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𝙀𝙘𝙝𝙤

⤷ 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙!𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩 𝙭 𝙣𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

⤷ 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨

You rise from Matt’s twin bed on shaky legs, heart pounding like it wants out. You’ve never heard him yell like that. Your nails dig into your palm. Ground yourself. Ground yourself.

Leila’s pretty—same blue eyes, short brown hair, freckles dusted across her cheeks. Eighteen and bright-eyed. Being a teenage girl is magical, you think. Haunting, but magical nonetheless.

“Are you okay?” Your voice comes out strange, shaken up.

Leila looks up, embarrassed. “I’m okay,” she wipes her eyes. Her cheeks are pink. “You must be his client?”

“No—his girlfriend,” you deadpan. Leila’s eyes light up like that means something.

“Really?”

“God, no. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” You sit beside her, tracing the stitching on the couch. “Joke fell flat.”

Leila swallows thickly, nodding her head. “That makes more sense. Matt’s never had a girlfriend.”

Silence.

“He sounds scary when he's mad like that,” you whisper.

“I didn't know you were coming.” Leila drops her book bag on the floor. It's been months.

“Where’s dad?” Matt's voice is flat.

“Uh, he's at work. Did he know? That you were coming?” She squints. Matt’s not like this. Never spur of the moment, or just dropping in. There's always a plan, a phone call, a text.

“Does he know?”

“Know what, Matt?” She’s getting annoyed now. Why is he acting so strange?

“That you're throwing your life away,” he says. No hesitation. No softening.

“God, you’re so dramatic,” she sighs, flopping on the couch. “No hi? No I missed you? It’s been months, Matt.”

“You know I miss you.”

His hands twitch at his sides. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Do I?” she laughs. “You’re not exactly good at saying it.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Leila.” His tone sharpens. “Does he know?”

Leila’s face hardens. She looks away, jaw flexing. “No Matt, and you and I both know it wouldn’t fucking matter if he did.”

“You can’t do this. You can’t enlist. I’m not letting you.”

Leila laughs—short, bitter. “Letting me? That’s funny, Matt. You haven’t been here. You don’t know what it’s been like with him. I need… I need to get out. To make something of myself. Like you.”

Matt paces. His boots hit the floor heavy, like each step is holding something back.

“Yeah? You want structure?” he fires back. “Get a fucking job, Leila. Or—I don’t know, go to school. You ever think of that? The military is an institution that doesn’t give back. It doesn’t care about you”

“You made it out okay,” she says, quieter.

Matt laughs—harsh and humorless. He shakes his head, disbelieving.

“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“And whose fault is that?” she snaps, standing now. Her hands shaking.

“What are you talking about?”

“You never open up. You never talk. I don’t know you, Matt— I never did. I tried. I tried to know you. But you never let anyone in.”

Matt’s expression cracks for a split second before his jaw sets again.

“You didn’t have to know me. I just needed to take care of you.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, eyes glassy now.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Matt snaps.

“Stop acting like you’re my parent…” Her voice wavers. “You—”

She blinks fast.

“You left me. Here. With him.”

He’s silent.

“She was proud of you, you know,” Leila says. It’s not sharp. It’s soft. Like she means it.

Matt’s jaw tenses, and for the first time, he looks like he might break.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Mom was proud of you,” she repeats.

He shakes his head, like he can force the words out of his ears.

“Does Matt talk to you a lot?” Leila asks, eyes fluttering open as you finish her eyeliner in the cramped bathroom.

“No, not really.” You shake your head, recapping the pencil. “I actually just found out about you.”

Leila snorts. “He’s so weird.”

You grin. “So fucking weird.”

She rises from the closed toilet seat and leans over the sink, studying herself in the mirror.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I never really had anyone to teach me. My mom was always busy.”

“She died?” The words tumble out too fast.

Leila nods. “When I was fifteen. Matt was twenty-four.”

You go quiet. It settles heavy between you.

“What about your mom?” she asks after a beat. “I mean, everyone knows about your dad, but what’s she like?”

You sigh and twist your hair up, clipping it. The back of your neck is damp with sweat.

“Dipped when I was eleven.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

You laugh, brushing it off with a wave. “It’s all good. I guess I’m just a lot to handle. I’m sure Matt told you.”

You wink, trying to soften the shift in mood.

“Wanna try on some of my clothes? I always feel better after a meltdown if I look hot.”

Leila blushes, but nods.

Matt tried to run it off. To outrun the weight of it all—like he always does. But the sharp slap of his boots against the pavement, the deep inhales of cool night air—none of it helped. Nothing could clear his head.

Leila couldn’t leave. That was final. He wasn’t going to lose her like he lost his mom.

When he finally returns, the house feels colder. Quieter. Her words still buzz through the walls, stinging with every step.

“You left me here. With him.”

He closes his eyes. Her voice echoes—cutting deeper than any bullet ever could.

From the backyard, a fit of giggles breaks the silence.

Matt almost forgot you were here.

He steps toward the window, eyes narrowing. Leila twirls in your clothes, her laugh sharp and bright. You’re crouched with your phone, directing her like it’s a photo shoot—fixing her hair, adding more gloss to her lips.

He watches, jaw tight.

It’s like nothing ever happened.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

Matt places plates on the kitchen table. You tried to help him cook, but he won’t talk to you or Leila, let alone look at you.

It’s like he reverted to his old role as a caregiver immediately once he set foot on Pennsylvania soil. You watched as he took inventory of the sparse groceries in the white fridge and created a meal. He settled on a stew of some sort.

You sit on the counter, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you can’t keep your eyes off of him. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe does. You can’t tell.

The silence is heavy. Leila feels it too.

”You want me to set the table?” you ask, your voice light, trying to undo whatever ‘s wound him so tight.

“No” he doesn’t look up. “It’s done.”

You raise your eyebrows at the way he doesn’t look up. Matt can be stern and direct, but he never treats you quite like this.

Your eyes meet Leila’s, who sat at the table. Her face tells you to drop it.

You bite your lip. “I was just trying to–”

“Don’t,” he snaps. The word drops like a bomb. “Don’t explain.”

That’s when the back door opens. A man who looks similar to Matt walks in—dirty hands, leather skin, and a beer in hand. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he mumbles. “What’s for dinner?” He doesn't introduce himself.

You stiffen. Matt doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

The man walks past you like you’re not there. Drops his keys on the counter, the sound making you jump in the quiet kitchen. You can smell cigarette smoke and long days. You’re not supposed to be here.

Leila’s tense. Eyes trained on her lap.

Matt finally speaks, but not to him. “Sit down,” he says to you.

You slip off the counter without making a sound, trying to remain invisible.

The man–Matt’s dad, you assume–cracks open the beer and takes a long sip. “You didn’t call.”

Matt doesn’t respond.

“You gonna ignore me all night, boy?”

You open your mouth to say something. Anything. Anything that gets this moment to stop.

Matt gives you a hard glance, warning you not to say anything. Not now. Not here.

Finally, Matt ladles the stew into bowls. One. Two. Three. He doesn’t serve his dad.

“You think you’re better than me?” his dad says, words slurred and lazy.

Matt’s jaw ticks. “Eat or don’t.”

His dad laughs–bitterly. “You used to cry every time I left for work,” a sick grin plastered on his face. “Now look at you. Thinking you’re better.”

“Stop,” Matt says. It’s low—a warning.

“Ungrateful little shit,” his dad mutters. “You act like I was some monster. I was there, wasn’t I? I kept a roof over your head.”

Matt’s hand tightens on the counter. “You weren’t there. You act like we all didn't live in the same fucking house. You sat. You drank. You stared at the wall while we raised ourselves.”

“You think you had it hard?” the man scoffs. “I wasn’t perfect–”

“You were nothing,” Matt cuts him off. Voice sharp, rising. “You did nothing. And to think I had some sort of fucking hope for you when mom died?” Matt laughs, bitter. “You still sat in this broken-down trailer and drank.”

Leila looks down at her food; her lip wobbles.

“And you still fucking left her with me,” his dad spits.

Matt’s jaw tenses. He steps forward, and for a second, you think he’s going to swing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just exhales and points toward the door.

“Get out.”

No one moves.

Then his father grabs his keys off the counter and mumbles, “You love to play house whenever your new life allows you. Should’ve never come back.”

The door slams.

You blink. Silence fills the trailer again.

“...Do you think he should be driving?” you ask, your voice careful. “He’s drunk.”

Matt whips his head toward you so hard you think his neck will break.

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is low and sharp. “Don’t even start.”

You raise your hands slightly. “I was just–”

“I didn’t even want you to come.” He says it without looking at you. No emotion. Not a care.

You stare at him. “Excuse me?”

Matt looks up at you, eyes dark. “I said I didn’t want you here. You pushed. You always fucking push. Never know what’s good for you. And I–” he cuts himself off, running a hand down his face.

“You could’ve just said no,” you snap.

“You wouldn’t have listened,” he says, looking at you like he’s exhausted. “You never listen. And I..I have to listen to you, right? Make you happy? Because my livelihood depends on it. But you don’t get that.”

Your heart's in your throat now. “I came because I care about you. About Leila.”

“You don’t even know us.”

Your breath catches. Dig your nails into your palm. Ground yourself. “That’s really what you think?”

Matt says nothing. His eyes dropped to the floor. Cold. Distant.

You nod, slowly. Swallow the lump in your throat.

“Okay.”

You push your chair back and leave the table.

Matt sits in the silence. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes softly.

He stares at the table. At the three bowls still full. Everything's cold. Everyone’s left. He looks over at the chair his mom always sat in.

“Why did you leave us?” he whispers, leans forward, and buries his head into his hands, and exhales.

He gets up to go to his room. The moon casts a shadow on your face as you sleep. You don’t know how you finally fell asleep after that, after you shoved his pillow in your face to silence your sobs. He doesn’t wake you up to apologize. He stares. Looking at all your features. Your pouty lips. The freckle under your eye. The way your chest moves when you breathe.

The floor is cold beneath his back. The silence is worse. It stretches on, wrapping around his throat.

Then the noise starts–distant at first. Boots hitting dirt. Radio static. A chopper. Gunfire.

He flinches in his sleep.

Someone’s screaming. Sand fills his mouth. Who is screaming? Is it Leila? His mom? You?

He’s shouting orders, but no one listens. Then–

“Matt.”

It’s her voice. Clear. Familiar. Too familiar.

“You left her.”

He turns, trying to find her. He can’t see anyone. Smoke fills the air.

“You always leave.”

He jolts up. Gasping. Covered in sweat.

It takes a second to remember where he is. The floor. The trailer. Moms house.

And you. Crouched down beside him. A worried look on your face. You don’t know what to say. You blink.

“You’re okay,” you whisper.

“Sorry,” he says, soft, broken.

“Was it a nightmare?” You ask softly.

Matt doesn’t answer. But you can see it in his face–the sweat on his neck, the panic in his eyes, trying to ground himself back in reality.

You reach up and tug the blanket down and drape it around his shoulders.

“Here,” you whisper. “You’re freezing.”

He flinches at your touch but doesn’t pull away.

“Why are you always trying to take care of me?” he says, voice rough with sleep, half laughing.

You tilt your head. “Because I want to.”

Matt stares at you, really looks at you. He’s still trembling slightly, and you don’t think he even realizes it.

You reach up and brush a curl from his sweat-covered forehead. His eyes flutter for a second, his body language timid, like he’s not used to touch.

“You should get in bed,” you say, your voice wavers, and neither of you moving. The blanket falls, and your fingers ghost over his collarbone. You don’t move away. Neither does he.

Matt's hand finds your knee. Just rests in there.

“Come,” he murmurs.

You nod.

And you both crawl into that narrow twin bed–facing each other, breath mingling, hearts still heavy–it’s not about sex or lust or anything like that. It’s about comfort. The ache. The need.

His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, not in a lewd way–just warm. Just grounding.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whisper into the dark.

He smiles, just a little. “Good.”

You fall asleep with your forehead tucked against his chest, and for the first time in a long time, he dreams of nothing at all.

[a/n: i have read this a million times. i hope there is no spelling errors or grammar mistakes]

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goldfades

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

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