart long ago and finally pressed back into place.
Her head slipped beneath his chin as though his shoulder had been made for her alone. He wrapped an arm around her waist, slow and tentative at first, then with a certainty that made her chest ache. “Is this…is it okay?” he mumbled against her head, hands almost hesitant as they maintained their place on her back. She smiled into his chest, almost pushing herself into his warmth, this warmth she’d never felt before, “It’s fantastic,”. Their legs brushed, then tangled, then settled into a gentle knot of heat beneath the blankets. He breathed out, deep, steady, relieved, and she felt the sound vibrate through his chest, a quiet reassurance she didn’t know she’d been craving.
The room smelled of faint lavender from her sheets and the soft, earthy warmth of his hoodie, and the combination wrapped around them like a cocoon. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek; he felt the slow rise and fall of her breath against his ribs. Close like this, they weren’t two people figuring out how to be around each other—they were something else entirely. Something new. Something inevitable. They fell asleep like that, all snuggled, wrapped up, tucked so tightly into the safety of each other that neither of them seemed to notice when the night softened into morning. And when the sun finally forced its way through her curtains, gold spilling across the bed, they were still tangled exactly the way they’d been hours before, holding on like neither of them had slept next to anyone in years.
Because in a way…they hadn’t. Not like this. Not where it mattered.
The days were just as intoxicating as those nights were. Slow and effortless, the kind of days that felt borrowed from some softer timeline where neither of them carried expectations or headlines or the weight of who they were supposed to be. In the mornings, they swam in her pool, sunlight flickering across the water in a mosaic of gold as they drifted toward one another without meaning to. She’d float on her back, smiling into the sky, and he’d watch her with that dazed, enthralled look he thought he was hiding, eyes tracing the curve of her shoulders, the way her hair fanned across the water, the subtle shift of her gaze as she noticed him watching and let herself linger a beat longer, just for him.
He’d tease her about her terrible backstroke, she’d splash him in retaliation, he’d chase her across the shallow end, both of them laughing too loudly for two people who were technically still strangers, and through it all, she’d find herself staring at him—the way his muscles flexed as he pushed through the water, the way his lips curved when he grinned at her, the heat radiating from his sun-kissed skin. And he, in turn, couldn’t look away from her, the line of her jaw, the swell of her laughter, the way the sunlight caught her in ways that made him forget every other rule he’d ever lived by. Every glance, every flicker of eye contact, was a little daring, a little intimate, a silent acknowledgment of how impossible it was to look away.
But then he’d slip, just once, calling her “beautiful” under his breath when she beat him to the steps, and something would spark in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years.
They dried off on her patio, towels wrapped around their shoulders, the breeze cool against their damp skin as they talked about everything and nothing. He asked her about her music, about her childhood, about the things she hadn’t told anyone yet, and she found herself answering with a softness she usually guarded. She asked him about football, real, technical questions, and watched his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You…know a lot more than I thought you would,” he’d said, almost shy about it.
“I told you…I grew up watching. I’m not just pretending to care because a National Champion and Super Bowl contender is sitting in front of me and eating my watermelon,” she’d teased, bumping her knee against his. And she could tell he liked that. A little too much, maybe. It was in the way he leaned in when he explained something, in the way his hands gestured absentmindedly as he spoke, in the way he got that gentle, touched look on his face every time she understood a detail most people never bothered to learn.
In the afternoons, she led him through her studio, her sanctuary, the place no one else ever entered without her express say-so. Yet he moved through it with reverence, shoulders slightly hunched, as if afraid to disturb something delicate. He didn’t touch a single thing unless she handed it to him, but he looked at everything—her lyric scraps, her in-progress melodies, her notebooks with barely legible scribbles—as though each piece was precious.
“This is where you make magic,” he murmured once, running a finger along the edge of her mixing board without quite touching it.
She laughed softly, but something about the way he said it made her feel seen in a way she rarely was.
As the days in Los Angeles stretched on, the space between them began to shrink in ways that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with gravity. He would lean just a little too close when she handed him something in the kitchen, their hands brushing and lingering, and she felt a shiver trail down her spine every time it happened. Her laugh would catch in her throat when his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, and she caught herself leaning back just slightly to feel the brush of him against her, reveling in the tension that hummed between them.
They moved around each other with a new awareness, a slow carefulness—his shoulder brushing hers when he reached past her, her fingers tracing the edge of a countertop near his hand, neither of them daring to cross the line, but both acutely aware of how thin the space had grown. Every glance, every small, accidental touch carried a promise, a heat that neither of them had yet named but both already felt deep in their bones.
And at night, they slipped out just long enough for a private dinner, tucked away in a dim little corner of a restaurant where no one recognized them. The lighting was warm, the music quiet in the background, candles flickering between their plates. He sat close, closer than a man who was supposed to be casual, his knee brushing hers under the table every time he shifted. She kept pretending she didn’t notice. He kept pretending he wasn’t doing it on purpose. She nearly choked on her wine when he told a story from his Ohio State days, something stupid involving a prank and a fog machine, a confused strength coach, and a fire alarm that absolutely did not need to go off at seven in the morning.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Joe insisted, holding up both hands as if pleading his case. His eyes were already sparkling, the exact shade of trouble she’d come to recognize as his “I’m lying through my teeth but in a cute way look,”. She snorted. “You’re literally the worst liar I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, because I work with pop stars. Full-time delusional behavior is kind of their brand,”.
Joe leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “Okay…maybe it was a little my idea,”.
“A little?” she laughed, covering her face with her hands because she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop giggling, couldn’t stop feeling like her ribs had been turned into champagne bubbles.
He nudged her knee under the table, soft and teasing. “Fine. Half my idea,”.
She peeked at him between her fingers, giving him the kind of look that said “I know exactly who you are,”.
“Joey.”
He dropped his head, shoulders shaking as he laughed, “Okay, okay…it was all my idea. But in my defense, I didn’t think the fog would, like…migrate. And in my defense, Liam shouldn’t have agreed with Coach about how I throw like a girl,”. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the thought, “It's misogynistic, and he's wrong. One bad day of throwing, I mean. Give me a break,”.
“Migrate?” she echoed, ignoring the rest of what he said to prevent him from going on a tangent about this misogynistic coach because 1, she knew he'd get heated, and 2, she wanted to be able to give unfiltered commentary when he told her stories like this, which was hard to do in a resteraunt despite them being in a private room. So, she dissolved into another round of giggles. “It’s smoke, not a flock of geese,”.
He grinned at her like she’d given him the sun on a platter, warmth glowing across his cheeks, dimples deepening as she continued to laugh. “You’re cute when you make fun of me,”.
That was the first time he had realized how obsessed he was with her laugh.
“And you’re cute when you incriminate yourself,” she shot back, nudging his foot beneath the table.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t even pretend not to stare. “Yeah, well…I was trying to impress you. Had to make sure you knew that I used to be somewhat spontaneous and fun,”.
She felt her heart hiccup. Her chest squeeze. Her smile shift from amused to soft.
“You did,” she admitted quietly. “You have been this entire time,”.
His chest felt like it had been punched and then set on fire all at once. Every time he looked at her, really looked at her—her laugh spilling over, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the subtle tilt of her head when she was caught in a joke—he felt simultaneously elated and vulnerable, as if his entire world had shrunk down to this one moment, this one person.
The stories, the jokes, the stolen glances, the easy, teasing way she leaned into him…it all hit him like a wave he didn’t want to fight, leaving him light-headed, giddy, and feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to tell her everything he was feeling, wanted to make her understand how completely she’d upended his carefully measured life, but all that came out instead was a breathless grin and the faintest, nervous chuckle before he leaned closer, whispering, “Good. Because just wait until I tell you about what we did to Coach O after that win against Ole Miss,”.
And somehow, miraculously, they made it through the entire weekend unseen. No paparazzi lurking outside the gate. No fans catching blurry photos. No blindsiding tabloid posts humming under the surface. It was just them, two people suspended in a world that didn’t know them yet, two people learning each other in the quiet spaces between sunlight and dusk.
A stolen pocket of time. A beginning disguised as something casual. A weekend that still felt, years later, like the first breath of the rest of their lives. Looking back, she wasn’t surprised that the world had tilted the way it did that weekend. The shift had started in her doorway in the warm Los Angeles dusk. But that entire time period, with him in her home, in her bed, in her orbit?
That’s when gravity changed. That’s when her heart chose him before her mind ever caught up.
Now, standing here, more than a year later, every heartbeat still felt impossibly vast, every inhale sharp with awe, and she felt it all again—pure, dizzying excitement surging through her chest, making her toes curl instinctively inside her boots, as if she needed every bit of grip just to stay tethered to the ground against the tidal wave of joy that threatened to lift her entirely off her feet.
Every movement felt heavier, slower, laced with a strange, almost compelling newness, as if time itself had stretched to hold her in this narrow hallway, suspended in that delicate, breathless space just before she would see him. The air around her sparkled with tension, thick with the almost tangible taste of anticipation, and in every quiet creak of the floor, every whisper of passing footsteps, she felt the universe contracting, folding in on itself, honing into the single point where she would finally be with him again. Each thump of her heart reverberated in her chest, a drum of expectancy, and the very world seemed to pause, waiting alongside her for the moment their eyes would meet.
And then she heard it, the loud CLANK, subtle shift of the locker room doors opening, the brush of movement from behind them, and her chest stuttered, her breath caught in her throat, and everything narrowed down to a single point of impossible focus.
Him.
Her breath hitched almost without warning, a sharp, uneven intake that lodged somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and her chest swelled with a fullness that was both thrilling and almost unbearable, like she was collapsing inward and floating outward all at once. There he stood, Joe, every bit the man she had watched from afar, revered quietly, and yet here he was—impossibly near, impossibly real, impossibly present. His gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in that way that had undone her countless times before, soft and knowing, and his eyes, glossy and bright with lingering emotion, found hers immediately, anchoring her in the moment. Every loose curl falling untamed, the faint flush of red across his nose and ears from the evening chill, the dried sheen of sweat across his forehead and temples, all of it combined into a disheveled, lived-in perfection, a raw, magnetic reality she adored with her whole heart.
She took him in fully, eyes roaming over him as if memorizing every detail: the way his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw her, the small shift of his head, the quiet intensity in his gaze. Her hand drifted lightly to her ring, tracing the smooth, sparkling surface of it almost subconsciously, out of habit, a private reminder which he’d noticed, of the promise they had quietly shared for months. Her cheeks burned with heat that only he could bring out, the flush creeping across her skin, and she felt breathless in a way that wasn’t entirely from the stairs or the lingering post-game adrenaline. She felt small, and yet expansive, held together by the gravity of this moment, and she knew he could see it all. The flutter of nerves, the joy, the love that had become impossible to hide.
His body still hummed with the energy of the game, energy he needed to get out of his system, but the second his eyes found her, it all softened—the rush of the win, the chaos of the aftermath, even the ache of ten weeks rehabbing his toe—none of it mattered. She was there, leaning against the wall, every detail seared into him instantly: the way her hair caught the light, the subtle curve of her smile, the gentle glow of the ring on her finger. He felt his chest tighten in that familiar, beautiful way, the way it always did when he saw her and remembered that this was real, that she was his. For a moment, he almost couldn’t breathe, standing there taking her in, her flushed cheeks, her wide, astonished eyes, and knowing she was looking at him with the same wonder and love that had him reeling inside. Everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to feel, condensed into that single heartbeat as he met her gaze, utterly captivated.
For a long, suspended moment, they simply stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze. No words were needed; the silence spoke volumes. It was the same electric stillness as that night in Los Angeles, when he had appeared on her doorstep with nothing but a hope and a dream. And now, somehow, impossibly, that very dream had materialized before him, and she hadn’t needed him to summon her. She had found her way to him, on her own, and every part of him recognized it, every part of him had been waiting for it.
It took her a long, slow moment to notice it, the subtle quiver of his lips, the faintest tremor that betrayed the flood of emotion he was still carrying beneath his calm, measured exterior. She had known, because of course she had seen the way his eyes had glossed over twice after the win, how his breath had hitched ever so slightly when he was speaking in his Press Conference, how the edges of his smile had faltered just for a second before he caught himself. This small movement now was the continuation of all of that, the quiet aftershock of everything he had buried beneath adrenaline and duty and spotlight. It was a whisper of the vulnerability he’d carried through the chaos of the stadium, and it tugged at her chest with such aching tenderness that it felt like her ribs had to expand just to contain the swell of love inside her, like her whole heart was rising to meet him.
He wanted to speak, he wanted to—but every time he tried, the moment swallowed his voice whole. His throat tightened, breath snagging, mouth parting only for air, not words. The enormity of the night sat on him like a second heartbeat, loud and hard to swallow, and whatever he thought he might say dissolved before it ever reached his lips.
Her fingers twitched almost involuntarily, yearning to close the distance, to hold him, to give him a landing place after a night that had demanded so much of him. Without a single word, she pushed off the wall, letting the tension in her legs become momentum. She crossed the space in a few decisive steps, her hand finding his with a firm, instinctive grip. The warmth of him beneath her palm, the slight tremor in his fingers, sent a ripple through her that was equal parts comfort and transcendence. They slipped past the last of the staff, through the lingering haze of victory, until she pulled him toward a narrow, out-of-the-way storage closet that most people never even noticed.
Inside, the world fell away. The space was unremarkable, dimly lit, quite dusty, smelling faintly of cardboard and old equipment, yet the moment the door clicked shut behind them, it transformed. It felt like a sanctuary she’d carved out with her gentle hands, a small, sacred pocket of stillness where the noise of the night couldn’t reach. She had created a world for just the two of them, sealed with the soft press of that closing door.
He looked at her then—really looked—and something in him seemed to still, the way a storm quiets just before the rain finally gives in. The confusion in his eyes mingled with the adrenaline still humming hot through his veins, with the unspent emotion he’d been trying and failing to outrun since the game ended. The last two months lived in his expression: the pressure that had coiled around his ribs, the pain he had swallowed like stone, the doubt that had clawed at the back of his mind, the victory he hadn’t yet processed. It was all there, etched faintly into the weary lines at the corners of his eyes, the tight, exhausted set of his jaw. And beneath it, flickering, fragile, painfully tender, was the bare truth of him: he was overwhelmed, undone by the enormity of what tonight meant, and he didn’t yet know how to stand steady under it.
And she was the only person in the world he trusted enough to see him like this.
She stepped closer, slow and sure, lifting her hands to cradle his face with a tenderness that almost broke him right there. Her thumbs traced gentle, careful circles at the corners of his glossy eyes, where tears trembled and threatened to spill. At her touch, he physically melted into her hands, his eyes fluttering closed as if the weight of the last few weeks was suddenly allowed to rest. He pressed his cheek against her palm, leaning into her in a way that spoke of complete trust and surrender. Her hands were steadying, soft but grounding, a quiet promise that everything outside this cramped little room could wait. Her touch seemed to whisper in a language only he could hear: It’s safe here. With me. Let it fall.
“I…” he tried, but the word snagged on a breath that stuttered out of him, thick and uneven. His voice rasped, hoarse at the edges, as though even speaking required a strength he didn’t have right now. The words caught in his throat, shattering against the tide of emotion he’d been tamping down since the field, through the postgame interview, through the grin he’d forced when his eyes had glossed over twice after the win. She could see it building again now—feel it, like pressure rising under his ribs—everything he had pushed through these past few months, all the moments he almost cried but didn’t, all of it pooling right here in front of her.
He needed to let go. God, he needed it badly.
So she tightened her hold just a little, guiding him closer until their foreheads nearly touched, giving him the smallest, gentlest permission.
“I am so proud of you, honey,” she whispered.
And that was it.
He broke.
The walls he always kept up, the armor he wore like a second skin, the composure he’d gripped with white-knuckled determination for weeks—everything gave out at once. It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was the kind of collapse that only happens when someone has been holding themselves together for far too long. He fell into her like he’d been walking toward this moment since the clock hit zero, his body recognizing her long before his mind caught up. His forehead found her shoulder instantly, the move practiced but not rehearsed, familiar in a way that spoke of countless nights where she’d held him through quieter storms.
His breath hitched, not a sob and not steady either, something fragile living in the space between the two. She felt the tremor begin in his chest, then ripple outward, a slow unraveling that made him press closer, like he needed the warmth of her body to remember he wasn’t on the field anymore. She wrapped her arms around him on instinct, one hand sliding into his damp, mussed post-game hair, palm cupping the back of his head as if shielding him from a world that suddenly felt much too loud. The other hand moved in long lines down his back, stopping right beneath his shoulder blades—over that one quiet spot she always touched when he was overwhelmed, the one that could soften him faster than any whispered reassurance.
He breathed her name into the curve of her collarbone, barely voiced at all, more a warm exhale against her skin than a word. She heard everything he couldn’t articulate in that sound: exhaustion, adrenaline, disbelief, joy. His shoulders shook once, then twice, and he tried to laugh it off—she felt the tiny puff of air against her neck, the aborted attempt at humor—but he couldn’t pull himself together enough for it. Instead, a soft sniffle slipped out, then another, unhidden and unguarded.
When he realized he wasn’t being watched by anyone but her, that he could actually crumble here without consequence, a small, shaky smile curved against her shoulder. The kind of smile he only had when his emotions got ahead of him, relief mixed with happiness mixed with something so full it didn’t know how to stay inside him. It brushed her skin like a confession.
I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I get to fall apart in your arms.
It took a long time before he managed a single word.
“Yeah?” he croaked out, the syllable scraped bare from emotion, hardly more than breath.
“More than you could ever imagine,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair again, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in that slow, absent way she did when he lay on her chest after long days. Her other hand slid lower, tracing the curve of his spine, following the familiar path she’d touched a thousand times—slow, steady, without theatrics. Not to calm him. Not to fix anything. Just to remind him she was here.
He breathed a little deeper at that, a little steadier, like the rhythm of her hands reshaped the rhythm of his lungs. He tucked his arms around her waist, gathering the back of her sweatshirt in one hand the way he always did when he needed to feel her under his fingertips. His cheek stayed pressed against her shoulder, warm and damp, his breath fanning across the fabric rhythmically now, no longer stumbling. She held him there, stroking through his hair, tracing his back, smoothing her palm over his neck, then up again, then back down—as though drawing invisible lines of comfort across him. He leaned all of his weight into her, trusting her not just to hold him up but to hold this moment with him, to make it something sacred rather than embarrassing. And she did. Quietly. Patiently. Without even thinking about it.
“I love you a lot, and you’re amazing, you know that?” he mumbled into her neck, pressing a soft kiss to her sweet spot through his tears.
“And you’re insane. Like genuinely insane, but I love you too much to even begin to explain to you what you just did,” she sniffled, a few of her own tears building up in the corners of her eyes as she pulled him closer.
Minutes passed, and she was still tucked under his chin, still wrapped in the warmth of him, when the laughter started to bubble up again—quiet, breathy, the kind that softened every tense line in his body. She felt it first, the shake of it beneath her palms, before she even heard the sound. And when she leaned back just enough to see his face, his eyes were still pink at the rims, lashes still clumped with tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe, but the smile pulling at his lips was unmistakably him—soft, boyish, a little sheepish in the way it curled upward like he was only just remembering how to feel joy again.
“You know our team is about to have our heads on a platter tomorrow morning…right?” she said, brushing her thumb under his eye in one gentle sweep, catching one last tear before it could fall. “I mean, you could’ve given them a heads up,”.
He huffed a laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers, noses touching lightly, his breath warm against her lips. “Couldn’t help myself. Love my fiancée too much to not give her a shoutout during one of the most special moments of my career,”.
The word still felt unreal, suspended between them like a spark. Fiancée. Spoken out loud. Claimed. Announced to the world.
Her hands slid lower, fingers grazing the thick muscle of his arms, feeling the tiny spasms finally beginning to release. She brushed her thumbs over the inside of his forearms, the place where his skin was always softest, the place he only ever let her touch like that. This was the way they always found each other in the dark, the way they existed in the same breath without trying. The way she reminded herself that this man, this incredible man, chose her every single day, and how he reminded himself that this physical embodiment of heaven chose him. “Well, your fiancée loves you very much for including her in this special moment with you.” Her voice dipped softer, gentler, because she meant every syllable. “But she also expects you to deal with some of this publicity we’re about to get now that you let the cat out of the bag…in the most nonchalant way possible,”.
He pulled back slightly, blinking at her with that dazed, lovesick look she’d always secretly cherished—the one he got when she said something that hit him just right, the one that made his lips part like he had something to say but got too full to say it. Then he dipped his head, smiling against the side of her jaw, kissing her cheek once, then again, slower the second time, lingering like he wanted to memorize the shape of her skin. “Absolutely.” His voice came out low and warm. “We can get on that tomorrow…after we spend the rest of the day together recovering from what’s about to happen when we’re home tonight. But only if that’s okay with my fiancée, of course,” he smiled smugly, proposing something that had already been on her mind since the clock hit zero.
Her fingers slid up into his hair, curling through the strands as if she could somehow hold all of him in her hands at once. She pulled him closer, tilting her head just so until their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the small space between them. The warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm, made her chest tighten with a mix of awe and relief. Then, softly, she leaned in, brushing her chilled lips against his in a slow kiss—light at first, testing, savoring the feel of him, before letting it deepen for a heartbeat longer, a quiet celebration of all the tension, the victories, and the love that had led them here.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads still resting together, her voice was quiet, breathless, threaded with tenderness and mirth. “Your fiancée would love that very much,”.
She said it with a smile she didn’t bother trying to hide, because why should she now? The world knew. Their people knew. The name was out there, tied to her, tied to him, finally spoken aloud with the kind of easy boldness he’d never dared before.
She watched his eyes flutter shut, watched the way his shoulders softened again with the truth of it, the relief of it, the dizzy, giddy holy shit of it. His hands found her hips, drawing her closer, fitting her against him as though they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes holding each other like lifelines. He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips—slow, lingering, not desperate but deeply full, like he was savoring the moment, the privacy, her. When they finally broke apart, he kept her close, his fingers laced behind her back, chin resting atop her head. She felt the gentle sway of him, the soft, unconscious rocking he did when he was exhausted and overfull with emotion, like he was trying to comfort both of them at once. She let her arms circle his waist, hands slipping under his shirt to the softness of his skin, stroking lightly, feeling him breathe easier with every touch.
Outside the door, voices and footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway—teammates, reporters, staff—all looking for them. Life was still moving. The world was still buzzing. His name, their name, was ricocheting across the internet, flashing across people’s screens, already rewriting narratives.
But here? In this tiny, dim, closet-sized bubble of space?
It was just them. Her heartbeat against his. His breath on her hair. His hands holding her like she was the only thing keeping him upright and the only thing he ever wanted to hold onto.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured into his chest, lips brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. “We’ll deal with everything tomorrow,”.
He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Tomorrow,”.
Tonight wasn’t for the cameras. Or the headlines. Or the chaos of what his admission had unleashed.
Tonight was for him, leaning into her like he’d been waiting for his entire life to do it. Tonight was for her, whispering soft reassurances into his hair. Tonight was for them—exhausted, trembling, giddy, in love—finally letting themselves feel all of it.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow could come whenever it liked.
He had her.
She had him.
And for the first time, the whole world knew.
