The thing looked like it had survived several natural disasters and maybe a small war. The black paint was chipped and fading, revealing patches of dull metal underneath. One of the adjustment knobs was held on with what appeared to be electrical tape, and the eyepiece was so scratched up you wondered if it was even possible to see anything clearly through it. Someone had abandoned it here next to a cooler full of warm beer and sandy towels, probably after reaching the same level of frustration you were currently experiencing. 

By now, it had to have been nearly fifteen minutes you’ve spent tinkering with the old thing that looked like it was on its last life. Your knees were aching from crouching in the sand, there was grit working its way into uncomfortable places, and the sweat was beginning to bead along your hairline despite the breeze. You’d tried every combination of knobs and adjustments you could think of, following the water-stained instruction manual that was written in what might’ve been English but to you, read like a foreign language.

The thing was mocking you at this point. Every time you thought you’d figured something out, peering hopefully through the eyepiece, you were met with the same blurry mess of nothing. Streetlights, maybe some stars… possibly just your own eyelashes—it was impossible to tell. 

Twisting something—you weren’t quite sure what it was supposed to do, but it was the only knob you hadn’t tried in the last five minutes—you were about to give up and walk away when you heard a voice behind you. 

“You struggling?” No shit.

“What does it look like,” you replied without turning around, voice maybe a little sharper than intended.

The boy behind you hummed, somehow managing to convey more understanding than judgment, and you heard footsteps in the sand as he came closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him crouch down next to you, close enough where you could smell beer and sunscreen and something else—laundry detergent, maybe. Or just the general scent of someone who had their life together.

“Mind if I?” he asked, setting his beer down on one of the towels with a soft thunk.

You looked at him then, really looked, and felt thrown off. He was attractive in an effortless way—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of strewn blonde hair that looked intentional even when it definitely wasn’t. But it was his eyes that caught you off guard. They weren’t laughing at you or looking at you like you were some poor incompetent girl who needed rescuing. They were just… intrigued. 

Huffing, you started to stand. “Have at it,” but he made a small noise of protest.

“Where are you going?” His face scrunched up as he looked at you, and you paused halfway to standing. Looking at him, you watched as he struggled to find the words. His cheeks were flushed, though whether from the alcohol or the weather, you couldn’t tell. “Give me a second.” His tone left little room for argument. You stood there begrudgingly, not filled with nearly as much interest as you’d held in the beginning. The whole stargazing thing had seemed romantic and mysterious when you’d first spotted the telescope by itself, but now it just felt like another thing you were failing at. 

The lake stretched out before you, dark water reflecting the lights from the party behind you and the distant flow of the campus. It was actually pretty, you had to admit, even if you were too frustrated to appreciate it properly.

You could hear him making small adjustments, the soft scrape of metal against metal as he turned various knobs and shifted the telescope’s position. His movements sounded confident, like he actually knew what he was doing rather than just randomly trying different combinations like you had been. It was probably going to work for him on the first try, and then you’d have to stand there and pretend to be grateful while internally dying of embarrassment. 

“How long were you fighting with this thing?” he asked without looking up.

“Dunno.” You tried to keep the irritation out of your voice and mostly failed. “Long enough to question my intelligence.” Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you weren’t desperately hoping he’d fail just as spectacularly as you had.

He hummed before going back to work. After another minute, he leaned down to look through the eyepiece one final time, was quiet for a second, and let out a short laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his heels and gesturing toward the telescope with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Come take a look.”

Uncrossing your arms, you reluctantly walked over, preparing yourself for another round of disappointment.

But when you looked through the telescope, your breath caught.

Stars. Actual, real stars, vibrant against the dark sky, arranged in patterns that actually made sense instead of the blurry mess you’d been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, not pulling away from the eyepiece. “I can actually see them.” “That’s the Big Bear constellation,” he said, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Ursa Major. The brightest part there is what most people call the Big Dipper.”

You finally pulled back to look at him, your earlier irritation completely forgotten. “How do you know that?”

Something changed in his expression at your question, like he was deciding whether or not to tell you something. “I’m kinda into space,” he said almost sheepishly. “Have been since I was a kid.” “Really?” You saw him tense slightly.

“Yeah, I know it’s probably weird—” “No, that’s actually really cool.” You found yourself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious now. “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure this thing out for half an hour and you fixed it in like five minutes. That’s pretty impressive.”

His whole face changed when you said that, relaxing in a way that made you think he’d been expecting you to laugh at him. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Most people are idiots,” you said mindlessly, then feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I mean…”

“No, you’re right.” He was grinning now, and it completely transformed his face. “They are.”

You smiled back, the first real smile you’ve had all night. “So what else can you see with this thing?”

Joe, as you learned his name was, guided you through different constellations over the next twenty minutes, or at least the ones you could successfully make out from your spot on the beach. He explained that the telescope was, as you’d suspected, ancient—probably from the seventies and definitely not designed for serious stargazing. But he made it work anyway, pointing out Cassiopeia and showing you how to find the North Star, his voice taking on an enthusiasm that was completely different from how he first approached. 

“You come here alone?” he asked eventually, after you’d spent a few minutes in comfortable silence just looking at the stars. 

“Not exactly.” You glanced over toward where your friends were still scattered across the beach. “My friends are here, they’re just… busy socializing. And I’m apparently too busy sulking to join them.” He laughed, and it was a nice sound. “Sulking? On a night like this? Finals are over, its summer, you’re on the beach. What’s there to sulk about?”

You probably should’ve shrugged it off, maybe laughed, that way you wouldn’t regret this tomorrow. But, this was a stranger, someone you’d never see again. And you needed to get it off your chest. Ariella was too busy playing house with her boytoy of the month to actually listen, and Iris and McKenna were stuck in that only child rhythm where the second you say anything even remotely messy, they tilt their heads and go, “Oh… so you’re not happy for him?” “My brother got engaged last week,” you finally spoke. “And now my dad’s calling every person he’s ever met to tell them how Michaels got it all figured out—perfect job, perfect girl, perfect future.” You picked at a loose thread on your shorts. “Meanwhile I’m failing organic chem and apparently need help just pointing a telescope at the sky.”

“Ah.” Joe nodded like he understood completely. “The ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.” “Is it that obvious?” “Only because I know the feeling.” He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. “My brothers both played football. Good at it too. But they decided college was more for academics, less sports. Now they’re both doing well, have good jobs… families.”

“And you?”

“And I’m here playing football and hoping it turns into something.” He shrugged, but there was almost a defensive manner in the gesture. “They built something substantial, you know? Something reliable that’ll last. They’ve got real jobs, real paychecks, real life figured out. And I’m still chasing something that might not even work out.”

“Football’s real,” you said, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to defend his choices. 

“Is it though?” He looked at you then, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “Like, what happens if I don’t make it past this? What if I get hurt, or I’m just not good enough? My brothers, they had backup plans. They’ve got skills that transfer to actual careers. And I’m just… stuck in this weird gray area where I’m not building anything concrete, but I’m also not ready to give up on this dream that might be completely unrealistic.” The tone of his voice made your chest feel tight. “The whole ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think they had it right all along. Maybe I should have just focused on school, picked a major that actually leads somewhere.”

“But you love it,” you said, guessing really. “Football, I mean.” “Yeah, I do.” He was sure of his answer before he spoke. “Which is probably what makes it worse. Like, at least if I hated it, walking away would be easy.” You hummed in understanding, then felt a clouding wave of embarrassment wash over you. “God, sorry for dumping all that on you. You definitely didn’t come over here for all that.”

He laughed, and it was genuine this time. “Are you kidding? This is better than listening to my friends argue about whether—”

“Hey!”

The shout cut through his sentence, and you both turned to see McKenna jogging toward you across the sand, looking frantic and slightly out of breath.  “There you are! Jesus, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She stopped in front of you, breathing hard. “We have a situation. Ariella’s about to make a very questionable decision with that guy from her psych class, and she’s not listening to Iris or me. We need backup, like, now.”

You were already getting to your feet, brushing sand off your legs. “Sorry,” you called over your shoulder to Joe as McKenna grabbed your arm and started pulling you away. “Thanks for the telescope thing!”

And then you were jogging across the sand, McKenna filling you in on exactly what kind of questionable decision Ariella was about to make, leaving Joe sitting in the sand next to the ancient telescope. You didn’t even get his last name, and Ohio State was big enough to ensure you’d probably never see him again.

June 25th, 2017

A nice, relaxing beach day is exactly what you needed after the week you’ve had. Professor Klubertz’s final grades are still making your stomach twist, but at least out here with the sun on your skin and the sound of summer, you can almost forget about organic chemistry. 

“Can you put sunscreen on my back?” Ariella asks, flopping down on her towel next to you. “I’m already burning and we’ve been here like twenty minutes”

You squeeze a generous amount of SPF 30 onto your palm and start working it across her shoulders, half listening as McKenna and Iris debate whether they should walk down to the docks or just stay put. The beach is packed today, weekend crowds claiming every available spot on the sand. Coolers, towels, and umbrellas create a maze of temporary territories. 

A couple minutes later, you’re stuck in that perfect lazy state where the sun is making you drowsy and the conversation around you fades into background noise. Your book is open next to you, but you haven’t turned a page in how long. 

The group of guys your age playing volleyball to the left have been at it for a while, their game adding shouts and laughter to your background noise. Then the noise gets louder, more excited, and you glance over to see what the commotion is about. 

A few new people have joined their game, making it all the more competitive. One of them is jumping to spike the ball, his whole body stretched tall and powerful against the blue sky.

When he lands and turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of his profile. You sit up a little straighter, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it. The guy rotates to face your direction as he sets up for the next set, and your breath catches.

Joe.

You’d almost forgotten about the telescope guy from the party you spilled your heart to—it’s been over a week, and between family stress and helping Ariella through her crisis, he’d faded to the back of your mind.

But seeing him now, wearing board shorts that hang low on his hips and nothing else, it’s weird how different he looks in daylight. More… real, somehow. You find yourself watching as he moves around the makeshift court, and you have to admit he’s clearly athletic. Really good at volleyball, actually.

You look away, try to pretend you’re suddenly interested in your book or your friends’ conversation, but your eyes keep drifting back. It’s just curiosity, you tell yourself. You barely know the guy, but there was something nice about the conversation you had.

Every time he pushes off the sand with a small grunt, laughs with his friends, lifts his hat to run a hand through his sweaty hair, you feel… something. But it’s probably just recognition.

You barely know him—you shared one conversation over a broken telescope and a mutual spiral, and now you’re acting weird, stealing glances across the beach like some stalker.

But then Joe serves the ball, a perfect arc that his opponents can’t return, and his team erupts in celebration. He’s grinning, that same easy smile from the night you met him, and when he turns to high-five one of his teammates, his eyes sweep across the beach.

And land directly on you.

For a second that feels like an hour, you both stare at each other across the sand. You’re very aware that you’ve been caught red-handed watching.

Then Joe’s face breaks into a wider smile, more knowing. He lifts his chin in a small nod—casual but somehow intimate, like you two share a secret—and you can’t help but smile back before quickly looking down at your book, pretending you were reading all along.

Your heart is racing, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are burning, but mostly you just feel embarrassed. He remembered you. He seems happy to see you. And unless you’re completely misreading the situation, he definitely caught you staring. 

“Oh my god, look at that one,” McKennna says suddenly, and you glance up to see her pointing (not so subtly) towards the volleyball net. “The tall one with the backwards hat.” You follow her gaze straight to Joe, who’s now setting up for another serve, and try to keep your expression neutral. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“Okay?” Iris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Are we looking at the same person?” “I think I’m gonna introduce myself,” Ariella announces, already sitting up and adjusting her bikini top.

“No,” you blurt quickly, then catch yourself. “I mean, he’s probably busy. They’re in the middle of a game.”

“Since when do you care about interrupting boys?” McKenna asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you nervous. Does she remember? She couldn’t. “Wait… do you know him?”

Or not.

Before you can answer, you hear someone calling out your name questionably, and you look up to see one of Joe’s teammates jogging toward your group. He’s tall and blonde with the kind of all American good looks that probably got voted prom king, and he's grinning like he knows something you don’t. 

“Hey, I’m Derek,” he introduces himself. “My buddy over there thinks he knows you guys.” He jerks his thumb toward the volleyball net, where Joe is very obviously trying to look like he’s not watching this interaction while still absolutely watching it.

“Which buddy?” Ariella asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

Derek laughs shortly, “the one kicking our asses. Joe. He wanted me to come over and ask if you girls want to play.” Derek scratches the back of his head and you look behind him at Joe. “We could use some more people, make the teams more interesting.”

You feel all three of your friends look at you, and you know you’re probably burning up again. This is it—the inevitable moment where you either have to admit you know Joe or pretend you don’t and hope no one figures it out.

“Oh, I don't really play volleyball,” you say.

“We’d love to,” McKenna cuts you off, already getting to her feet. “Right, guys?” “Absolutely,” Iris agrees, closing her own book with a snap.

“I’m really not good at it,” you protest, but Ariella is pulling you up by the arm.

“It doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun. Come on.” And before you know it, you’re being dragged across the sand toward the volleyball net, where Joe is waiting with a shit-eating grin that makes you want to hide behind your friends.

“Hey,” he greets when you get close enough, and his voice is welcoming and warm like you’re old friends instead of near strangers who had one conversation nine days ago.

“Hi,” you manage, noticing how little clothing you’re both wearing, how the sun is catching the sweat droplets falling down his neck, onto his chest.

You look around, glad to be able to hide behind your sunglasses. “I was hoping I’d run into you again,” there’s something shy about the way he says it that makes your stomach flutter. “Were you?” You tilt your head trying to look unimpressed.

He nods his head and he’s still grinning, but there’s friendliness underneath it that puts you at ease. “You left before I could even get your number.” 

The comment is casual, teasing, but there’s definitely a question buried in it. 

“Did I? I don’t really remember that.”

A complete lie, and from the way Joe’s grin widens, he knows it.

“Really? Cause I definitely remember you running off with your friend like there was some kind of emergency.” “There was an emergency,” you say, fighting to keep a straight face. “My friend needed help.”

“Right, of course. Very important emergency. And here I thought maybe you were just trying to escape before I could ask for those digits.” “Why would I do that?” “I don’t know. Maybe you’re one of those girls who’s too cool for guys who know about telescopes.” “Maybe I am,” you say, but you're smiling now, and you can see in his eyes that he knows you're full of it.

"Burrow!" one of his teammates shouts from the other side of the net. So that’s his last name. "We playing or what?"

Joe glances over, then back at you. "You playing?"

"I don't really—"

"She's playing," Ariella announces, patting your shoulder as she walks past you.

“Actually, no,” you say quickly, taking a step back from the group that’s already organizing themselves around the net. “I’m good just watching. Really.” McKenna gives you a look like you’re being ridiculous, but then she’s just as quickly caught up with one of Joe’s flirting friends to argue. You grab your towel—thank god you managed to snag it before they dragged you over here—and look around for somewhere to sit.

The guys have their stuff scattered in the sand nearby, a collection of water bottles and t-shirts and flip-flops, so you settle down there. The sand is warm against your skin as you spread your towel out, and you take your time smoothing out the corners, brushing away the grains that have already managed to find their way onto the fabric. 

The sun feels good on your shoulders, and you’re actually starting to relax again when you hear the soft thud of someone dropping down next to you. 

You glance over to find Joe settling beside you. He’s got that same grin from before, and he’s looking at you like he’s planned this whole thing. “Had to sit out,” he says simply, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Even the teams out.”

You look over where everyone is playing, also where there are clearly uneven teams now that he’s abandoned the game. “Joe, that makes no sense. Now they're completely lopsided.”

“Really? I’m terrible with numbers,” he's completely shameless about his ridiculous excuse. This face tells you he knows exactly how bad his logic is, yet doesn’t care even a little bit. 

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his complete lack of effort. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’ve been told that before,” he jokes again, then falls quiet. “About that emergency from the other night.” “What about it?”

“Was it really that urgent or were you looking for a way out?” You consider lying, keeping up the pretense that you barely remember him or that night, but something about him makes you want to be honest. “Cause if I’m reading this all wro—”

“It was real.” You cut him off quickly. “My friend was having a complete meltdown.” “And you’re the designated crisis manager?” “Something like that.” You focus your attention ahead, suddenly feeling exposed under his full attention. “What about you? Do you always abandon your friends to sit with girls you barely know?” “Only the interesting ones,” he says without missing a beat. “And for the record, I don’t think we barely know each other.”

He got you there. 

“So,” Joe continues, settling more comfortably in the sand beside you, “tell me what you’ve been up to for the past week and a half. Besides avoiding giving cute guys your phone number.” “Did you just call yourself cute?” “I was talking about Derek,” he says with mock seriousness, but then his nose twitches and he smiles. “But if you think I’m cute too, I’m not gonna argue.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily. Conversation with Joe comes naturally, slipping between stories and quiet moments that don’t feel awkward at all. He tells you more about football—his teammates who think astronomy is weird, the pressure of growing up in a small town where everyone knows your name and keeps track of what you’re doing.

You find yourself opening up without meaning to, talking about childhood memories, the classes that drained you this semester, even Ariella’s latest boy drama. Joe grins at that part, leaning in like he’s genuinely invested, asking for more details than you probably should share—but he makes it hard to say no. There’s something about the way he listens, like whatever you’re saying is worth it. Like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting everything golden, and you realize you’ve been sitting there for hours. Your friends are still playing, or pretending to play while mulling around with Joe’s friends, but you haven’t thought about them once. 

At some point, Joe shifts closer, a gradual drift that brings his knee within inches of yours. When he laughs, he leans in, and you notice his eyes are really blue when they’re caught in the sunlight. His fingers trace absent minded patterns in the sand between you as he talks, spirals and lines that you find yourself watching before catching yourself and looking away. You shouldn’t be thinking about—nope. Just sand and patterns. Nothing more.

Eventually, McKenna waves from across the sand with the sort of urgency that means it’s time to go. There’s a reluctance in the way you both move when you finally stand, like breaking this conversation may mean you can’t get it back.

Joe pulls out his phone without a word, and you take it, fingers still dusty with sand as you type your number in. When you return to your group, your friends are already gathering their things, chattering about dinner plans and who’s driving, but it all feels strangely far away, like the tide’s pulled something softer around you that hasn’t quite let go.

You start to follow them, the sand cooling beneath your feet, the sky turning a deeper shade of amber—and just before you leave, you glance back. He’s still there, standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, eyes on you, smiling like he already knows he'll be seeing you again soon.

And maybe, maybe, you want him to be right.

June 28th, 2017

Your head is buzzing pleasantly from the two beers you nursed during the game, and you’re still giggling about the drunk guy who kept trying to order nachos from the hot dog vendor. The stadium lights fade in Joe’s rearview mirror as he navigates the busy streets.

Earlier tonight, you’d spent an eternity in front of your mirror trying to figure out what “casual but cute” meant for a baseball game. Iris had finally intervened, tossing you a pair of denim shorts and a fitted Reds tank top while McKenna painted your nails a soft pink.

They’d been buzzing with excitement ever since yesterday, when Joe had texted you about the Cincinnati Reds after you’d mentioned during your conversation that you’d never been to a professional baseball game—not even minor league.

The invitation had come out of nowhere. One minute you were planning out summer bucket lists, and the next Joe was texting you about a game today. Ariella caught you staring at the message, formulating a reply, and intervened before you could even think about saying no. 

“I still can’t believe he thought she was his ex-wife,” you sink back into the passenger seat and turn to face him. The alcohol has made everything feel softer around the edges, more relaxed. You don’t even like beer normally, but something about sitting in those stadium seats with Joe had made you nervous enough to order one, then another.

“The way he kept calling her Linda,” Joe shakes his head grinning. “Poor woman was just trying to sell hot dogs and this guy’s in his own world.” “And you bought nachos for him!” you point out, laughing. “Like that was going to help the situation.” “I felt bad for him! He looked so confused when she didn’t recognize him.” Joe’s fingers tap against his leg as he stops at a red light, and you find yourself watching the movement. “Plus, he seemed pretty harmless. Just really, really drunk.” You tuck one leg up under you, getting more comfortable in the worn leather seat. The truck smells like him—that clean, warm scent you’re starting to associate with Joe—mixed with the lingering smell of stadium food. “I thought baseball was supposed to be boring.” “Who told you that?” “Everyone. Every movie, every TV show. It’s like the universal symbol for boring American pastimes.”

Joe glances over at you as the light turns green, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, those people are wrong. Baseball’s only boring if you don’t understand what’s happening.” “Or if you don’t have someone explaining why the pitcher keeps shaking his head at the catcher.” “That’s calleds strategy,” he says matter of factly. “Very sophisticated communication.” You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. The truth is, you enjoyed tonight more than you’d expected. Not just the game itself, but the way Joe had explained things without being condescending, how he brought you back a hamburger despite you saying you weren’t hungry, the way he seemed genuinely interested in what you thought about the experience. 

“What was your favorite part?” Joe asks, turning down your street. “Besides drunk Linda guy, obviously.” You think about it for a moment, watching the familiar college houses pass by. “Honestly, the seventh-inning stretch. When everyone was singing and you knew all the words.”

“You didn’t sing along.” “I didn’t know the words,” you laugh. “But you looked so happy to be there.” Something changes in his expression. “I was happy. It’s more fun when you have someone to share it with.” The way he says it makes your stomach flutter. The truck slows as Joe pulls into your driveway but leaves the engine running. The porch light casts a warm glow across the front of your house and you can hear crickets chirping in the background.

“So,” Joe drawls, turning to face you properly, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “What’s the verdict? Would you go to another game or was this a one-time experiment?” 

The way he’s looking at you makes the easy atmosphere shift slightly. The truck feels smaller, more intimate. You can see the way his hair is still messy from when he’d run his hands through it during a particularly tense inning, the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “I might be convinced,” you muse, then add more honestly, “it was actually really fun. Even if I still don’t understand why everyone gets so excited when a guy just… runs really fast.”

“He wasn’t just running—” Joe starts and then catches your expression and laughs. “You’re messing with me again.” “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There’s something softer around the edges of his eyes now. The dashboard light casts everything in a muted glow, and you can see the way he's looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. 

You turn away and reach for the door handle, needing some distance from the intensity of his gaze, but you pause with your hand on the cool metal. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight. Inviting me, I mean. And for explaining everything. I’m glad you remembered about me never going to a game.”

You turn to face him again and watch as his eyebrows furrow slightly, like he’s surprised you think he might’ve forgotten something like that. “I remember everything you tell me.” The admission hands in the air between you, heavier than it should for something so simple. To you, it’s not just about remembering—it’s about the fact that he was listening in the first place, that what you say matters enough for him to file away for later.

“I should go in,” you finally say, though you don’t move.

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look away. There’s something building between you, some invisible thread that’s pulling tighter with each conversation, each shared laugh, each moment like this one. You can feel it in the way he’s looking at you, in the way your heart is beating just a little too fast.

The moment stretches between you, full of potential and unspoken questions. Finally, you force yourself to open the door, the cool night air rushing in and breaking whatever spell had settled over the cabin of the truck.

“Text me when you get home?” you ask, hopping down onto the pavement. “It’s like a five minute drive,” Joe points out, amused.

“Still.”

His smile softens. “Okay. I will.”

You climb out and he waits, engine idling, until you’re safely through the front door. Through the window, you watch as his tail lights disappear around the corner, your stomach in your chest from whatever just happened.

July 4th, 2017

The gravel crunches under McKenna’s tires as she pulls into the driveway of Derek’s family lake house, and you can already hear music and voices carrying from the backyard. Your skin is tight and warm from a full day in the sun, in desperate need of more moisturizer, yet a pleasant exhaustion that comes from hours of doing absolutely nothing productive settles over you.

You’d spent the morning sprawled on towels at the beach with the girls, nursing hangovers from last night with greasy gas station breakfast sandwiches and too many lattes. By noon, the mimosas Iris had smuggled in a water bottle had you all buzzed and giggly again, splashing each other in water and taking turns rating the guys who walked past.

Joe’s text came through around four, letting you know about the lake house and the barbeque followed by fireworks they had planned. Ariella immediately said yes when you showed the message, making a joke about how she could use some company tonight.

McKenna, who had opted out of drinking nearly two hours ago now, gladly agreed to make the drive a little ways north, excited to see Derek. And now, two hours later, you’re climbing out of the car with sandy feet and sun-drunk smiles, following the sound of voices toward the back of the house.

The lake house is beautiful in a lived in way. Weathered wood siding and a wraparound porch. Sitting on top of a hill that may be a little dangerous to balance on a couple drinks deeper.

“Holy shit,” Iris murmurs as you round the corner to the backyard, and you have to agree. The property stretches down to the water, complete with a dock and what looks like a pontoon boat tied up beside it. There’s a fire pit set up near the water’s edge, and closer to the house, a few guys are manning a massive grill while others lounge in deck chairs with beers in hand.

You spot Joe immediately—he’s on the lawn with someone else, tossing a football back and forth with easy precision that reminds you he's actually good at football. He’s wearing a different pair of swim shorts than you last saw him in with a faded t-shirt. When he catches the ball, he turns slightly in your direction from the impact.

“There’s your boy,” McKenna says under her breath, nudging you with her elbow.

“He’s not my boy,” you protest automatically, but you’re already walking toward him, drawn by some invisible magnet. 

Joe looks up as you approach, and his face breaks into a smile you’re starting to know by heart. “You made it,” he calls out, jogging over with the football still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks for inviting us,” you say shyly despite the fact that you just saw him two days ago when you’d dragged him to the farmer’s market downtown after he mentioned he’d never been to one. It was your turn to play tour guide, and you loved watching his face light up at the honey vendor’s samples, the way he was genuinely fascinated by the woman explaining how she had her own beehive.

He followed you around like a curious little kid, asking questions about everything and insisting on carrying your canvas tote when it got heavy with peaches and fresh bread. You spent two hours wandering the stalls, him marveling at things you took for granted. The morning felt domestic in a way that surprised you both, especially when he insisted on buying you sunflowers from the flower stand, claiming it was payment for the “cultural education.” 

“Course.” He spoke, drawing you back to the present. “How was the beach?” “Sandy. Hot. The usual.” You gesture to your slightly disheveled appearance.

“You look good,” Joe says simply, and it makes heat bloom within you that has nothing to do with a sunburn.

“Joe!” Derek calls from the grill. “Stop flirting and come help me with this before I burn everything.” “I wasn’t—” Joe starts but Derek’s already laughing, and you can see the tips of his ears go red.

“Go,” you say, giving him a little push toward the grill. “We’ll find our way around.”

You and your friends come to learn that Derek’s family has clearly hosted many times before. There are about five coolers full of beer scattered around the yard, a whole setup of lawn games, and enough food to feed a small army.

The evening flows easily from there. Dinner happens around a long picnic table that’s been dragged onto the deck, everyone squeezing together on benches and mismatched chairs. The food is simple but perfect—grilled burgers and hot dogs, three different kinds of pasta salads, and corn on the cob that drips butter down your chin.

Laughter and stories circled the table, someone telling a story about a camping trip last year gone wrong, McKenna describing her internship, Derek explaining how his family ended up with this place.

You find yourself actually contributing to the stories instead of just listening from the sidelines like you usually do around people who aren’t your girlfriends. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant somehow. Usually you’re the one who laughs at everyone else's jokes and nods along, but tonight words are coming easier. It crosses your mind how different this is from family dinners, where Michael always dominates the conversation and you face into the background. Here, people actually seem interested in what you say.

The lakehouse reminds you of the places your family used to vacation when you were younger, before your dad got himself too caught up in work to take proper time off. There’s something about the wood siding and the casual elegance that brings back memories of summer weeks spent reading on docks just like this one. You wonder if Michael remembers those trips the same way you do, or if he was already too focused on impressing everyone even then.

After everyone’s satisfied and the table’s been cleared, the competitive spirit emerges. Someone suggests a cornhole competition, and suddenly everyone is picking partners and trash talking each other's abilities. You end up paired with Iris, facing off against some of Joe’s friends who are, annoyingly, taking this way too seriously. 

You’re somewhere between your second win and a losing streak that’s picking up speed when you feel someone step in behind you. “Your forn is terrible,” Joe says, close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“My form is perfect, thank you very much,” you shoot back, lining up for your next throw. “Not all of us can be freakishly good at everything we do.”

“Here, lemme show you.” Before you can protest, Joe’s stepping up behind you, his chest almost touching your back as he adjusts your arm position. “You want to keep your elbow steady, like this.”

His hand covers yours on the bean bag and you realize this is the first time he’s touching you. Every nerve in your body seems to light up at the contact, and you’re remembering that several people are watching this interaction. 

The rational part of your brain is screaming about how this looks, about how obvious you’re being, but the rest of you doesn’t care. His hand is warm and steady, and standing this close to him makes your heart race in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

“Got it?” He asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You manage a nod back, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to anymore. Joe steps back and you throw the bean bag, which sails cleanly through the hole in the board.

“See? Perfect form.” Joe says with a grin, and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too.

The cornhole tournament continues for another hour, you and Iris getting kicked off the next game despite Joe’s assistance. Eventually, as the sun starts to set, people begin gravitating toward the water. Someone finds a speaker, and soon there’s music mixing with the sound of waves lapping against the dock.

You end up sitting on the edge of the pier with your feet in the water, watching Joe and a few others attempt some sort of diving competition off the end of the dock. Someone attempts a backflip and belly flops spectacularly. Another tries some kind of twist and ends up hitting the water sideways.

“That was definitely a belly flop,” Ariella judges from beside you, and the victim surfaces with a wounded expression. 

“Those underwater swimmers do the same shit!”

“But yours was painful to watch,” you laugh, and Joe smirks at the interaction before swimming closer to where you’re sitting. Ariella excuses herself, hopping up with her empty cup. You watch as she makes her way to the coolers that are set up near the firepit.

Joe plants himself right between your dangling legs, arms folded on the dock, looking up at you with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Think you could do better?”

Your breath catches slightly at his position, and you instinctively scoot back just an inch on the dock. But you can’t look away from his face—the way his wet hair is pushed back, how a single droplet of water clings to his bottom lip before falling onto his hands where they rest against the dock. 

“Absolutely not. I’ll stick to my choice of sitting in the audience."

“Smart choice,” there’s something in his voice that makes you never want to look away from him. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue this close up, and there’s water still dripping from his chin, and you realize you’re staring but you can’t seem to stop.

Joe stays there for another minute, but when he finally does push back from the dock to rejoin, his hand finds your ankle first, fingers wrapping around it in a gentle squeeze that sends fire crackling through your skin.

The touch lasts maybe two seconds at most, but your skin burns where his fingers were long after he’s swimming away.

“So,” Ariella settles down next to you with a fresh drink. “When exactly is he going to ask you out officially.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply back, but your eyes are glued to Joe as he surfaces from his latest dive, shaking the water from his hair. “Right. And I’m sure the way he’s been hovering all night is just friendly concern.” You glance around and catch Joe looking in your direction. When your eyes meet, he flashes you a cute smile before diving back under the water. “We’re just friends,” you insist, but even you don’t sound convinced anymore. 

A month ago, you were dreading three months of nothing, of being stuck while Michael got engaged and your dad pestered you about plans for next year. Now, you’re sitting here with people you actually want to spend time with, teetering on the edge of uncharted territory with a boy you’ve just met.

When someone mentions that the fireworks should be starting soon, people heave themselves out of the water and towel off. Someone runs inside to grab more blankets, another person emerges with s’mores fixings for after.

As the fireworks start blooming over the lake, you find yourself sitting next to Joe on a blanket he spread out on the grass for the two of you. The heat has finally cooled down, and there’s something grounding about the way the colors reflect off the water, the sound of everyone’s oohs and ahhs mixing with the distant boom of the explosions. 

“This is perfect,” you say softly, thinking out loud. 

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, but when you glance over, he’s not looking at the fireworks at all. He’s looking at you.

Somewhere during the finale, as you’re both leaning back on your hands watching the sky, his fingers find yours against the blanket. It’s subtle at first—just the lightest brush of skin against skin—but then his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.

By the time the show ends, people are yawning, checking the time, debating whether anyone’s sober enough to drive. The unanimous decision emerges quickly—everyone’s staying. Derek’s family (not so surprisingly) was prepared for this. There are various air mattresses and extra pillows scattered around the home, and people are already claiming spots on couches and in spare bedrooms.

“You guys can take the last guest room.” Derek offers to your group, but McKenna waves him off.

“We’re fine wherever. This couch looks perfect,” for added effect, she bounces down on the couch with a smile on her face. 

You somehow (through the plotting of your friends) end up on the floor with Joe, tucked into a cloud of pillows, other’s laying around in various states of exhaustion and lingering drunkenness. People begin to drift off to sleep, and the room grows quieter, but you and Joe keep talking in hushed voices about everything and nothing. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the Star Wars movies,” Joe whispers, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you cried during Marley and Me,” you whisper back.

“That dog dies! It’s devastating!”

You’re both trying not to laugh too loudly and wake everyone up, but the effort is making you giggle even more. Eventually, your eyelids start to feel heavy, the combination of sun and alcohol and Joe’s warm presence next to you lulling you toward sleep.

The last thing you remember is the steady rhythm of his breathing and the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. 

When you wake up, the early morning light is filtering through the windows, and you’re completely wrapped up in Joe. Somehow during the night, you shuffled until you were practically lying on top of him, your head on his chest, his arms around you, your legs tangled together. He’s still asleep, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look younger, and for a moment you just lie there, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

For a second, it feels perfect. Natural. Like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Like all those careful boundaries you’ve been maintaining were just getting in the way of something that was always meant to happen.

Then reality crashes over you in seconds. This is Joe. Your friend Joe. Who you’ve been telling everyone is just a friend, who you’ve been trying to convince yourself is just a friend. But friends don’t wake up like this, all wrapped around each other. Friends don’t feel this safe and right together.

Panic flutters in your chest as you carefully extract yourself from his arms, trying not to wake him. Around the room, everyone else is still passed out, and you’re grateful no one else is awake to witness this.

July 16th, 2017

The lookout point spreads out before you like something from a postcard, the city lights of Columbus twinkling below in the warm summer darkness. Joe’s truck is parked at the edge of the gravel lot, tailgate down, both of you sitting with your legs dangling over the side. A bag of fast food is shared between the two of you, the taste of a chocolate milkshake still sweet on your tongue.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the Fourth of July. Nearly two weeks since you woke up tangled around him and panicked your way out of the house before anyone could see. You’ve been keeping your distance since then, not obviously, but carefully. 

Responding to his texts hours later instead of minutes. Finding excuses the couple times he suggested hanging out. It’s not that you don’t want to see him—that’s exactly the problem. You want to see him too much, and that scares you more than you’re willing to admit.

The last time you felt this way about someone was junior year of high school, when Marcus Solomon asked you to homecoming and your dad somehow found out. The lecture that followed still makes your stomach twist when you think about it—you needed to focus on your future, a career, not get distracted by boys who would just derail your (his) plans. 

Marcus had stopped calling after your dad “had a conversation” with him, and you learned to keep your feelings to yourself after that instance. 

But Joe, for one, makes it hard to maintain that distance. When he called two days ago, his voice was warm albeit a little confused, asking if you were okay because you seemed different lately, you almost caved. Instead, you made some excuse about being busy with family stuff, and he’s suggested tonight. Just us two, he said, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no.

Now here you are, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“My nephew turned six,” Joe is saying, grinning at some memory from his weekend. He went back to Athens in order to spend time with family at said nephew’s birthday party. “Kid’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Spent the whole party roaring at everyone who tried to talk to him.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you smile back. The way he lights up when talking about his family makes you feel warm. “Did you survive the attack?” “Barely. He informed me that I was being eaten by a T-Rex at least four times.” Joe takes a sip of his Coke, and you find yourself watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. “But I bought him some triceratops thing, so I’m officially the coolest uncle again.”

“Smart strategy.” The two of you jumped around from talking about his family to yours to random observations of the city sprawled out below. He tells you about driving through his hometown, how everything looks smaller than he remembered, how his mom still makes him sit through sunday dinner even though he’s twenty years old.

You tell him about spending the past weekend at the mall with Ariella, how she made you try on exactly eight dresses before finding one she deemed acceptable for some party you didn’t even want to go to.

It was comfortable, this back and forth, but there’s an awareness beneath it that wasn't there before—or maybe it was always there and you’re just noticing it now. The way he looks at you when you laugh, how he leans closer when you talk, the careful space he maintains between you that feels both respectful and somehow charged.

“What else did you do while you were home?” you ask, settling back on your elbows and looking up at the sky. “Besides surviving dinosaur attacks.”

Joe is quiet for a moment, and when you glance over, there’s a change in his expression. More serious. “Talked to some people. About football stuff.” “Oh.” You sit up a little straighter, sensing a shift. “Good conversations?” He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “Some coaches from different programs. People wanting to know what I’m thinking long-term.” “And? What’d you tell them?” “That I’m focused on this season first.” His voice has a deflective quality to it that you’ve never heard from him before. “It’s all hypothetical anyway.” You want to push, to ask more about what these conversations meant, whether they were about transferring or the draft or something else entirely. But something in his posture warns you off, tells you this is territory he’s not ready to explore with you. So instead, you just nod and let the subject drop.

Joe hums after a moment, clearly eager to change the subject, “whatever happened with your brother and all that engagement stuff?”

You exhale a short laugh, the sound more bitter than intended. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of planning. Talks about flowers and venues and all the things that apparently require months worth of discussions.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about it.”

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” you sigh out the words you seem to repeat day in and day out. “Michael deserves to be happy and Sarah’s nice enough.”

You trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated knot of emotions you’re tangled between every time someone brings up the wedding. “But?” 

“They tried to get me to be a bridesmaid. Sarah’s idea, I think.”

“But you said no?”

“Dad helped me get out of it,” you admit with a  slight laugh. “Which is probably the first time in my life he’s actively helped me avoid something involving Michael.”

“Why’d you want to avoid it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Michael and I aren’t exactly the close sibling type. More like polite roommates who happened to grow up in the same house.” You fiddle with the rings on your fingers. “Standing up there pretending we’re best friends would’ve been weird for everyone involved.”

You make a face. “Plus, can you imagine me in some pastel bridesmaid dress? Dad saved everyone from that disaster.”

Joe laughs at that, and you’re thankful he doesn’t dive deeper into it. Maybe it was payback for the football thing. “Fair enough,” he mumbles in response.

The air is warm against your skin, breeze carrying the scent of summer grass and wildflowers. You two are sitting so close it would be easy to lean against his shoulder, to let yourself have that comfort. But something holds you back—maybe the memory of waking up wrapped around him. Or could it be the fear of wanting more than he’s willing to give?

“Look,” Joe says suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. “Shooting star.”

You follow his gaze upward, scanning the dark sky, but you don’t see anything. “Where?”

“There,” he says urgently, and before you can look where he’s pointing, his hands are on your shoulders and pulling you back toward him. “Gotta see it before it’s gone.”

Before you can process, you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest. His hands are gentle but firm as he handles your head toward the right part of the sky. “See it? Right there above that really bright star—”

And then you do see it, a streak of light so brief you almost miss it, burning across the darkness before disappearing. “Oh,” you breathe, genuinely amazed. “I saw it.”

“Make a wish,” Joe says softly, his voice close to your ear.

But you can’t think about wishes right now because everything else is clouding your mind. The warmth of his body behind you, the way his hands are resting lightly on your bare shoulders, how his breath stirs the hair near your ear. Your heart is beating too fast, and you wonder if he can feel it through your shirts.

“Did you make one?” you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you lie, just to please him.

July 23rd, 2017

The night is thick with humidity clouding the air and the lingering smell of fried food from the street festival you both just left. Your head is pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks you shared—overpriced cocktails served in plastic cups that tasted more like sugar than alcohol, but somehow still managed to leave you both giggling at everything and nothing. 

Joe is in the middle of telling some story about his teammate who got stuck in a porta-potty earlier, accentuated with exaggerated gestures that nearly send him stumbling into a streetlight. You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter that only comes when you’re tipsy and everything seems funnier than it actually is.

“I’m serious,” Joe insists, steadying himself against your shoulder as you both pause under a streetlight to catch your breath. “Derek had to literally push the thing over to get him out. Everyone was watching.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “That’s horrible. The poor guy.” “He deserved it.” Joe shakes his head in mock disgust, and you dissolve into another fit of giggles.

You’re about to respond when something catches your eye—a non sign buzzing in the window of a narrow storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a late-night diner. ‘INK & STEEL TATTOO PARLOR’ flickers in electric blue cursive, and through the window, you can see the glow of fluorescent lights and the dark silhouettes of people inside. 

“Joe,” you point at the shop. “We should get tattoos.”

It’s meant to be a joke. You expect Joe to laugh, make some joke like about how you should get a dog from the shelter further down the street next—something silly. Instead, his glazed over eyes sharpen with interest, and before you can process, he’s walking toward the door.

“Joe,” you call after him, your laughter dying in your throat. “Joe, wait. I was kidding.”

He stops with his hand on the door handle and turns back to you, his eyes somewhere between hopeful and uncertain. “Were you joking?” he asks. “Cause if you were, that’s fine. But if you weren’t…”

You stare at him, taking in the way the neon lights cast blue shadows across his face. “What would we even get?” you hear yourself asking, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or genuine curiosity that makes the words tumble out. “I dunno,” he hums, eyes flickering around your surroundings until they stop suddenly, looking up at the sky. “A star,” comes his next answer without hesitation. 

A star. Because of course it would be a star. 

“That’s…” you trail off, considering. The sober part of your brain is screaming that this is insane, that you barely know the guy, that getting matching tattoos with someone you’ve known for five weeks is the kind of decision you’ll regret for the rest of your life.

“Okay,” you surprise yourself when the word slips out. “Okay, but something small. Really small.”

Joe’s face breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon sign behind him. “Really?”

“Really. But if we hate it tomorrow, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Deal,” he states, pushing the door open.

The inside of the tattoo parlor is neat with black leather chairs and art covering every inch of wall space. You’re not sure if it's the steady buzz of a tattoo gun buzzing, or the air smelling like antiseptic and ink that almost makes you back out. 

The woman behind the counter looks up when you enter, her expression shifting from a professional welcome to barely concealed skepticism as she takes in your slightly unsteady gaits. She’s probably in her forties, with intricate sleeve tattoos and the kind of seen-it-all expression that comes from years in a business. 

“We’re about to close,” she says slowly, glancing between you and Joe with wariness.

“We just want something small,” Joe says, pulling out his wallet as if to prove you were serious. “A star each.”

The woman—her name tag reads Diana—studied you both for a long moment. There’s a maternal aspect of the way she looks at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to send you home or let you make what might be a terrible decision. “You two sure about this?” She asks finally. You and Joe both look at each other, smile, and then back at Diana, giving her a reassuring nod. 

Diana sighs, but she’s already moving toward her station, decorated with scribbled drawings, torn out from different pages. Her art is good, looking at it assures you that she should have no problem doing a star... at least you hope.

“Alright. But I’m making them tiny, and you’re both signing extra waivers. What kind of stars are we talking about?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re watching Joe extend his right wrist to Diana, his right hand gripping the larm of the chair as the tattoo gun starts buzzing. The design is simple, just a small, delicate outline of a five-pointed star, no bigger than a dime. But watching it take shape on his skin makes something flutter in your stomach.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning forward in the chair beside him.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, though his knuckles are white where they’re gripping the leather. “Just feels weird.” “Big tough football player can’t handle a little needle?” you tease in order to distract him.

“I’d like to see you sitting here instead.”

“You will in about five minutes.” Diana speaks up from the other side of him. The thought makes your stomach flip. You’ve never wanted a tattoo before—never saw the point in permanently marking your body with some generic design that didn’t mean anything to you. But this feels different, like it means something, even if you can’t quite articulate what. 

Diana works quickly and efficiently, cleaning the fresh tattoo and covering it with a clear bandage before turning to you with an expression that suggests she’s still not entirely convinced this is a good idea. “Your turn, honey.”

You settle onto the padded table, extending your right wrist the same way Joe had. Turning your head away from Diana, because if you watch you know you’ll back out, Joe immediately crouches down next to the table so you’re at his eye level. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” you reply, surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “I want to.”

Diana preps your sin with the same clinical care she’s shown with Joe, and then the tattoo guns tarts buzzing again, you instinctively reach out and grab Joe’s hand.

“Shit,” you breathe as the needle makes contact. It’s not unbearable, but it’s definitely more intense than you’d expected—like a sharp, persistent scratch that seems to vibrate through your entire arm.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is soft, grounding. “Look at me, yeah?” You focus on his face, the way his eyes are completely locked in on you, the small scar above his left eyebrow you’ve never noticed before, the way his thumb is tracing gentle circles across your knuckles.

“What do you think our friends are gonna say about this?”

You laugh despite the discomfort, picturing their faces when they see the tattoo. “Ariella and Iris are going to think we’ve lost our minds. McKenna’s probably gonna be jealous she wasn’t here to watch.”

“Mine are gonna say I’m whipped,” Joe adds in with a grin.

“Are you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. His face hardens, something that makes your heart skip even as the tattoo gun continues its steady patterns. “Maybe.”

“What about your dad?” Joe continues, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Is he going to be thrilled about his daughter coming home with a tattoo?” “Oh god,” you groan, the reality of that moment hitting you. “He’s gonna lecture me about ‘permanent decisions’ and ‘thinking about my future.’ I can already hear it.” “Worth it though,” Joe says, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something in them that suggests he’s not just talking about the tattoo.

Diana’s voice cuts through the moment. “Alright, you’re all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You look down at your wrist, the small start that now matches Joe’s. It’s tiny, delicate, but somehow feels significant in a way that’s completely disproportionate to its size. “It’s perfect.”

After Diana bandages you up and gives you both care instructions (which you’re definitely too out of it to fully absorb), Joe pays for both tattoos despite your protests. Outside the shop, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in. 

“We actually did that,” you breathe, staring down at the bandage on your wrist.

“We actually did that,” Joe agrees, but there’s no trace of regret in his voice. “Can I see it again?”

You lift your arm up, revealing the small star etched into your skin. Beneath the bandage, it’s slightly red and tender, but the clean lines of it are clearly visible. Joe reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around your forearm. 

He studies the tattoo with an intensity that doesn’t match the gravity of what he’s looking at. It’s the same exact tattoo he has, after all. His thumb moves without conscious thought, brushing over the bandage where your fresh tattoo lies underneath. 

“Ow,” you gasp, instinctively jerking your wrist back as pain shoots through the tender skin.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Joe says immediately, his eyes wide with concern as he gently catches your wrist again, more carefully this time. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Before you can say it’s okay, that it’s fine, he’s lifting your wrist to his lips and pressing the softest kiss just bedie the bandage, on the unmarked skin of your inner wrist. The gesture is so delicate that it stops your breath entirely. 

“Better?” he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the word more than hear it.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare down at him as he holds you like something precious, lips still hovering near your skin.

Because in this moment, standing under the flickering non light with your fresh tattoo throbbing and Joe’s mouth pressed against your pulse point, you finally understand what you’ve been trying so hard to deny.

You don’t see Joe as a friend anymore.

You can’t.

Maybe you never really did, if you’re being honest with yourself. Maybe all those careful boundaries you constructed, all that insistence that you were just friends, all those moments of pulling back when things got too intense—maybe it was all just an elaborate defense against this exact realization.

You’re falling for him. Have been falling for him, probably since that first night with the telescope on the beach. Every shared laugh, every moment together, every time he remembered something you told him or looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room—it’s all been leading here, to this moment where you can’t pretend anymore. 

The matching tattoos aren’t just ink under your skin. They’re a promise, a declaration, a permanent reminder that whatever this is between you has moved far beyond friendship into a territory that pulls you in with a force that’s equal parts fear and desire.

And as Joe finally pulls back to meet your eyes, his hand still cradling your wrist like he doesn’t want to let you go, you realize that you don’t want to fight it anymore.

You don’t want to be just friends.

You can’t be just friends.

Not anymore.

July 30th, 2017

The past two days at home had been a special kind of torture—the sort that comes wrapped in well-meaning family obligations and thinly veiled disappointment. Your dad has spent most of Saturday morning talking to you about “summer productivity” while pointedly ignoring the new scar on your wrist, though you caught him staring at it more than once.

Michael has been worse, somehow, Fresh off his engagement high and apparently feeling generous with unsolicited life advice, he’d cornered you during brunch on Friday to ask if you were “taking advantage of your opportunities” at Ohio State. The implication being, of course, that you weren’t. That while he’d graduated summa cum laude, and landed his dream job while finding his perfect fiancé, you were drifting through college without an endgame.

helpppp me, you’d reached for your phone under the table and texted Joe. michael is giving me the when i was ur age speech again

His response had come back within minutes: Tell him when he was your age people were still jerking off to cave paintings

You nearly choked on your orange juice, covering it with a cough that made Michael pause his monologue about networking and five-year plans. For the rest of the meal, you’d felt lighter, like Joe’s ridiculous jokes created a little bubble of shared understanding that your family couldn’t penetrate. 

The texting had continues throughout the weekend. Little observations about your dad’s obsession with lawn maintenance (he’s had the gardeners back like three times already), updates about Michael’s wedding planning (apparently that are exactly seventeen different shades of ivory and they all matter), complaints about their shared passive aggressive comments about your “summer lifestyle”.

Joe had responded to every single one, sometimes with jokes that made you snort in the middle of family dinner, sometimes with questions that showed he was actually listening, actually cared about the small details of your weekend home. When you texted him Saturday night about feeling suffocated and ready to go back, he’d called instead of texting.

By the time you did finally escape, the first thing you did was text him that you were free, and he immediately suggested joining him and his friends at some pool party. 

You spent the afternoon in and out of the backyard pool, floating on inflatable loungers with Ariella and Iris (McKenna was too busy flirting with Derek), while the guys played games of pool basketball. Joe was in his element, with his friends, occasionally catching your eye across the water.

Around nine, when the party was reaching that perfect point in the night, someone had suggested moving the event to the beach. Most people had been too lazy or too drunk to make the move, but the idea sparked something in both you and Joe.

You caught each other’s eyes across the group, some wordless communication passing between you, and before you knew it, you were gathering your things and making excuses about wanting to see the stars over the water. 

“You two are so weird,” Iris has called after you, but she was smiling, that knowing look in her eyes suggesting she understood exactly what was happening even if you didn’t. 

Now, running across the sand toward the lake with Joe beside you, the wind whipping through your hair, you feel more alive than you have all weekend. The beach is completely empty, and the moon is bright enough to turn the water silver.

“Last one in is buying breakfast tomorrow,” Joe calls out, already pulling his shirt over his head as he runs.

“That’s not fair! You have longer legs,” you’re protesting, but already reaching for the hem of your sundress and pulling it over your head as you sprint toward the water’s edge.

You’re grateful you’d kept your bikini on under the dress from the pool party earlier—a simple black two piece that’s nothing special, but makes you feel confident enough to not worry about it. Joe’s already in his swim trunks from earlier, and in the moonlight, you can see the lean lines of his torso, the way his shoulders move as he crashes into the waves.

You hit the water a few seconds after him, the lake unusually warm from the day’s heat. “I totally won,” you declare, splashing toward him.

“You absolutely did not,” Joe laughs, turning to face you as you wade deeper. “I was in first.”

“By like half a second, which doesn’t count because you’re basically a gazelle.”

“A gazelle?” He raises and eyebrow, grinning. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Fine, you’re like… a really tall and athletic giraffe.”

“Better.”

You splash water at him in retaliation, and he immediately splashes back, starting a water fight that quickly escalates into full scale warfare. You’re both laughing so hard you can barely breathe, diving under the surface to escape each other’s attacks, coming up gasping and immediately launching new offensives.

“Truce, truce,” you finally call out, wiping water from your eyes. “I’m drowning over here.” Joe stops immediately, “you good?” “I’m fine,” you assure him, but as you try to find your footing, you realize you’ve drifted father out than you thought. Your toes barely brush the sandy bottom, and you have to treat water to stay afloat. “Just deeper than I expected.”

Joe moves closer, and you can see that the water only comes up to his chest. Of course. Even in the water, his height gives him an advantage. “Can you touch?” The playful teasing from his voice is gone. You try again, stretching your toes downward, but you shake your head. “Not really. You?” “Yeah,” he says, taking another step closer. “Here, come here.”

There’s no time to second guess his words, his hands are on your waist, coaxing you effortlessly to him through the water. The space between you disappears, water slipping around your bodies as your skin brushes his beneath the surface.

Your legs hook around his waist, pulled there by the slow drag of water and the closeness of him. Fingers find balance against his chest, steadying yourself. He;s solid beneath your palms, skin warm and slick from the lake, his heartbeat thudding beneath your touch.

You feel bashful under his gaze because his hands stay exactly where they landed—low on your waist with no intentions of letting go. You blink once, twice, then look up toward the stars instead, pretending that the sky is the reason your breath caught.

“Look at the stars,” you whisper, voice barley audible over the gentle lapping of the water. “They’re so bright tonight.” You scan the sky, searching for the constellations Joe had shown you that first night together. There’s the Big Dipper, clear as day. Cassiopeia, that distinctive W shape. The North Star, a constant anchor. Successfully spotting each one feels like a small victory for yourself.

“I am looking at them,” Joe murmurs, voice low and rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. The tone of his voice draws your eyes back down, and when you do, you find his eyes are fixed on your face, not the sky at all.

The realization crashes into you, his eyes aren’t on the sky, they’re on you, and they haven’t moved once. Not when you tilted your head back or spoke softly in the dark. Not when you searched the stars for something to hold onto. He’s been looking at you like maybe you’re the only thing up there worth finding. 

You’re his star. 

The thought lands low in your stomach, fluttery and bright and a little impossible. It steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with something lighter that makes you lightheaded. Your fingers twitch against his chest, your thighs tighten slowly around his waist like your body’s reacting before you’ve even caught up.

“Joe,” you breathe, but it comes out weightless. He’s looking at you like you’re something miraculous, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. One of his hands moves from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

You lean into the touch before you even think to stop yourself—because you decided not to care anymore. And when he bends toward you, closing the last bit of distance, you meet him without hesitation.

The kiss is soft. Like exhaling. Like being found. He tastes like lakewater and breathless hope, like every almost that led to this moment, and you melt into it—your arms around his neck, his hand holding the back of your head, the gentle roll of water cradling you both. It’s not urgent, nor is it desperate, but it is inevitable. 

Joe kisses you like he’s afraid of scaring you off, and you kiss im back like you’re afraid he might stop.

When he finally pulls back, leaving just enough space to breathe, his forehead finds yours like he can’t stand to let you go completely. Your eyes are still closed, chest still rising and falling too fast. And beneath the surface, your legs are still wrapped around him, holding on like you haven’t quite figured out how to let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits quietly.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the base of his neck, threading through the wet strands carefully. “Yeah?” you whisper back.

His throat works as he swallows, pupils dilating the smallest bit. “Since that night after the baseball game. Maybe even before that.”

Hearing those words feels like a breath let go. Your chest swells, and suddenly it’s hard not to smile. Your cheekbones ache from how wide your grin is, it feels ridiculous, it feels perfect. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And then he’s kissing you again, and you’re kissing him back, and you think that maybe some things are worth all the risk in the world.

August 7th, 2017

The past week has felt like living inside a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

Every morning started with a text from Joe—sometimes just a simple “morning pretty girl,” sometimes a photo of his breakfast plate with a message about how his pancakes didn’t taste like the ones you make, with a sad face. You’d started setting your alarm fifteen minutes earlier just so you could lie in bed and read his messages, smiling like an idiot at your phone while McKenna got ready in your shared bathroom.

Tuesday, you’d gone back to the farmers market, and Joe still carried your canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder without being asked. He’d looked slightly ridiculous—this tall, broad shouldered football player carefully cradling a bouquet of flowers in one hand while holding yours with the other—but he seemed completely unbothered by the picture you two painted.

When the elderly flower vendor had assumed you were a couple, and Joe didn’t correct her, you felt a warmth bloom in your chest.

“These are the same ones from last time,” he said as you walked away, nodding toward the flowers. “You want different ones next time or are these okay?” “I like those. They’re pretty,” you assured simply, but what you meant was: I like that you remember what I like. I like you paying attention to details that don’t matter to anyone else.

Wednesday night, you’d driven out to the lookout point again, but this time you spent more time kissing than stargazing. Joe spread a blanket in the bed of his truck again, and you laid there for hours with your head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles against your tattoo while you pointed out constellations and he pressed kisses to the top of your head for each you remembered correctly.

When you’d finally driven home around one in the morning, your lips were swollen and your hair was a mess, and you felt drunk on the sort of happiness you only thought existed in movies.

Thursday, he surprised you by showing up to your house with takeout from that Italian place you mentioned liking, even though it was completely out of his way. The two of you are sitting on your living room floor, sharing tiramisu straight from the container for dessert while some movie played unwatched in the background.

Your roommates came home to find you both asleep on the couch, your legs tangled together, Joe’s arm thrown protectively around your waist. Ariella sent the picture to the group chat with approximately eight heart eye emojis.

Friday had been perfect in its simplicity—just a lazy afternoon at Derek’s place, floating in his pool on inflatable loungers, Joe’s hand trailing in the water between you so his fingers could brush yours. You’d felt so content, so settled in a way you’d never experienced before. Like all the anxious energy that usually buzzed under your skin had finally gone quiet.

The tattoos on your wrists had healed beautifully, the small stars just a permanent reminder of that night when everything changed. Sometimes you were able to catch Joe absently rubbing his thumb over his own tattoo when he assumed you weren’t looking, and it made your stomach flutter each time.

You started leaving things around his own home without meaning to—a hair tie on his nightstand, a book on his coffee table, one of your hoodies draped over his desk chair. And he started doing the same at yours, his Ohio State water bottle appearing in your fridge, his extra phone charger plugged in next to your bed. 

But underneath all the bliss, there had been this awareness of an approaching deadline. August seventh. The day football training officially started back up, when Joe would shift back into athlete mode and you’d have to figure out how to fit into his newly restructured world. 

You tried not to think about it, had focused on instead memorizing the way he looked when he laughed at your terrible jokes, the sound he made when you kissed that spot just below his ear, the careful way he would willingly brush your hair when you were too tired to do so yourself. But the date had loomed anyway, circled in red on some invisible calendar in your mind.

Now, sitting on Derek’s back patio with McKenna and Iris, nursing a beer that’s gone warm in the afternoon heat, you can’t shake the feeling of unease.

“He’s two hours late,” McKenna observes, an unkindly reminder as she glances at her phone screen. “Isn’t that kinda weird for him?”

You shrug, trying to look unbothered even if you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes for the past hour. “First day of training. I’m sure it ran long.”

“You okay?” Iris asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you squirm. “You seem anxious.” “I’m fine,” you lie, then immediately feel guilty about it. These are your best friends—you should be able to tell them that you’re worried about how the season is going to change the perfect way things have been going for the two of you. But putting those fears into words makes you teeter between feeling like it’ll give them powers, but also clingy. You’re not even dating him.

Derek emerges from the house carrying a cooler of fresh beers, followed by a couple of his teammates you’ve met in passing. The guys immediately launch into a discussion about the new offensive coordinator, speculation about the upcoming season, and complaints about the conditions drills that apparently nearly killed them today.

“Burrow looked like he was about to pass out,” one of them says, popping open a beer. “Dude pushes himself more than anyone else there.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of Joe.

Another twenty minutes pass before you hear the familiar rumble of Joe’s truck in the driveway. You resist the urge to immediately look toward the sound, instead focusing intently on McKenna’s story about the last day of her internship, but you’re listening to every sound—the slam of his truck door, his voice greeting someone inside the house, the sliding door opening behind you.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is flat as he steps onto the patio, and when you turn to look at him, your chest constricts with concern. He looks drained in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. His hair is still damp from what you assume was a shower, his shirt clings to his skin, and there’s rashes of turf burn on various spots of his body.

“Hey,” you say softly, standing up to greet him. “How was—” “Long,” he cuts you off, moving past you toward the cooler without his usual kiss hello, without even really looking at you. “Really fucking long.” The dismissal stings more than it should, and you feel heat creep up as everyone else notices the tension. You sink back into your chair, trying to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

Derek hands Joe a beer, and he drains half of it in one go before finally acknowledging the group. “Went longer than expected, sorry.”

“Heard it was brutal,” Derek says carefully. “You good?”

Joe shrugs, settling into the empty chair next to you. The conversation gradually picks up again, but you find it hard to focus on anything other than Joe. When Iris makes a comment about how tan everyone’s gotte this summer, Joe glances around the group before his eyes land on you for the first time since he arrived.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when people have no real priorities,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes you want to crawl under your own skin.

You know he’s tired, know he’s had a rough day, but the casual cruelty of it takes your breath away. Around you, the conversation falters as everyone processes what just said, the uncomfortable silence stretching until it becomes unbearable. 

The exact moment Joe realizes what he’s done, his face changes.The defensive anger melts into horror as he takes you in, the way you’ve physically recoiled, the hurt and confusion that must be written all over your face. 

“Shit,” he says quietly, sinking down into his chair. “I didn’t… that came out wrong.” You stare at him for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Joe who’s been leaving you good morning texts and buying you flowers. The one who held you while you watched the stars, who kissed everything better, who made you feel more wanted and valued than anyone else ever has.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” you say finally, voice controlled as you drop Iris’s hand when you stand up. You need distance, a moment to college yourself before you can say something you’ll regret.

“Wait,” Joe stants too, his voice hushed and urgent. “Can we—can I talk to you for a second?”

You want to be petty and say no, let him sit with the weight of his words, but his devastated expression stops you. Despite what he said, you can’t stand seeing him like that when he clearly knows he’s done wrong.

“Fine,” you say, but you don’t make it easy for him, you don’t move toward the privacy of the house. If he wants to apologize, he can do it here. 

Joe steps closer, his voice dropping so the others can’t hear. “I’m sorry. That was… I’m being an asshole and you don’t deserve that.” “No, I don’t,” you agree, watching him flinch at the coolness of your tone. 

“It was just a really bad day,” he continues, desperation creeping into his voice. “With everything—I feel like I’m walking into another year of hell, and I’m not looking forward to it. But that’s not your fault. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You study his face, taking in the genuine remorse there. You understand the pressure he’s under, have listened to him talk about his fears and doubts enough to know how much this means to him.

“Football’s really important to you,” you say finally, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe too important.” “And it’s probably going to get harder from here, more demanding.” “Probably.” His jaw tightens. “Almost definitely.” You nod slowly, processing this new side of things. The Joe from the past week—attentive, present, completely focused on you—that version might become harder to find as the season progresses. But the Joe standing in front of you now, apologizing for his mistakes, trying to be honest about his struggles… Maybe that’s the new version you need to learn to work with. Because you would—will, for him. “Okay,” you say finally. “But if you’re going to be stressed and taking it out on people, it can’t be me.”

“You’re right,” he says immediately. “You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He steps closer again. “I really am sorry. Today was just a reminder I guess. About what this season is going to be like.”

You reach out and take his hand, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when you do. “I get it.” Your voice drops as you guide him a couple steps away from everyone else. “But we need to figure out how to make this work, Joe. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief that crosses his face makes everything within you settle, because you know he was worried about that. He didn’t want to lose you. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I don’t want you to.”

And despite everything, despite the sting of his earlier words and the looming specter of a difficult season ahead, you find yourself believing him.

August 10th, 2017

The past few days had been a delicate dance of adjustment, both of you trying to find your footing in this new reality where football had reasserted its claim on Joe’s time and attention.

You’d spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday preparing for the upcoming semester—ordering textbooks that made your bank account weep, organizing your schedule around the classes you’d managed to get into after your academic probation scare, trying to mentally prepare yourself for organic chemistry round two.

The familiar anxiety about the upcoming school year had settled in your chest like a stone, made worse by the uncertainty of how you and Joe would navigate his increasingly demanding schedule. But Joe has been making an effort; a real, tangible effort that showed he’d taken your conversation at Derek’s to heart.

Tuesday evening, he showed up to your house still in his practice clothes, but carrying a bag of Italian takeout and wearing that apologetic smile that made it impossible to stay distant. He sat on your bedroom floor while you organized your class materials, occasionally reaching over to run his fingers through your hair or press a kiss to your shoulder as you worked.

Wednesday, he texted you during what you knew was a brief break between practice and film study. The message was simple, something about wanting to see you again that night, but it carried you through the rest of your day.

That night, he’s fallen asleep in your bed again, his head in your lap while you studied all your upcoming professors. You spent an hour just watching him sleep.

Thursday morning, you’d woken up to find he made coffee and left a note on your kitchen counter: Good luck with your advisor meeting today :) 

Now, lying in the bed of his truck under a blanket of stars with Joe’s lips moving against yours, you feel like maybe you’d been worrying for nothing.

The lookout point has become sacred ground for the two of you, a place where the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you and him and the vast Ohio sky. Tonight feels different though, full of something that makes your skin hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers, every shift of his body against yours.

You’d never gone further than heated makeout sessions before. Hands wandering under shirts, breaths coming fast against each other’s necks, urgent touches that left you both frustrated and wanting more.

“Missed this,” Joe whispers against your lips, his voice hoarse in a way that has nothing to do with practice and everything to do with the way your hands are threading through his still damp hair. “Missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” you point out, but you’re smiling, breathless from the way he’s looking at you. 

“Wasn’t enough,” he says simply, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time.

The kiss doesn’t ask for permission, it sinks into you as if he’s trying to speak through the shape of your mouth. Like he’s telling you everything he hasn’t found words for yet. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm fingers splaying across your lower back like he wants to feel every inch of you he’s missed.

You arch into his touch, breath hitching as his palm moves up, mapping your ribs in slow strokes that leave heat in their wake. Your own hands find their way beneath his shirt, fingertips gliding over damp skin, still warm from the shower he must’ve taken before picking you up.

His muscles twitch under your touch, and he grains softly into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through you like a string pulled tight. “My pretty girl,” his mouth bites at yours. “Don’t know what you do to me,” his lips brush your jaw now, then your neck, moving like he can’t stop.

You tilt your head and give him more access to yourself, chest rising fast beneath his as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. One hand travels lower, gripping the back of your thigh and guiding it around his hip.

“Joe,” you whisper out, barely audible, but it's all you can manage at the moment. He lifts at that, eyes finding yours in the dim light spilling from the sky. The air shifts. His breathing is uneven. Yours isn’t any better.

He watches you with something new simmering behind his eyes, as if he’s waiting for the signal. Like he doesn’t want to push it but also doesn’t want to stop. Luckily for him—you don’t want him to either.

So you reach for him.

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, fingers sweeping lightly over the short scruff he forgot to shave this morning. Joe exhales hard through his nose and kisses you again, messier this time. His hand slides back down the expanse of your thigh until it finds the curve of your ass and squeezes, pulling you flush against him. You feel him, all of him. Hard and pressing into you through layers that suddenly feel far too thin. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans in response, like he’s been waiting to hear that sound. “Lift this,” he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. 

The fabric peels away and the breeze is licking at your skin, but it barely registers. Not when Joe’s mouth is moving down your throat, not when his hands are skimming your bare skin, not when he kisses between the swell of your breasts like he’s been dying to.

He covers your body with his own, bracing his forearm beside his head. His other hand finds your opposite thigh, guiding it around his waist so both your legs are parted, bent around him in a way that feels possessive. 

You whimper when his hips rock into you, a soft, instinctual grind that spends sparks shooting through your stomach. “I know baby,” he chokes out, nose brushing against your cheek. “Just let me touch you.

You nod, a jerky movement more than anything. His fingers trail down your torso, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts slowly, enjoying the way your body tenses. His knuckles graze the inside of your thigh and then he finds you.

And god—the noise that comes from him when he feels how wet you are is something feral that does more to you than anything else thus far. He curses under his breath and kisses you had, like he’s thanking you for it. 

“Look at you,” he mutters against your mouth, fingers moving lower to stroke you over your panties, coaxing another shiver from your spine. “So fuckin’ soft.” You arch into him as his touch grows more purposeful, his thumb brushing a tender circle through the damp fabric, teasing you through it. You feel like your whole body is pulsing toward his hand, your hips chasing the rhythm without meaning to.

He helps you work fully out of your shorts, tossing them aside, and you suddenly feel grateful for the privacy of your spot. You feel more exposed than ever, but not nervous. Not with him.

Not when Joe’s eyes find yours and stay locked there as he pushes your last bit of clothing to the side and slides one thick finger into you.

That first night you met him, you remember his hands with the telescope. How they completely dwarfed the adjustment knobs, how his fingers seemed to wrap around everything twice. Now you understand why even just one feels like so much.

You inhale sharply, the stretch of it feeling like too much and not enough at the same time. Joe’s expression tightens in response. “Fuck,” he presses his forehead against yours. “My girl—feel so good wrapped around me.” Your body clenches around him, muscles fluttering, and his tumb finds your clit, stroking it slowly while his finger works in and out of you in measured movements, testing what you like, what makes your mouth fall open.

In the moment, you can’t find it in yourself to stop staring at him. His jaw will flex, then his eyes flick down to watch what he’s doing, how your body reacts to him, then back to your face.

“Want another?” he teases with a small grin. You nod, desperate for more, and feel the second finger press in beside the first. It burns in the best way. Fills you.

Your hips jerk, and he catches you with his other hand, splayed across your lower stomach, holding you steady. Joe leans down and kisses you again, but it's slower this time as his fingers are working you open.

“Don’t stop,” you beg against his lips, feeling more alive than you have in months wrapped around him like this.

“Not planning to.” And he doesn’t. Joe keeps his rhythm steady, curling his fingers and pinching your clit every now and then, enjoying the way it makes you squirm from under him. Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, body rolling into his hand as much as his hold on you allows.

It builds like a slow flame, heat winding around your spine, climbing behind your ribs, and when it finally breaks—when you cry out and clamp around his fingers, back arching—Joe swallows hard and kisses you through it.

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls his hand away. He kisses your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. And then he whispers, with the softest kind of pride, “told you I missed you.”

September 9th, 2017

The roar of the stadium is deafening, but somehow it feels muted as you scan the sidelines looking for number ten. When you finally spot him, you tense with a mixture of relief and heartbreak.

He’s there—standing with the other quarterback, headset around his neck, clipboard in his uninjured hand—but he looks like a shadow of himself. Even from your seats up high in the student section, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself apart from the celebration happening around him as the team scores another touchdown. 

He’s focused, locked in, but there’s something hollow about it. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being present while being somewhere else entirely.

It’s the first game since he’s been cleared to return to practice, though “return” feels like a generous word for what’s actually happening. He’s not playing. Hasn’t played a single meaningful snap since the injury. 

You know he’s watching Dwaryne Haskins take the snaps that should’ve—should—be his, watching his opportunity slip further and further away with each game.

“There he is,” Ariella says, following your gaze and pointing toward the sideline.” How’s he doing with all this?” You don’t know how to answer that question because you’re not sure you know anymore.

The call had come from Derek three days after that perfect night at the lookout point when you felt closer to Joe than ever before. You were in your room, trying to make sense of your class syllabi, when your phone rang.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” the usual upbeat tone of his voice was long gone. “Joe’s in the hospital. He broke his hand at practice today.” The papers had slipped from your hand, pages fluttering as they hit the floor. “What? Is he okay? How bad is it?” “He had surgery on it. It went well, but…” Derek had paused, and you could hear muffled voices in the background. “Look, I found out from one of the guys on the team. Joe hasn’t called anyone yet, and I think… maybe it’s best if you don’t show up here.”

The words stung, but deep down you had to remind yourself that Derek’s reasoning made sense in the cruel way logical things often do. You texted Joe right after that call and stared at your phone for the rest of the night, waiting for a response that never came.

The next day passed in a haze of worry and checking your phone obsessively between classes. By Tuesday evening, you’d managed to convince yourself that maybe Joe’s phone was broken, or he was staying off it to focus on his health. There had to have been a reasonable explanation for his silence.

Then, finally, a short text came through. Just stating that he was fine, thanks for checking up on him.

Friday, after class, you’d driven to his house carrying homemade cookies you and your friends spent last night baking, his favorite drinks, and a stack of movies you thought might distract him. The Joe who answered the door was someone you barely recognized—pale, visibly exhausted with his right hand wrapped in a surgical case that made your stomach twist with sympathy.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, but stepped aside to let you in.

“I wanted to,” you assured, following him to the couch where he’d clearly camped out for days. “How are you feeling?” “Like shit,” he said bluntly, settling heavily into the cushions. “Four to six weeks recovery, minimum. Fall camp is basically over, and I missed all of it.” You tried to find the right words, some combination of sympathy and optimism that might help, but everything felt inadequate. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll be back before the season really gets going—” “Will I?” The sharpness in his voice had made you flinch. “Haskins has been taking all the reps I should have been taking. By the time I’m cleared, he’ll have the backup spot locked down. Do you know what that means?” “It means I’ll be third string. Maybe fourth. It means I’ll spend the season holding a clipboard and watching other people play my position.” His jaw had clenched, and when he looked at you, his eyes were harder than you’d ever seen them. “How many years of work, and it’s probably over because of one stupid play in practice.”

The next few weeks were a careful dance around his moods. Joe, thankfully, softened somewhat after that first brutal conversation. He’d even apologized for being “a dick” when you were just trying to help. But the intimacy you’d built over the summer felt fragile now, strained under the weight of his frustration and the uncertainty of his future.

Classes were going full swing, and you’d thrown yourself into your coursework with determined focus. The professors were every bit as brutal as you’d feared, and between studying and trying to be supportive to Joe without being overwhelming, you felt stretched thin in such a way that left you exhausted by Friday evenings.

Joe was cleared for light practice two weeks ago, but you could see it in his face every time you asked about it—he was going through the motions, but the spark that had always defined him on the field was dimmed. He talked about football differently now, with a wariness that hadn’t been there before, like he was afraid to want it too much.

Now, watching him on the sideline as Ohio State dominates their opponent, you can see all of that frustration and disappointment written in the set of his shoulders. He’s not sulking—Joe would never sulk during a game—but you can see him balancing on the edge of something close to the sort.

“He looks good though,” McKenna offers, clearly trying to be positive. “I mean, healthy.” “Yeah,” you agree, though you’re not sure that’s entirely true. Physically, maybe. But the way he’s holding himself speaks to a different kind of injury, one that won’t heal as cleanly as broken bones. 

The crowd erupts around you as Ohio State scores another touchdown, but your eyes stay on Joe, willing him to look up into the stands, to find you somehow in the sea of scarlet and grey. He doesn’t, of course. He’s too professional for that, too focused on doing his job even when that job has been drastically reduced. 

But for just a moment, as the team celebrates around him, you see him glance toward the student section. It’s brief, probably meaningless, but you choose to believe he’s looking for you too. 

After the game, you text him: looked good out there. proud of you.

His response comes hours later, after you’ve already changed out of your game day clothes and started on your homework while your friends were out at some party. Thanks. Doing what I can.

October 15th, 2017

“—and I don’t want to hear excuses about being busy. Every other student manages to balance their coursework with preparing for the future. What makes you so special?” Your dad’s voice crackles through your phone speaker, sharp with the particular brand of disappointment you’ve grown up fearing. You’re sitting cross legged on your bed, homework spread around you like a defensive barrier, though it’s doing nothing to shield you from the familiar sting of his words.

“Dad, I know I should’ve applied already, but this semester has been really intense—” “Intense?” He cuts you off with a bitter laugh. “You think the real world cares if school is intense? You think employers are going to be impressed that you couldn’t handle basic time management as a student?” You close your eyes, pressing your fingers against your temple where a headache is building. Through your room window, you can see other students walking across campus in the October afternoon sun, looking carefree in a way that feels impossible foreign right now. “I’m not saying i couldn’t handle it, I’m just explaining—” “You’re making excuses. Just like with your grades last year. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was when Henderson asked how you were doing in school and I had to explain that my daughter was on academic probation?”

The words hit hard, and you have to bite your lip from saying something you’ll regret. You want to tell him about the sixty hour weeks you’ve been putting in this semester, about the study groups that run until midnight, about how you’ve been struggling to balance everything while also being there for Joe through what may be the worst period of his life.

But you can’t mention Joe—can’t explain that you’ve been splitting your emotional energy between organic chemistry and watching the person you care about most spiral into depression and self-doubt. 

Your dad would just see it as another excuse anyway. Another sign that you’re not serious about your future. “I’ll start applying this week,” you say finally, your voice smaller than you hoped. “I promise.”

“You’ll start applying today. And you’ll have at least five applications submitted by Friday, or we’re going to have a very different conversation about who’s paying for your education.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating. You know he means it—your dad doesn’t make empty threats, especially when it comes to money and what he considers your lack of direction.

“Understood.”

“Good. And next time I call, I expect to hear about interviews. No more sob stories about how hard your classes are. Michael never had these problems.” Of course he brings up Michael. Perfect Michael with his perfect grades and his perfect internships and his perfect trajectory toward everything your father considers success. Michal, who’s never had to worry about academic probation or disappointing anyone because he was apparently born understanding exactly what was expected of him.

The line goes dead without a goodbye, leaving you staring at your phone screen in the sudden silence of your empty house. Around you, your homework waits patiently—chemical equations that need balancing, reaction mechanisms that need memorizing, problems that have clear answers if you just work hard enough to find them.

If only everything in life were as straightforward as organic chemistry.

You set your phone aside and try to refocus on your textbook but the words blur together as hot tears begin to well up in your eyes. The worst part isn’t even the lecture itself, it's the way your dad manages to make you feel like you’re fundamentally failing at life. Like every choice you make is evidence of some deep character flaw.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making excuses. Maybe you should have applied for internships weeks ago instead of spending so much energy worrying about Joe. Maybe caring about someone else’s problems is just another form of procrastination, another way of avoiding your own responsibilities. 

The knock on your door startles you out of your spiral, and you quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s probably McKenna coming back from her sociology seminar, or Ariella returning from her date with the latest guy she’s convinced is “the one.” Iris, though, is always the one who forgets her key.

“Coming,” you call, your voice only slightly hoarse as you climb off your bed and pad to the front door in your socked feet. But when you open it, Joe is standing in your doorway.

He’s looking better these days, still tired but more present. His hand is free of the bulky cast, replaced by a simple brace that allowed him more movement. He’s wearing an Ohio State long sleeve you always said looked good on him. 

For a moment, you stare at each other. You’re aware of how you must look—wearing shorts and an oversized shirt, eyes probably still red-rimmed from crying. He studies your face with careful attention you haven’t seen from him in months.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes your throat tight with fresh tears.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping back to let him in even though every instinct is telling you to close the door and deal with this alone. “Just family stuff. It's fine.”

Joe follows you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “It doesn’t look fine.”

You’re already walking toward your bedroom, hoping he’ll take the hint and let it go, but you can hear his footsteps behind you on the hardwood floor. When you reach your room, you settle back onto your bed among the scattered homework, picking up your pen and pretending to focus.

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” you insist without looking up. “My dad being… you know. My dad.” Joe lingers in your doorway for a moment before stepping into your room properly and you can feel his eyes on you as you try to work. The numbers and letters on the page swim together, your brain too scattered to make sense of even the simplest reactions.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dips under your weight, and despite everything, you feel some of the tension in you ease at his proximity. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s been fully present like this. “I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice cracks on the words, betraying you.

And that’s when you lose it.

The tears you’ve been fighting since the phone call spill over, hot and fast and completely beyond your control. Your pen slips from your fingers as your shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and you press your hands into your face in a futile attempt to hold yourself together. 

“Hey,” Joe says softly, and then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in the first real embrace you’ve shared in months. “Hey, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. Nothing feels okay. You’re drowning in school, your own dad thinks you’re a failure, you’ve been watching Joe struggle while feeling completely powerless to help, and now Jow is being kind to you for the first time in weeks and it’s making everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” you cry into him. “I’m such a mess right now.”

“You’re not a mess,” he assures, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs gentle circles on your back. “You’re just having a hard time. There’s a difference.”

The tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest, and suddenly all the words you’ve been holding back come tumbling out. You tell him about the phone call, about your dad’s threats and the internship applications you’ve been putting off.

You tell him about feeling overwhelmed by school and scared about the future and guilty for caring more about his problems than your own responsibilities.

Joe listens without judgement, without trying to fix anything, just holding you while you finally let yourself fall apart. When your tears eventually slow, he tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face raw with emotion. “I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I haven’t been there for you. That’s not fair.”

“You’ve been dealing with a lot—”

“So have you,” he interrupts. “And I should have noticed. I should have been paying attention.”

There’s a bit of silence where you just look at each other, and you can feel something changing, some wall that’s been up since his injury finally crumbling. “I missed you,” the admission slips out before you can stop it.

“I missed you too,” he says, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “So fucking much.”

And then he’s kissing you, soft and esperate and full of months of pent up longing. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all your frustration and fear and love into the connection between your mouths. 

What happens next feels inevitable, like the natural conclusion to these past months of building tension and denied feelings. Joe’s hands frame your face as he kisses you deeper, and when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he helps you pull it over his head. 

Your homework scatters to the floor as he lays you back against your pillows, forgotten in favor of the feeling of his skin against yours, the weight of him above you, the way he looks at you.

His mouth drags over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. You whisper out his name when his hips press down, the thick line of him already hardening against your thigh through your thin sleep shorts.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “I’ve thought about this every night,” his voice is rough and almost disbelieving. “You know that?”

You shake your head, and he licks his lips. “That night… in the truck. When you—” His eyes flick down your body, a dark flush rising up his neck. “Went home and fucked my hand so many times to the thought of you like that. Been living on that memory for months."

Your breath catches, a bolt of heat shoots through your belly at the admission. You close your eyes and picture the image of him alone in his room, desperate for you.

You pull him down by the back of his neck, kiss him with everything you’re feeling—the missing, the anger, the apology, the wanting that’s never gone away.

His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and you raise your arms to let him take it off. The moment you’re bare to him, he drags his mouth down your chest, kissing the soft swell of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue warm and eager.

Your back arches. You feel dizzy with how much you want him, how much you want this to mean something. “Joe… please,” you breathe out, the word slipping from you like a secret. You rock your hips up into him and he groans, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

He pulls back, eyes blown wide, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “You sure?” he rasps. “Baby, you tell me now—”

“I’m sure,” you say without hesitation, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “I want you. I’ve wanted you.”

Joe kisses you so deeply you feel it in your stomach, one big hand trailing down to slip under the elastic of your shorts, pushing them down your hips. You squirm out of them, all clumsy and breathless, and when you’re finally bare, he pauses and looks at you. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, stroking a hand up your thigh, spreading you open for him. “So perfect.”

You whimper when his fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked for him. His forehead drops to yours, “god, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Laughing shakily, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You’ve already ruined me.”

His answering smile is small, crooked, almost shy. Then he’s tugging his pants down enough to free himself, and your eyes widen at the sight of him—thick, flushed, the head wet where it presses against your thigh.

He strokes himself once, twice, your slick coating his hand, before lining up with you. The tip nudges your entrance and you tense, hips rolling forward instinctively. “Breathe for me, baby,” Joe soothes, voice gone soft.

He kisses you through the stretch as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. It’s nearly too much—the burn, the way he fills you so completely. Your nails bite into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Good girl… that’s it. Doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

When he bottoms out, your whole body trembles. You feel him everywhere, inside you, over you, in every frantic heartbeat that drums behind your ribs. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you, gaze molten and tender all at once. His thumb brushes against your cheek again like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want you to remember this.”

He pulls back, the drag of him sending a shockwave through your core, then rocks back in, slow at first, testing the give of you, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate for more friction, and Joe lets out a broken sound that goes straight to your core. He braces one hand behind your knee, pressing it up toward your chest you open you wider, sink deeper. 

“You feel so good,” he groans. “Been losing my mind thinking about this. About out.” “Me too,” you whimper, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop, Joe, Please—”

“I’m not stopping,” he vows, fucking into you harder, the headboard knocking against the wall with each trust. “Never would.”

Your whole body coils tight, pleasure winding sharp and sweet inside you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace growing rougher as your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when you come—when it finally breaks—you clutch at him like you’ll drown in it without him, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, buried so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. 

Afterward, he doesn’t move right away, but before he does, he reaches for your right hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the small star etched into your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours.

November 28th, 2017

November had been a month of almosts. Almost like the summer you’d fallen in love with. Almost the way things used to feel between you and Joe. Almost enough to convince yourself that October had been the turning point you’d hoped for.

But almosts weren’t quite enough, and you spent the past few weeks existing in the uncomfortable space between hope and disappointment, never quite sure which Joe would show up when you were together. The good days were really good. Joe would pick you up from his afternoon classes, drive you to get coffee at that place near campus you both loved, and for an hour or two, it would feel like summer again.

He’d listen to you talk about your struggles with classes, ask follow up questions about your professors, steal bites of whatever pastry you’d ordered while pretending he didn’t want his own. Those moments felt like proof that whatever changed between you could change back, that the connection you built wasn't completely lost.

But then Saturday would roll around, and you’d be reminded that football was still the thing that defined Joe’s emotional state. Game days brought out a version of him that was sharp edged and distant, focused entirely on what was happening on the field. You learned to give him space on those days, to not take it personally when he barely responded to your texts or when his kisses felt more perfunctory rather than passionate.

He was better than he had been the past couple of months—less prone to the kind of bitter comments that had stung so badly at Derek’s—but there was still something guarded about him that hadn’t been there during those perfect summer weeks.

The weekend you’d gone home to visit your family had crystallized in your confusion in a way that left you more unsettled than before. You’d been complaining about having to make the drive alone, how they’d ask why you looked so tired, whether you were taking care of yourself, when Joe looked up from the textbook he was reading.

“I could come with you,” he said casually like he was suggesting grabbing lunch rather than meeting your family. “Might be fun to see where you grew up.”

You stared at him, completely blindsided by the suggestion. Meeting family felt like a relationship milestone, the kind of thing people did when they were serious about each other, when they were ready to integrate their lives in meaningful ways.

But the way Joe said it, so offhandedly without any apparent awareness of the significance—had left you completely unsure whether he was joking or not.

“You want to meet my family?” 

“Sure, why not?”

The comment left you spending the entire three hour drive home and whole weekend analyzing his tone, trying to figure out if he was serious. Did he want to meet your family because he saw a future with you, or was he just being friendly? Was this his way of telling you he was ready to take things to the next level, or had it genuinely been a throwaway comment with no deeper meaning? You returned to campus more confused than when you left, and when Joe asked how the weekend went, you were too embarrassed to bring up his offer again. 

Then, there were the mysterious absences. Three different times this month, Joe had cancelled plans with vague explanations about “meetings” or “taking care of some stuff.” When you asked for details, he’d been evasive in a way that wasn’t quite suspicious but wasn’t entirely reassuring either. 

“Just meeting with some people,” he claimed when you pressed him about missing your study date the previous Tuesday. “Nothing interesting.” But Joe’s definition of “not interesting” was usually things like mandatory team meetings or academic advisory check-ins—things he’d normally complain about in detail. The fact that he was being so deliberately vague made you wonder if something bigger was going on, something he didn’t want to share with you.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe you were reading too much into normal college guy behavior, letting your own insecurities turn innocent omissions into evidence of him pulling away. But the doubt had taken root anyway, adding another layer of uncertainty to everything between you.

Through it all, you'd been trying to navigate the increasingly demanding second half of the semester. Organic chemistry had somehow gotten even more brutal, and you'd been spending most of your free time in the library, surrounded by reaction mechanisms and molecular structures. 

The internship applications your dad had threatened you about were finally submitted, but the constant pressure to stay on top of everything academic while also trying to figure out your relationship with Joe was exhausting in a way that left you drained by the end of each day.

Now, sitting at your desk trying to make sense of a particularly complex synthesis problem, you feel that familiar weight settling in your chest. The late afternoon light is already fading outside your room window, and you have a stats problem set due tomorrow that you haven't even started.

You're so absorbed in the chemical equation in front of you that the knock on your door makes you jump. McKenna and Iris are both at work, and Ariella is at her boyfriend’s place, so you're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it entirely—you really need to finish this homework, and unexpected visitors rarely bring good news.

But the knocking comes again, more insistent this time, and you reluctantly push back from your desk.

Joe is standing in your doorway holding a bouquet of wildflowers—the same mix of sunflowers, daisies, and those little purple flowers whose names you never learned that he used to buy you every week at the farmers market. They're slightly wilted around the edges, clearly picked up at the end of a long day, but they're beautiful in the imperfect way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," he says, and there's something almost shy about his expression, like he's not entirely sure how this gesture will be received.

"Hi," you echo, stepping aside to let him in. "What's this for?"

"Last farmers market of the year was today," he explains, following you toward your room. "Figured you might want these."

The simple explanation warms you. You'd completely forgotten that the farmers market season was ending, had been so caught up in homework and relationship uncertainty that you'd lost track of the small rhythms that had once structured your weeks with Joe. But he'd remembered. He'd gone without you, had thought to buy the same flowers he always bought you, had shown up at your door because he knew it would matter to you.

"You went without me?" you ask, settling onto your bed and watching as he sets the flowers on your nightstand with careful attention.

"You've been swamped with that organic chemistry stuff," he says, sitting down beside you. "Didn't want to bother you."

It’s like he's trying not to make you feel guilty for being busy, but also maybe like he's gotten used to doing things alone that you used to do together.

"You should have told me," you say softly. "I would have made time."

Joe looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment his expression is so open and vulnerable that it takes your breath away. "I wanted to surprise you," he admits.

He leans over and kisses you then, gentle and sweet and tasting like the promise of better days ahead. When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a gesture that feels both familiar and new.

"I have about an hour before I need to get back for team dinner," he says. "Want to put these in water and tell me about your chemistry homework?"

You laugh, surprising yourself with how natural it feels. "It's organic chemistry, and it's terrible, and you're going to be so bored."

"Try me," he says, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe he really means it.

As you get up to find a vase for the flowers, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your dresser. You look happier than you have in days, lighter somehow, and you realize that maybe Joe was right. Maybe this—the flowers, the honesty, the simple act of showing up—was exactly what you both needed.

December 17th, 2017

Can I come help with Christmas shopping tomorrow? Joe's text had come through the night before, when you were sprawled on your childhood bed dreading the inevitable mall chaos.

you want to drive 3 hours to go Christmas shopping? you'd texted back.

I want to spend the day with you. The shopping is just an excuse.

You'd fallen asleep smiling at your phone, and this morning you actually put effort into getting ready, choosing your favorite jeans and the sweater that makes your eyes look brighter. Your dad had left for work an hour ago, giving you a pointed look and reminding you that he'd be home by five.

Joe arrives right on time, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a white hoodie, carrying two coffee cups and wearing that slightly nervous smile that means he's more invested in this going well than he's letting on.

"You actually came," you say, stepping outside and accepting the coffee that you know without looking will be exactly how you like it.

"Told you I would," he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Ready to fight some crowds?"

Joe follows you through store after store with the patience of a saint, offering opinions when asked and staying diplomatically quiet when you're clearly overthinking things. At Williams Sonoma, he finds the perfect grilling set for your dad without you even having to explain what you're looking for.

"How did you know?" you ask, watching him examine the stainless steel tools with the kind of confidence that suggests he actually knows what he's talking about.

"My dad's got the same setup at home," Joe says. "Guys love this stuff. Makes them feel professional."

He insists on carrying all your bags, even when you protest that you can handle them yourself. At Bath & Body Works, he patiently waits while you agonize over scent combinations for your cousin, occasionally making comments that are surprisingly helpful for someone who probably hasn't set foot in the store before today.

"This one," he says, picking up a lotion. "Smells like you."

The observation makes your cheeks warm, especially when you realize he's right—it is similar to the perfume you usually wear.

Lunch is at the food court, which should feel like a strange place for what's essentially a date, but somehow doesn't. Joe seems genuinely interested in your stories about growing up here, about the summer job your dad made you get at the pretzel stand when you were sixteen, about the movie theater where you had your first kiss with Tommy Martinez in eighth grade.

"Should I be jealous of Tommy Martinez?" he asks, stealing one of your french fries.

"Probably not. He had braces and tasted like popcorn."

"Good to know I'm an improvement."

The afternoon continues in the same easy rhythm. Joe helps you pick out a scarf for your aunt, talks you out of buying the obviously overpriced earrings you're considering for your cousin, and somehow makes waiting in the endless gift-wrapping lines feel less like torture and more like an excuse to stand close to him while Christmas music plays overhead.

"Thank you," you say as you walk back to his truck, arms full of perfectly wrapped presents and shopping bags. "For driving all the way here just to help me shop for people you don't even know."

"I wanted to see where you grew up," Joe says, loading the bags into his truck bed with careful attention. "And I like doing things like this with you. Normal stuff."

The word 'normal' hits you in a way you don't expect. Because this does feel normal, domestic in the best possible way. Like something you could get used to doing together.

The drive back to your house is quiet and comfortable, Joe's hand finds yours across the center console while some Christmas song plays softly on the radio. The winter sun is already starting to set, casting everything in that golden light that makes even the suburbs of your hometown look magical.

"My dad might be home," you say as Joe parks in your driveway. 

"Is he going to give me the intimidating father talk?" Joe asks, but he's smiling like the prospect doesn't really worry him.

"Probably just the intimidating father stare," you say. "He's not much for talking."

Joe gathers your shopping bags from the truck bed, insisting on carrying them even though you could manage them yourself. You're still protesting when you open the front door and freeze.

Your dad is sitting at the dining room table, but he's not alone. Michael is there too, along with his fiancée Sarah, all of them looking up as you walk in with Joe behind you carrying an armload of shopping bags.

"Hey," you say awkwardly.

Your dad's expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the way his eyes take in Joe's presence, the shopping bags, the obvious fact that you've spent the entire day together. There's something in his posture that reminds you of every lecture you've ever gotten about focusing on your future instead of getting distracted by boys.

"Dad, this is Joe," you say, stepping aside so Joe can set the bags down. "Joe, this is my dad. And my brother Michael and his fiancé Sarah."

Joe steps forward with the kind of confident politeness that you know comes from years of meeting coaches and boosters and other people whose opinions matter. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad stands up and shakes Joe's hand, his grip probably firmer than necessary, his expression giving away nothing. "Joe."

"And you must be Michael," Joe continues, turning to your brother. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thanks," Michael says, and you can see the moment he makes the connection. "Wait, Joe Burrow? Ohio State football?"

Something changes in Joe's expression, a subtle shift that you probably wouldn't notice if you hadn't been watching him so closely. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"That's awesome, man. You have plans for next season? I heard this one wasn’t the one for you."

The question hangs in the air, and you watch as Joe goes slightly pale, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I'm not sure yet," he says, his voice carefully even. "Still figuring things out."

There's something in his tone that suggests this is territory he doesn't want to explore, and you feel a sudden protective urge to change the subject. But before you can say anything, your dad speaks up.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Joe," he says, his tone polite but distant. "I assume you'll be heading back home soon."

It's not quite a dismissal, but it's close enough that you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Joe, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed.

"Yes sir, probably in the next hour or so. Don't want to drive too late."

The conversation continues for a few more awkward minutes, your dad asking polite but pointed questions about Joe's major and his plans after graduation, Michael making small talk about football that seems to make Joe increasingly uncomfortable. 

Finally, mercifully, Joe glances at his watch and announces that he should probably get going.

"I'll walk you out," you say quickly, grabbing your coat and following him outside before anyone can object.

The December air is sharp and cold, but it feels like a relief after the tension of your family's dining room. "That was fun," he says dryly, but he's smiling in a way that suggests he's not entirely put off by the experience.

"My dad's just protective," you say, even though you know it was more than that. "And Michael... he doesn't really know when to stop asking questions."

"It's fine," Joe says, but you can see something thoughtful in his expression, like he's processing more than he's saying.

"Are you okay? About the football stuff, I mean. You seemed—"

"I'm fine," Joe cuts you off gently, but firmly. "Just not really something I want to get into right now, you know?"

You nod, even though you have a dozen more questions you want to ask. Instead, you step closer to him, close enough that you can see your breath mingling in the cold air.

"Thank you for today," you say softly. "For driving all the way here, for helping me shop, for being so patient with my family. It was perfect."

"Even the awkward dinner table interrogation?"

"Especially that," you say, and when he laughs, the sound makes something warm bloom in your chest despite the cold.

Joe reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I had a really good day," he says. "I like seeing you here. In your space."

"I like having you here."

He leans down and kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate you shared at the mall. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

"Drive safe," you whisper.

"Always do," he says, stepping back toward his truck. "Text me when you get the rest of those presents wrapped."

"That's going to be a very late text."

"I'll wait up."

January 18th, 2018

The coffee shop near campus buzzes with the familiar energy of the first full week back from winter break—students catching up on holiday stories, comparing spring schedules, and settling back into the rhythm of campus life. You're sitting at your usual table by the window, the one that gets good sunlight, watching for Joe through the glass while absently scrolling through your phone.

The past week has been a whirlwind of syllabus collection and textbook purchasing. Your schedule is packed this time—organic chemistry II, advanced statistics, two psychology electives, and the internship seminar that goes along with the position you'd finally landed over break. The internship your dad had been pushing you toward since sophomore year.

When you'd gotten the acceptance email three days after New Year's, you'd immediately thought about telling Joe. Not just because it was good news, but because it felt like the kind of thing you'd want to share with someone who understood how much pressure you'd been under.

Joe pushes through the coffee shop door at exactly two-thirty, scanning the crowded space until his eyes find yours. He's wearing the navy blue henley you bought him for Christmas, the one that makes his eyes look even more blue than usual, and his hair is slightly messy from the January wind. When he spots you, his face breaks into a genuine smile, and for a moment it feels exactly like it used to—like summer, like possibility, like everything is exactly as it should be.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from you and shrugging out of his jacket. "Sorry, meeting ran long. Coach is really pushing hard this off-season."

"It's fine," you say, and you mean it. You've learned to build extra time into any plans involving Joe and football. "I ordered for you—medium black coffee with one sugar. That's still right, isn't it?"

"Perfect," he says, and the grateful look he gives you makes something warm bloom in your chest. 

You talk easily about surface things at first—smaller details about your respective winter breaks went, complaints about professors who assigned textbooks that cost more than your monthly grocery budget, the way campus feels different in January with all the fresh snow and new semester energy. 

Joe tells you about the team's winter conditioning program, about Derek's New Year's party that apparently got so out of hand the neighbors called the police, about his mom's attempts to feed him enough food over break to last the entire spring semester.

"She sent me back with like six containers of leftovers," he says, laughing. "I'm pretty sure she thinks the dining halls are trying to starve me."

"Moms are like that," you say, thinking about how your own dad had lectured you about eating enough vegetables.

There's a natural lull in the conversation, and you find yourself fidgeting with your coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the table. The news about your internship feels too big to keep to yourself, but you're also nervous about how Joe will react. Not because you think he won't be happy for you, but because good news sometimes highlights the uncertain areas of your own life, and you're not sure where Joe fits into your post-graduation plans.

"I got some good news over break," you say finally, unable to contain your excitement any longer. "Remember that internship I applied for? The one downtown? They offered me a position for this summer."

Joe's face lights up immediately, genuinely pleased in a way that makes your chest tight with affection. "That's amazing! I know how much you wanted that one. Your dad must be thrilled."

"Oh, he's practically planning the celebration dinner already," you say with a laugh. "I think he's more excited than I am. He keeps talking about how it's going to 'open doors' and 'set me up for success after graduation.'"

"He's probably right," Joe says, stirring his coffee even though he hasn't added anything to it. "That's a really big deal. Competitive program, right?"

"Super competitive. I honestly didn't think I'd get it." You pause, watching his face carefully. "It's going to be a lot of work on top of classes this semester, but it feels like the right move. You know, getting serious about what comes after all this."

You let the comment hang in the air, not quite a question but definitely an opening. A door that invites someone to share their own thoughts about the future, their own plans for what comes after graduation. You find yourself holding your breath slightly, waiting to see if Joe will walk through it.

But he doesn't. Instead, he takes a long sip of his coffee and nods thoughtfully. "That's really great. You're going to be amazing at it."

The moment passes, and you feel smaller. Full of not disappointment, exactly, but something like it.

"Thanks," you say, trying to keep the moment light. "I'm nervous, but excited. It feels good to have something concrete lined up, you know?"

"Absolutely," Joe agrees, but there's something in his tone that suggests the conversation is closed, that he's not going to offer up any information about his own post-grad thoughts.

You pivot to safer topics after that—asking about his classes this semester, listening to him describe the new playbook they're learning, sharing your own fears about organic chemistry II and whether you'll be able to handle the increased workload.

Joe seems more careful with his words than usual, more measured in a way that feels unlike the easy openness you'd grown accustomed to over the past months. He's present and engaged, asking questions about your classes and laughing at your stories about your roommates' various winter break adventures, but there's something held back in his responses, some part of himself that feels guarded.

When he asks about your Christmas shopping purchases and whether your family liked everything you picked out, you tell him about your dad's reaction to the grilling set, about how your aunt had called to thank you for the scarf you'd chosen. The conversation feels comfortable and familiar, but you notice that Joe doesn't bring up meeting your family, doesn't reference that day in the same warm, nostalgic way you'd expected.

Maybe you're overthinking it. Maybe the semester starting has just put him back in football mode, made him more focused on the immediate demands of school and athletics. Maybe the distance you're sensing isn't distance at all, just the natural adjustment period that comes with transitioning back to busy schedules and competing priorities.

An hour passes easily, and when Joe glances at the time and mentions that he should probably head back, you do feel a pang of disappointment this time. 

"I should get going too," you say, gathering your jacket. "Professor Williams wants us to have the first three chapters read before class tomorrow."

"Already kicking your ass?" Joe asks with a grin, standing up and helping you organize your things.

"Oh, absolutely. I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend the next four months feeling like I'm drowning."

"You're not going to drown," Joe says with the kind of confidence that makes you believe him. "You're too stubborn to let some class beat you."

Outside the coffee shop, the weather is the sort that makes you want to walk fast and get indoors as quickly as possible. Joe walks you to your car, carrying your bag without being asked, and when you reach your driver's side door, he pulls you into a hug.

"It's good to see you," he says into your hair, and the warmth in his voice makes something loosen in your chest. "I missed this. Just talking."

"Me too," you say, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cold winter air. "We should do this more often. Regular coffee dates."

"I'd like that," Joe says, pulling back to look at you. He kisses you goodbye, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee, and when he pulls away, his hand lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Drive safe," he says, stepping back so you can get in your car.

"Always do," you reply, echoing the exchange that's become routine between you.

As you drive back to campus, you find yourself thinking about the afternoon, trying to parse the feeling that something was slightly off without being able to identify what exactly it was. 

You push the thought away as you climb the stairs to your room. Whatever it is, it's probably nothing that can't be worked through with time and patience. After all, you've navigated harder things together—his injury, the pressures of football season, the complicated dynamics of balancing school with whatever this relationship is becoming.

Some things just take time to settle, you tell yourself. Some conversations happen when they're ready to happen, not when you're ready to have them.

March 25th, 2018

The sunlight filtering through Joe’s room window has that wishful quality that only comes in late March, when winter is finally loosening its grip and spring feels like a real possibility rather than just a distant promise. You're curled up against him on his couch, your legs tangled with his, both of you supposedly studying but really just enjoying the quiet comfort of being together.

Your textbook lies open but mostly ignored in your lap while Joe scrolls through something on his laptop—film study, probably, or maybe just checking his email. The past few weeks have settled into a rhythm that feels both familiar and slightly strained, like a song played in a key that's almost but not quite right.

Spring break had come and gone with both of you staying in town—you because your internship required you to start early, Joe because of other obligations. You'd spent most of that week together, falling back into some semblance of the easy intimacy you'd shared during the summer, but even then, there had been moments when you'd catch him staring off into space with an expression you couldn't dissect.

Now, with graduation looming just six weeks away, the campus has taken on that particular energy that comes at the end of senior year—a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and excited anticipation that makes everything feel both urgent and dreamlike. Your friends have been talking nonstop about post-graduation plans, about job offers and graduate school applications and the terrifying prospect of real adulthood.

"McKenna got that job in Chicago," you say, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "The one at the nonprofit she was hoping for. She's already looking at apartments."

"That's great," Joe says, glancing up from his laptop screen. "She'll love Chicago. Big city, lots to do."

"Yeah, she's really excited. Says she's ready to get out of Ohio, try something completely different." You pause, turning a page in your textbook without really seeing the words. "Iris is probably moving back home to Cleveland. Her mom's been on her about staying close to family."

Joe makes a noncommittal humming sound. You've been noticing that lately—the way he deflects conversations about the future, changes the subject when talk turns to post-graduation plans.

"What about you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual even though the question feels heavier than it should. "Have you figured out what you want to do after graduation?"

The question hangs in the air between you, and you feel Joe's body tense slightly against yours. He doesn't look up from his laptop immediately, and when he does, there's something carefully neutral about his expression.

"Oh, you know me," he says with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll probably just wing it. See what happens."

The deflection is so obviously a deflection that it makes your chest tighten with frustration. You've been together for almost a year now, have shared things with each other that you've never told anyone else, and yet when it comes to something as basic as his plans for the immediate future, he's treating you like a casual acquaintance.

"Come on," you say, shifting so you can look at him directly. "I'm serious. You have to have some idea. Are you going to try to stay in Ohio? Look for jobs here? I mean, we're graduating in six weeks."

Joe closes his laptop and sets it aside, but instead of meeting your eyes, he focuses on the coffee table in front of him. "I don't know," he says finally. "There are a lot of variables. Football stuff, you know? It's complicated."

"What kind of football stuff?" you press, because this vague non-answer feels worse than no answer at all. "Are you thinking about a corporate job somewhere? Or coaching? You've never really talked about what you want to do after college."

"Because I don't know," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes you pull back slightly. "I don't have some grand plan mapped out, okay? Some of us can't just land the perfect internship and have everything figured out."

The comment stings more than it should, especially because you know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds. Your internship hasn't been perfect—it's been demanding and stressful and has made this semester feel like you're constantly playing catch-up. But more than that, his deflection hurts because it feels like a wall going up between you, a barrier that keeps you from accessing the part of him that used to feel completely open to you.

"I don't have everything figured out," you say quietly. "I'm just as scared as everyone else about what comes next. But I thought... I thought we could talk about it. Together."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you've learned to recognize as a sign that he's frustrated or feeling cornered. "Look, can we just not do this right now? I've got enough pressure from coaches and advisors and everyone else asking about my plans. I don't need it from you too."

The words hit like a slap, and you feel your face flush with a combination of hurt and embarrassment. You're not "everyone else"—you're supposed to be the person he can talk to about the things that worry him, the person who understands the pressure he's under better than anyone.

"I'm not pressuring you," you say, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. "I'm trying to have a conversation about our futures. That's what people in relationships do."

"Are we in a relationship?" Joe asks, and the question is so unexpected, so blindsiding, that for a moment you can't find words to respond.

"What do you mean?" you finally manage, your voice smaller than you intended.

Joe immediately looks stricken, like he can't believe he just said what he said. "Shit, I didn't... that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured in a way that feels rehearsed. "I just meant that we've never really defined what this is. And with graduation coming up, with everything changing... maybe it's better to not make assumptions about what happens next."

The rational part of your brain understands what he's saying. You have never officially defined your relationship, have never had the "what are we" conversation that turns casual dating into something more serious. But the emotional part of you is reeling from the suggestion that almost a year of shared moments, of him meeting your family, of matching tattoos and late-night conversations and sex, might not mean what you thought it meant.

"So what are we then?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds despite the chaos in your chest. "What would you call this?"

Joe meets your eyes for the first time since the conversation started, and the expression you see there is so conflicted, so full of something that looks like pain.

Did it pain him to think about this?

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I wish I did, but I don't know."

The honesty in his voice is almost worse than the deflection had been. At least when he was being evasive, you could tell yourself that he was just being private, just processing things in his own way. But this admission—that after everything you've shared, he genuinely doesn't know what you are to each other—feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You sit in silence for several minutes, both of you staring at different points in the room, both of you clearly trying to figure out what to say next. The evening light has faded to dusk while you've been talking, and Joe's room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have moved closer together.

"I should probably go," you say finally, closing your textbook and gathering your things. "I have that paper due tomorrow anyway."

"You don't have to leave," Joe says, but there's no real conviction in his voice. "We can just... watch a movie or something. Forget about all this."

"I think I need some space to think," you say, standing up and slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "About what you said. About what this is."

Joe stands too, following you toward the door with the kind of careful distance that suggests he's not sure whether you want him close or far away. "I really didn't mean for it to come out like that," he says as you reach for your jacket. "About the relationship thing. That was... I was being an idiot."

"Were you though?" you ask, pausing with your hand on the doorknob. "Because maybe you're right. Maybe we have been making assumptions."

"Don't do this," Joe says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Don't let one stupid conversation mess up everything good between us."

"I'm not trying to mess anything up," you say, turning to face him. "I'm just trying to understand what we're doing here. What we've been doing for the past year."

Joe steps closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the laundry detergent you've learned to associate with comfort and safety.

"What we've been doing is being happy," he says softly. "At least, I've been happy. Haven't you?"

The question breaks something open in you, because yes, you have been happy. Happier than you've ever been with anyone, happier than you knew was possible. But happiness without direction, without some sense of where it's leading, feels suddenly fragile in a way that scares you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I have been happy."

"Then why does everything else have to matter right now?" Joe asks, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Why can't we just be happy?"

You lean into his touch despite yourself, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the feeling of his palm against your skin. "Because eventually everything else does matter," you say. "Because we're graduating in six weeks, and I don't know if you're going to be here next year, and I don't know what that means for us."

"We'll figure it out," Joe says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out."

You want to believe him. You want to sink into the comfort of his touch and the familiar warmth of his voice and let tomorrow worry about itself. But something has shifted tonight, some fundamental understanding about what you mean to each other and what kind of future you're building together.

"I hope so," you say, pulling away from his touch and opening the door. "I really hope so."

The drive back to your house feels longer than usual, and you spend most of it replaying the conversation in your mind, trying to figure out where exactly things went wrong. By the time you're climbing the stairs to your room, you're no closer to understanding what just happened, but you're absolutely certain that something important has changed between you and Joe.

Something that you're not sure can be unchanged, no matter how much you both might want it to be.

May 8th, 2018

The organic chemistry textbook in front of you might as well be written in a different language for all the sense it's making right now. You've been staring at the same page about molecular orbital theory for the past twenty minutes, your brain too fried from three consecutive days of studying to absorb any new information. 

Finals week is in full swing, and your room has taken on the chaotic appearance of someone who's given up on maintaining any semblance of organization in favor of pure academic survival.

Coffee cups in various stages of emptiness sit scattered across your desk alongside highlighters, note cards, and the remnants of the granola bar you'd optimistically thought would count as lunch. Your roommates are similarly buried in their own academic disasters—McKenna camped out in the library for her senior thesis defense prep, Iris stress-eating her way through a statistics final, and Ariella having what she calls a "controlled breakdown" over her capstone project in the room next door.

You reach for your phone, telling yourself you're just checking the time but really looking for any excuse to avoid thinking about molecular orbitals for another few minutes. The blue light of the screen makes you blink as you scroll aimlessly through social media, your thumb moving automatically through the endless stream of posts about finals stress, summer excitement, and graduation countdown posts.

That's when you see it.

@JoeyB has posted a new tweet, and your heart does that automatic little flutter it always does when you see his name pop up unexpectedly. You and Joe have been in a weird place since that conversation at his apartment in March—still talking, still hanging out occasionally with friend groups or meeting for coffee, but everything feels more careful now, more surface-level. You've been existing in that strange space where you're not quite together but not exactly apart either, having pleasant conversations about classes and finals while carefully avoiding anything deeper.

Just last week you'd run into him at the campus coffee shop and ended up sitting together for an hour, talking in the cautious way of two people who used to share everything but now aren't sure what's safe territory. It had been nice, comfortable even, and you'd left feeling like maybe you were both finding your way back to some version of friendship, even if the romantic uncertainty remained unresolved.

You tap on the tweet without thinking, expecting maybe a joke about finals or a complaint about spring practice. Instead, you find yourself staring at words that don't immediately make sense, like your brain is refusing to process their meaning.

Excited to be playing in Death Valley next season. Ready to get to work.

You read it once. Twice. Three times, each pass making the words feel more surreal and impossible. There's a photo attached—Joe in an LSU baseball cap, grinning at the camera with the kind of genuine excitement you haven't seen from him in months. He looks happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy in a way that makes something cold and sharp twist in your stomach.

Death Valley. LSU. A thousand miles away from Ohio. Joe is leaving—not just Ohio State, but you too. And you’re finding out like any random stranger on Twitter.

Your phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto your desk with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet of your room. The molecular orbital diagrams blur together as your eyes fill with tears you don't remember starting to cry, and for a moment you can't breathe around the weight of what you've just learned.

He's leaving. Joe is leaving Ohio State, leaving Ohio, leaving everything and everyone here, and he didn't tell you. After a year of shared secrets and matching tattoos and nights spent talking about everything and nothing, after meeting your family and driving three hours just to help you Christmas shop, after spending endless nights together and promising that you'd figure things out together—after all of that, you found out about the most important decision of his life the same way a stranger would.

The betrayal hits you hard, settling in your chest and making it hard to draw a full breath. You think about all those conversations over the past few months, all the times you'd asked about his plans and he'd deflected or changed the subject or gotten defensive about the pressure he was under. You think about that horrible night in March when he'd asked if you were even in a relationship, the way he'd looked so conflicted and pained when you'd pushed him for answers about what you meant to each other.

Now you understand. He'd looked conflicted because he was lying to your face. He'd been pained because he already knew he was leaving and was apparently too much of a coward to tell you.

Your laptop dings with a notification, probably another email about finals scheduling or graduation ceremony details, but you can't bring yourself to look at it. Instead, you find yourself opening your text conversation with Joe, scrolling back through months of messages that now feel like evidence of your own naivety.

how was practice? you'd texted three days ago.

Long but good, he'd replied. Hope your studying is going well.

Such a normal, friendly exchange.

The worst part—worse than the public humiliation of finding out via Twitter, worse than the months of lies and deflection—is the silence that follows. 

You keep waiting for your phone to buzz with a text from Joe, some kind of explanation or apology or acknowledgment that maybe he should have told you about this directly. 

You wait through the rest of Tuesday afternoon, checking your phone compulsively between half-hearted attempts to study. 

You wait through Wednesday, telling yourself that maybe he's been busy with transfer paperwork or family calls or any of the dozen legitimate reasons someone might have for not immediately reaching out to the girl they've been sort-of dating for a year.

By Thursday, the waiting has transformed into something else entirely. A cold, clear understanding that settles in your chest like ice water. Joe isn’t going to call. Or text. Or explain. The silence is your answer.

The silence isn't an oversight or a moment of thoughtlessness. It's deliberate. It's his answer to every question you've asked about your relationship over the past few months, his response to your concerns about the future and what you mean to each other.

You don't mean enough to him to warrant a conversation about his decision. You never did.

Thursday night, you finally allow yourself to truly process what this all means. Joe has been planning this for months—you can tell from the professional quality of the announcement, from the way the LSU athletics Twitter account immediately reposted his message with what's clearly prepared graphics and welcome statements. This isn't a last-minute decision made in response to some sudden opportunity. This is something he's been working toward, probably since winter break, definitely since before that conversation in March when you'd asked about his plans and he'd gotten defensive about pressure.

He's been lying to you for months. Not just avoiding difficult conversations or being private about his thought process, but actively deceiving you about his intentions and his future. Every time you'd brought up graduation plans, every time you'd tried to talk about what came next for both of you, he'd been sitting on this secret, letting you wonder and worry and make assumptions about a future that he already knew wasn't going to include you.

The tattoo on your wrist feels like it's burning. 

Finals week continues around you in a blur of stress and exhaustion and the kind of forced normalcy that comes from having to function when your personal life has imploded. You take your organic chemistry exam and your statistics final and your psychology research methods test, going through the motions of being a student while feeling like you're watching your life from a distance.

Your phone never buzzes with Joe's name. He never calls to explain, never texts to apologize, never even sends one of those awkward "hey, I know this is weird but I wanted you to hear this from me" messages that would at least acknowledge that you were once important enough to warrant direct communication.

The silence is its own answer. 

Sunday night, a week after the initial tweet, you finally allow yourself to feel the full weight of what's happened. Not just that Joe is leaving—though that hurts more than you want to admit—but that he apparently never considered you significant enough to deserve honesty about his plans. 

While you were falling in love with him, building your sense of future around the possibility of him being in it, he was planning his exit strategy and never once thought to include you in that conversation.

You cry harder than you have since you were a child, the kind of sobbing that leaves you exhausted and hollow and strangely empty. And then, finally, you delete his number from your phone.

Not because you're angry, though you are. Not because you want to hurt him the way he's hurt you, though part of you does. But because keeping his number feels like holding onto the hope that he might explain or apologize. 

And you're beginning to understand that he never will. This is Joe's goodbye—a public announcement and then silence. 

May 18th, 2018

The beach is full of hundreds of new Ohio State graduates scattered across the sand, some still donning their caps, the formal graduation ceremony having given way to an impromptu celebration that stretches as far as you can see along the shoreline. 

Coolers of alcohol appear and disappear, someone's brought speakers that blast music over the sound of waves, and everywhere you look, people are taking pictures and hugging and crying happy tears about the end of one chapter and the beginning of whatever comes next.

You should feel celebratory. After four years of hard work, questionable life choices, and more stress than you care to remember, you're finally done. You have your degree, your job that starts in two weeks, and a future that feels more concrete than it has in months. 

Your friends are ecstatic—McKenna keeps talking about her move to Chicago, Iris has been crying happy tears on and off all day, and Ariella is already planning elaborate post-graduation trips that none of you can afford but all of you want to take anyway.

But sitting here in the sand with your graduation cap beside you and your dress tucked carefully around your legs, you feel sad in a way that has nothing to do with the normal melancholy of endings and everything to do with the person-shaped absence that's been following you around for the past ten days.

Ten days of complete silence from Joe, ten days of watching your phone not ring and checking social media for any sign that he's thinking about the people he's leaving behind. Ten days of your friends asking carefully if you're okay while pretending they haven't seen the LSU announcement that's still being shared around Ohio State social media like some kind of local celebrity gossip.

You'd gotten through graduation itself by focusing on the ceremony, on your families’ proud faces in the crowd, on the surreal feeling of walking across that stage and shaking hands with the dean. But now, surrounded by  your entire class saying goodbye to college, the weight of everything unsaid and unresolved feels impossible to ignore.

"I'm going to get another drink," you tell McKenna, pushing yourself up from the sand. "You want anything?"

"I'm good," she says, barely looking up from the elaborate group selfie she's trying to coordinate with some girls from your psychology program. "Take your time."

You wander away from the main cluster of your friends, ostensibly heading toward the coolers set up near the parking lot but really just needing some space to breathe. The beach extends in both directions, and you find yourself walking toward the quieter end, where the crowd thins out and you can actually hear the waves over the music and laughter.

You settle into the sand a safe distance from the party. The moon is starting to rise, painting everything in those silver tones that make even the most ordinary moments feel significant, and for the first time all day, you allow yourself to really sit with everything you're feeling.

Grief, mostly. Not just for Joe, but for the version of your future you'd been imagining. You'd known, logically, that college relationships often don't survive the transition to real life, but you'd thought what you had was different. Special enough to at least warrant a conversation about whether it was worth trying to maintain.

Apparently, you'd been wrong about that.

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear footsteps in the sand behind you until someone settles down beside you with a soft thud. When you look over, your heart stops.

Joe is sitting next to you, close enough that you can smell his familiar cologne mixed with the salt air, far enough away that there's no risk of accidental contact. He's changed out of his graduation attire and he looks tired in a way that goes beyond the normal exhaustion of a long day. His hair is messy from the wind, and there are lines around his eyes that you don't remember being there before.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both stare out at the water, watching the waves roll in and recede, the rhythm hypnotic and somehow soothing despite the tension crackling between you. You're acutely aware of his presence, of the way he's sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, of the careful distance he's maintaining even though he chose to sit beside you.

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable, and finally, you can't stand it anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice quieter than you'd meant but still audible over the sound of the waves.

Joe doesn't answer immediately. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, the grains catching the light as they fall. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much lately.

"I didn't think it would matter," he says.

The words are so devastating in their casual dismissal that for a moment you can't breathe. You stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain what he could possibly mean by that, but he just keeps staring at the water like he's said something perfectly reasonable.

"You didn't think it would matter?" you repeat, and you can hear the edge creeping into your voice. "You didn't think that leaving the state would matter to me? To us?"

"There is no us," Joe says, still not looking at you. "You said it yourself—we never defined what this was. We were just... hanging out. Having fun."

"Hanging out?" you say, turning to face him fully. "Is that what you call a year of this? The tattoos were just hanging out? Meeting my family was just hanging out? Sleeping together was just hanging out?"

Joe finally looks at you then, and there's something defensive in his expression that makes you want to scream. "We agreed we weren't putting labels on anything. We agreed to keep it casual."

"When?" you demand. "When did we agree to that? Because I remember having a lot of conversations about what we were to each other, and most of them ended with you deflecting or changing the subject. I remember you asking me if we were even in a relationship like it was some kind of ridiculous question."

"Because it was complicated," Joe says, his voice rising slightly. "Because I didn't know what I was doing with football, with school, with any of it. I told you I was figuring things out."

"You weren't figuring anything out," you shoot back, standing up abruptly and brushing sand off your dress. "You already knew. You'd already decided to transfer, probably months ago, and you just didn't bother to tell me. You let me think we were working toward something when you'd already checked out."

Joe stands too, his jaw tight with frustration. "I didn't lie to you. I never promised you anything."

"You didn't have to promise me anything," you say, and you can feel tears starting to burn behind your eyes. "But you could have been honest. You could have told me you were planning to leave instead of letting me find out on Twitter like some random stranger."

"Would it have changed anything?" Joe asks, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. "If I'd told you in January that I was thinking about transferring, would that have made this any easier?"

"It would have given me a choice," you say quietly. "It would have let me decide whether I wanted to spend the last few months of college falling in love with someone who was planning to disappear."

The words hang in the air between you, and you see something flicker across Joe's face—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something that might be regret. But when he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.

"I never asked you to fall in love with me," he says.

The statement is so cruel, so deliberately cutting, that it takes your breath away. You stare at him, looking for some sign that he understands how devastating those words are, but his expression is closed off, guarded in a way that makes him look like a stranger.

"No," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tears that are now falling freely down your cheeks. "You didn't ask. You just let it happen. You let me think that what we had meant something to you, that I meant something to you. But I guess I was wrong about that."

"That's not—" Joe starts, but you cut him off.

"Do you know what the worst part is?" you continue, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's not that you're leaving. I could have understood that. It's not even that you didn't tell me directly. It's that you genuinely don't understand why any of this matters. You really think that a year of my life, a year of us, was just casual enough that your leaving wouldn't affect me at all."

Joe opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but no words come out. He just stands there looking lost and frustrated and entirely unwilling to acknowledge that he might have handled this badly.

"I loved you," you say quietly, and the past tense feels like swallowing glass. "I loved you, and you knew that, and you decided it wasn't worth a conversation before you moved on with your life."

"It's not that simple," Joe says finally, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes, it is," you reply. "It really is that simple. You could have talked to me. You could have included me in the decision, or at least in the conversation about the decision. You could have treated me like I mattered to you."

"You do matter to me," Joe says, and for the first time in this conversation, his voice cracks slightly.

"No," you say, stepping back from him. "I don't. And that's okay, I guess. But I wish you'd been honest about that from the beginning instead of letting me think this was something it wasn't." Joe reaches out like he wants to touch your arm, but you move away before he can make contact. "Don't," you say. "Just... don't."

You can see the exact moment he realizes that this conversation isn't going to end with reconciliation or understanding or any kind of resolution that leaves you both feeling better. His hand drops to his side, and his shoulders slump slightly, like he's finally understanding the weight of what's happening here.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That was never what I wanted."

"I know," you say, and you mean it. "But wanting something and making sure it doesn't happen are two different things."

You look at him one more time, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the expression of confused regret that he's wearing like he genuinely doesn't understand how things got this bad. You try to memorize it, this last image of him, because you know that after tonight, you'll never see him again.

"I hope LSU is everything you want it to be," you say finally. "I hope it was worth it."

And then you turn and walk away, leaving him sitting alone in the sand with the sound of the waves and the distant laughter of your graduating class. You don't look back, not even when you hear him call your name softly behind you.

By the time you rejoin your friends, you've composed yourself enough to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing has changed. But as the night goes on and the celebration continues around you, you find yourself thinking that this is how some stories end—with the quiet recognition that some people are simply incapable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.

And sometimes, walking away is the only choice that preserves any dignity at all.

September 2020

The cereal aisle at Kroger should not be this complicated, but here you are, standing on your tiptoes trying to reach the granola that's been placed on the highest shelf like some kind of elaborate psychological test. Your fingertips barely graze the box, and after the third failed attempt, you let out a frustrated huff.

"Seriously?" you mutter under your breath, glancing around for a store employee or even just a taller human being who might take pity on your situation.  

The store is unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon, filled with people stocking up for what the weather app promises will be the first real cold snap of the season. You'd only stopped in to grab a few essentials—coffee, bread, something that might pass for a healthy breakfast—but somehow you've been wandering the aisles for twenty minutes, your mind elsewhere as it often is these days.

You're reaching up one more time, determined to either get the granola or accept defeat, when you turn slightly to adjust your angle and find yourself face to face with someone you never expected to see in a Cincinnati grocery store.

Joe Burrow is standing three feet away from you, frozen in the middle of reaching for something on a lower shelf, his eyes wide with the same shock you're sure is written all over your face. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting for the other person to disappear or reveal themselves to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

But he doesn't disappear. He's very real, very much there, wearing joggers and a simple black t-shirt that shows off arms that are somehow even more muscular than you remember. His hair is shorter than it was in college, more professional, and there's a different quality to the way he carries himself—more confident, maybe, or just more settled in his own skin.

"Hi," he says finally, his voice exactly the same as it was two and a half years ago, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," you manage back, acutely aware that you're probably staring but unable to look away. "I didn't... what are you doing here?"

"Grocery shopping," Joe says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Same as you, I guess."

Right. Of course. You'd known, logically, that Joe was playing for Cincinnati now, had seen the news coverage and the social media posts about the promising young quarterback who was supposed to turn the franchise around. But knowing something intellectually and running into it in the cereal aisle of your neighborhood Kroger are apparently very different things.

"Right," you say, feeling heat creep up your neck. "The Bengals. I forgot you were... how is that going? The season?"

"Good," Joe says, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back. "I mean, it's going. We're working on it. Building something."

The conversation feels stilted in a way that conversations with Joe never used to feel, both of you carefully polite like you're strangers making small talk rather than people who once knew each other's bodies better than your own. You notice he's holding a basket with what looks like the contents of someone who's still figuring out how to grocery shop for himself—protein bars, bananas, a bag of pre-made salad that's probably three days past optimal freshness.

"That's great," you say, because what else is there to say? "I'm sure it's exciting. Playing professionally."

"Yeah, it's been a dream come true," Joe replies, but there's something automatic about the response, like it's something he's said in interviews a hundred times. His eyes flick over you, taking in your appearance. "You look good. Happy."

"Thanks," you say, suddenly self-conscious. "You too. You look... professional athlete-y."

Joe laughs at that, a genuine sound that reminds you so strongly of college that it makes your stomach flutter with muscle memory. "Professional athlete-y? That's definitely going on my resume."

For a moment, it feels almost easy between you, like you might be able to have a normal conversation despite everything that happened the last time you spoke. But then your eyes drift down to his hands as he adjusts his grip on the shopping basket, and you notice something that makes your breath catch.

He's wearing a wristband on his right arm. A simple red OSU band that wouldn't be remarkable except for the fact that you remember, with startling clarity, Joe telling you once that he never wore anything on his right wrist because of a scar he'd gotten as a kid, something about the way bands would catch on it and feel uncomfortable.

But there it is, covering exactly the spot where you know a small star is tattooed into his skin.

The realization hits you, and instinctively, you tug your right sleeve down further over your own wrist, covering the matching tattoo that you've considered getting covered up or removed at least a dozen times but never quite managed to follow through on.

Joe notices the gesture, his eyes following the movement, and for a second his expression shifts into something that looks almost guilty. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking, exactly what you've just figured out.

"So," you say quickly, desperate to fill the sudden tension with something, anything, that might make this feel less like a confrontation and more like a chance encounter between two adults who used to know each other. "How long have you been in Cincinnati?"

"Since June," Joe says. "Just got an apartment downtown. Still figuring out the city."

"It's nice," you offer. "Good food scene. The river's pretty."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

Another pause. You're both running out of safe small talk, approaching the territory where one of you will either have to acknowledge what happened between you or make an excuse to leave. You're leaning toward the latter when you hear footsteps behind you.

"There you are," a familiar voice says, and you turn to see Derek approaching with the bouquet of flowers you sent him off for. "I've been looking everywhere for— Joe?"

Derek stops short when he sees who you're talking to, his expression shifting through surprise, recognition, and something that might be n as he takes in the scene in front of him.

"Derek," Joe greets, and there's genuine warmth in his voice as he steps forward to shake Derek's hand. "How are you, man? It's been forever."

"Good, really good," Derek replies, though his eyes keep flicking between you and Joe like he's trying to figure out exactly what he's walked into. "I heard you were in Cincinnati now. That's awesome, congrats on making it to the NFL."

"Thanks," Joe smiles. "What about you? What brings you to Cincinnati?"

"Work," Derek says. "Got a job at a firm downtown about a year ago. Really liking it here."

You can see the exact moment Derek realizes that this conversation is about to get complicated, that there are layers of history here that he, even the best people pleaser you know, isn’t sure how to navigate.

"We should probably get going," Derek says, glancing at his watch. "Don't wanna be late to our own rehearsal dinner."

The words hang in the air, and you watch as Joe's face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, something that looks like he's been punched in the gut. The silence stretches uncomfortably as he processes what Derek just said, what he thinks Derek just said.

"Well," Derek continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Joe, "it was really nice seeing you, man. We ought to catch up soon."

"Yeah," Joe manages, his voice hoarse. "You too."

Derek gives a friendly wave and starts walking toward the registers. You stand there for a moment longer, caught between following Derek and staying to explain, watching as Joe stares after Derek's retreating figure with an expression you can't quite read.

After a minute, you follow Derek, but something makes you glance back over your shoulder. Joe is still standing in the cereal aisle, and when your eyes meet, you see something broken in his expression that makes your chest ache. He looks hurt in a way that reminds you of a kicked dog, confused and wounded and trying to understand what just happened.

You could have said something. Could have clarified, could have explained. But your feet keep moving toward the checkout, and you find yourself thinking about how it felt to discover his transfer plans via Twitter, how it felt to sit in that coffee shop talking about internships while he was hiding his entire future from you.

Part of you feels guilty for not saying more, for letting him walk away with whatever conclusions he's drawn. But there's another part—a smaller, uglier part that you're not proud of—that likes the look on his face.

It's petty and mean and not like you at all, but for just a moment, watching Joe Burrow look lost in a grocery store aisle feels like the universe settling a very old debt.

When you reach the checkout, McKenna is already there, holding a small vase and checking items off a list on her phone. She looks up when she sees you approaching. "There you are," she says. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

You let him in—because of course you did—and he was on you in seconds. There was no way you were going to push him off. You’ve been in love with him for the better part of a decade. 

It was hot and desperate. All teeth and tongue, and handprints seared into your skin—ones you know you’ll never forget the feeling of. You were both so fucking wrecked there was no stopping it. 

Not even when the condom obviously broke while he was putting it on. 

Not even when something deep in your chest told you this was a bad idea. 

But now? Three weeks later—you wish you’d had more restraint. 

Sure, it was awkward the next morning—after Tyler snuck out of your room at three a.m., thinking you hadn’t noticed. It stayed awkward for about a week, with neither of you daring to talk about it. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t bring it up. It was obviously just one night for him. Maybe he was just curious. You’ve been friends for so long. A lot of friends have slept together at least once… right? 

But even in that painfully awkward week of trying to relearn how to be friends, you couldn’t quite regret it. 

Because eventually, he cracked a joke. Then you said something sarcastic. And although there was still a hint of something more simmering under the surface, things almost felt normal again. 

Almost. 

It’s only now that you regret it—everything. 

Right now, as you stare at the two pink lines on the stick beside the sink, your vision blurred with tears, and your stomach roiling with nausea. 

The harsh crack of knuckles against the bathroom door startles you, sending your heart leaping into your throat. 

“You alright in there?” Lily calls through the wood. “It’s been like ten minutes—I’m getting worried. Do I need to break down the door?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. “Y-Yeah, I’m all good.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Lily speaks again, her voice lower this time. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good.” 

You shake your head and hastily wipe the wetness from your cheeks. Then you snap a photo of the pregnancy test before tossing it into the trash—this is just a gas station bathroom. No one’s tracing that stick back to you unless they run a DNA test, and that’s not likely. 

It’s not like you plan on going missing. Just… away. For a while. 

You splash your face with cool water and stare at your reflection in the mirror until you’re convinced you look close enough to normal. Then you square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. 

It’s only Lily waiting there—thank God—but she’s already watching you with sharp, perceptive eyes. 

“You good?” 

You nod once, forcing a smile. “Never better. Sorry. Lady stuff.” 

Technically not a lie. Still, you cringe at the way it comes out. You’re not someone who shies away from saying things plainly—especially not something as basic as a damn period. 

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push. 

“Alright. Let’s get going. Tyler said we’re only twenty minutes out from a decent-sized town. Should be able to find good food and a motel where we don’t have to share rooms.” 

You nod again, not trusting yourself to laugh or offer a sarcastic remark. You just walk past her, the fake smile still fixed to your face, and head for the door. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re climbing out of the RV in a motel parking lot. Tyler’s truck is parked beside the reception office, his hat on the dashboard and Boone waiting in the front seat. Dani and Dexter walk ahead of you, muttering about something they saw pop up on the radar earlier, and Lily is rummaging around in the back seat of Tyler’s truck—her butt sticking out the passenger door—looking for the headphones she lost yesterday. 

Your heart aches at the thought of leaving, throbbing dully behind your sternum. You’re not sure if the nausea swirling in your gut is from the idea of walking away from your friends—your family—or because of your newly discovered… condition. Either way, you feel sick. And you need space. Time to think. To breathe. 

Once everyone has a room, you lug your few belongings up to the second floor and collapse onto the bed. You text Lily, telling her you feel sick sick—period pains—and that you’re going to skip dinner. You ask her to tell the others for you, because you can’t stomach lying to their faces. 

You spend the next few hours on your laptop, reading everything you can about pregnancy. You scroll through pages about what happens to your body, how your life is going to change. You read about complications, risks, even abortion. 

It’s strange, really. You’ve always been practical, logical. And this doesn’t seem like the practical choice. But you knew the second you saw those two lines that you were going to keep it. 

Call it maternal instinct. Or just plain insanity. Either way, your mind is made up. 

Now you just need a plan. 

Most people don’t announce their pregnancy until twelve weeks—you know that much—so you’re giving yourself twelve weeks to sort your shit out. 

First, you need to leave. You’ll make up some excuse about a sick family member and tell the crew your mom needs you immediately. Tyler will try to come with you—call it a detour or a bonus road trip—so you’ll have to convince him your mom only wants to see you. No one else. 

Then you’ll leave for... an indefinite stretch. You’re not going straight to your mom’s. You’ll hole up in a hotel halfway home, see a doctor, get the blood tests, the shots, the supplements—all the crap you’re supposed to do. 

Once your head is on straighter and you’ve got a handle on things, you’ll start looking for an apartment. Something short-term, just in case… well, in case you lose the baby. At least then you’ll have somewhere to crash and recover before deciding what comes next. It feels morbid, sure, but you’re not a total daydreamer. Life can be brutal, and you know better than to think you’ll be spared. 

But assuming things go well—assuming you hit that twelve-week mark after moving in—that’s when you’ll start telling people. You’ll tell your mom first, maybe find a therapist and tell them too. And then... Tyler. 

The moment his name crosses your mind, your body reacts. You jump up from the motel bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom, hunching over the toilet and gagging like you’re going to throw up. But nothing comes up—your stomach is empty. You know this isn’t the pregnancy making you sick. It’s the thought of telling him. 

It feels cruel, waiting three whole months before telling the father. But you can’t bring yourself to do it any sooner. You know this isn’t what Tyler wants. Especially not with you. What happened between you was a one-time thing—a fun night, a way to blow off steam. It wasn’t meant to change everything. 

So you’ll wait. Make sure it’s real. Make sure it’s sticking. Plain and simple. Harsh? Maybe. But you need time to figure yourself out before dropping a bomb on him. And by the time you do, it’ll be six months to impact. Give or take. 

You have no idea how he’ll react, but you know it won’t be like one of those social media videos where the dad cries and jumps for joy. No—this will be very different. Which is exactly why you’re not telling him for at least a month or two. You’ll figure out exactly how far along you are once you see a doctor. 

You take a deep breath and snap your laptop shut. Time to get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of driving tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy. 

- 

“What?” Tyler drops his bacon back onto the plate, staring at you wide-eyed across the diner table. “If you’re going home, then we’re all-” 

“No, Tyler,” you interrupt, sighing as you stare down at the table. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “She said just me. I know you want to help, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. I’ll call as soon as I get there and keep you updated. I just—she sounded really fragile, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm her.” 

It doesn’t feel like that much of a lie. You’re not talking about your mom—you’re talking about yourself. At least, that’s how you justify it to your guilty conscience. 

“You sure?” Lily asks, leaning forward beside Tyler. “We don’t have to go see her. We can just come to town, hang out nearby. We don’t mind staying a week or so.” 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked on your untouched plate of plain toast and fried eggs. “It might not be a week,” you say, bracing yourself. “It could be a couple of months.” 

“Months?” Dani echoes, her coffee cup clattering against the table. 

Tyler looks stunned, frozen in place. His expression is unreadable—shock, maybe disbelief, etched into every line of his face. His lips are slightly parted—lips you haven’t stopped thinking about, hot on your skin—and his brows pinch together. His cheeks are flushed, but not with embarrassment. He looks... unsure. Concerned. 

“What are we going to do without you for a couple months?” Lily asks, her eyes wide. 

You wave a hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ll be fine. I’ll only be a phone call away. If I can come back earlier, I will. But right now, I really need to be there for... for my mom.” 

God, you’re a terrible liar this morning. 

“When do you need to leave?” Tyler asks, his voice low and flat. 

You swallow hard, still staring at your toast. “Today.” 

A wave of protests, questions, and complaints breaks out—everyone but Tyler. He stays silent, still watching you like he’s trying to piece something together. Like you’re a puzzle he didn’t realise needed solving. 

He looks at you like he sees straight through the lie. His green eyes don’t blink, and it makes your stomach churn. 

For the next half hour, you lie and deflect as best you can. You keep your head down, your answers short. No promises, no explanations. Breakfast turns into a full-blown protest, your friends more upset than you expected by your sudden departure. But no matter how hard they try, nothing could convince you to stay. 

You can’t. 

Back at the motel, you pack your things. You’d already asked Dexter to drive you to the nearest car rental place—he grumbled but agreed. Now comes the part you’re dreading. 

The goodbyes. 

To them, this is temporary—a month or two, maybe. But you know better. This is something else. Something longer. More permanent. 

Moisture stings your eyes as you zip your duffel shut. Your nose burns, and this time, you don’t stop the tears from falling. 

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice startles you, and you realize in your rush to get into the room, you hadn’t fully shut the door. 

You sniff and wipe your cheeks, keeping your back to him. “Hey.” You clear your throat. “What’s up?” 

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?” 

You don’t respond. You just keep your head down and continue stuffing the last of your things into your backpack. 

He sighs as the door clicks shut behind him. A few steps bring him closer, and you can almost feel his warmth hovering just a few feet behind you. 

“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to press you about what’s really going on. But it’s obvious something’s got you rattled. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are. Whatever it is.” 

You close your eyes, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“I’m worried,” he continues. “This isn’t you. Cutting and running like this? I know you. I know your family. This is something else. And I’m really damn worried.” 

“It’s fine, Ty,” you say, your voice catching in your throat, the words barely a whisper. 

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, and now his warmth is unmistakable—his presence pressing in, impossible to ignore. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I need you to promise me you’ll be okay. That you’ll come back.” 

You drop the sweater you’ve been folding and refolding, letting it fall from your hands. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around your bicep, coaxing you to turn toward him. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

You can barely make out his face through the tears—hot and heavy, falling faster than you can blink them away. 

His voice cracks. “It’s not the same out there without you. You know that.” 

A sob breaks from your chest, and you fall forward. He catches you easily, arms strong and sure around your trembling frame. Pressed against him, for a moment it all feels like it might be okay. Like maybe this whole life-altering thing won’t change everything after all. Tyler makes you feel like you can handle anything. Like you’re more than human. Invincible, even. 

Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

But you can’t stay in his arms forever. You’re not even sure he’d be holding you if he knew the truth—if he knew you were the one holding the pin to the grenade that could blow his whole life to pieces. 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair. 

You sniffle against his shirt, steadying your voice. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” 

He slowly lets you go, giving you space to stand on your own again. 

“I promise you’ll see me again,” you say, trying to sound certain. “I promise I’ll be back once everything’s... sorted.” 

His brows draw together like he wants to believe you but can’t quite manage it. Still, he nods, swallowing whatever emotion is caught in his throat. Then he pulls you into one last hug, holding you tighter than before, like he’s afraid to let go. 

You inhale deeply—maybe too deeply—committing his scent to memory, as if you hadn’t already. You memorise the way he holds you, the way your bodies fit together, and the quick, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. 

You know you’ll see Tyler again. One way or another. 

But it won’t be the same. Nothing is the same anymore. 

- 

“You’re both doing really well,” the doctor says, eyes scanning the computer screen. “Your baby is perfectly healthy, and everything about you is exactly where it should be for fourteen weeks.” 

You nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, gripping the ultrasound picture like a lifeline. 

“And the bump isn’t... too big?” you ask, trying not to sound completely clueless. 

The doctor smiles warmly. “It’s perfect,” she assures you. “You’re showing a little more than some women might at this stage, but everyone’s different.” 

You nod again. “Okay, good.” 

“Any other concerns?” she asks after a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” She pushes up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you in four weeks.” 

You smile and nod once more. “Thanks, doctor.” 

“No worries. And—” she pauses, brows pulling together slightly. “You know you can bring the father to these appointments, right? Regardless of your relationship, he’s welcome. It might help ease some of the anxiety.” 

You blink quickly at the sudden sting in your eyes—fucking hormones—and offer a watery smile. “Thanks. I’ll... talk to him.” 

She gives you one last kind smile before shutting the door, leaving you alone in the pale-yellow hallway with nothing but spiralling thoughts. 

Okay, so you haven’t told Tyler... yet. But you plan to. As soon as you stop crying at everything and start acting like a functional adult. These hormones have wrecked you—just like the internet said they would. 

One minute, you’re sobbing over nothing. The next, you’re halfway to committing a felony. And then suddenly, you’re numb. Emotionally whiplashed. And the thought of telling Tyler—of seeing him again—drags every human emotion you have straight to the surface. 

You’ve talked to him a few times. The rest of the crew, too. You’ve spun some lies and danced around their questions. You spoke to your mom and made her promise to keep your secret—because you know Tyler’s tried calling her since you left. But you haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell anyone else. 

It’s been exactly eight weeks since you left. You're running on borrowed time. You know they’ll come looking soon, and you can’t let that happen. You need to go to them. To Tyler. You need to tell him the truth—your way—before it all blows up. 

But first... you need a really big bowl of croutons. Just croutons. And if you don’t get them soon, you’re going to kill someone. 

Pregnancy is wild. 

A few hours later, you’re back in your studio apartment, curled up on the lounge you bought last week, your laptop propped on your belly and a second bowl of croutons at your side. Your résumé is open, and you’re tweaking it for a few job applications—hoping to land something at a desk for at least a few months. You could use the extra money. 

On the small TV across the room—still sitting on the floor because you don’t have a table yet—YouTube is playing. More specifically, the live stream of a storm chaser you used to know. Someone who follows storms and interviews other chasers. Her name is Corey—you’ve met her a few times, but she’s never interviewed you. She’s always wanted Tyler, though. Everyone does. The man has... an effect on people. 

Today’s the day, apparently. She finally convinced him to do an interview. And to say you’re jealous of how close she’s standing to him would be a laughable understatement. 

Think pregnancy crying is bad? Try the horniness. 

Ugh. 

You can barely glance at a photo of Tyler without creaming your jeans. Just thinking about him twists your stomach into a knot—equal parts guilt and raw, desperate lust. You’ve thought about him way more than you should while touching yourself, and honestly? You don’t even care. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s the father of the baby growing inside you or just because you’ve been in love with him for years. Either way, everything is louder now. Sharper. Half the reason you haven’t seen him again is because you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself from tearing him apart—devouring him the second he’s in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you sigh out loud, feeling that familiar ache low in your belly. 

You need to calm down. 

You shift your focus back to the Word doc on your laptop, trying to let Corey’s high-pitched voice blur into the background as she asks Tyler about the storm they just chased. It’s hard though—because then he speaks. And the second he does, his voice draws your attention like a magnet, sending shivers racing down your spine. 

You’d think after all these years of friendship, you’d be used to him by now. 

“So, Tyler,” Corey says, her bright blue eyes sparkling above a megawatt smile, “now that we’ve completely and totally hashed out that EF2, I think it’s time to move on to some live questions. Mind answering a few from the fans?” 

Tyler nods, the usual charming smirk tugging at his lips. “Bring it on.” 

“Amazing.” Corey flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and holds up her phone. “First question: which tornado wrangler would be most likely to survive a horror movie?” 

Tyler chuckles—low and rich, the kind of sound that somehow wraps around you even through the TV speakers. “Definitely Boone, but not because he’s outsmarted anyone. Just pure dumb luck.” 

Corey giggles, and the sound literally makes you gag. Because pregnancy nausea? Not just limited to tastes and smells. Nope—it’s upgraded to all five senses. 

“Okay, next up,” she says, eyes dropping to her phone screen. “What’s your go-to road trip snack?” 

Tyler starts rubbing his hands together as he answers, but you don’t register the words. You already know his favourite snacks. You’ve been buying them for him for years. Instead, you find yourself watching his hands—his long fingers, the way he laces them together in front of his body. Those fingers you know can find magic inside you. 

Your pulse thrums in your ears—and between your legs. Hot and heavy, making your breath catch in your throat. 

Corey’s pitchy laugh pulls you back. “Noted. I’ll be sure to bring sour worms to our next interview,” she says with a wink. 

Tyler laughs politely and pretends to adjust his belt—something you know he only does when he’s uncomfortable. 

Sucked in, Corey. He doesn’t like you. 

“Alright, I’ve got a slightly more serious one,” she says, tone shifting as she angles herself toward him. “This one’s come in from quite a few people, so I can’t not ask it.” 

Tyler’s brows furrow and he nods once. 

“Obviously, the Tornado Wranglers have welcomed two new members recently—Kate and Javi,” she says, referring to the two you met via video call a couple weeks ago. “But fans have also noticed the absence of one particular chaser. Your partner in crime…” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Will she be back?” 

Your heart crawls into your throat. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes—so routine by now, you don’t even bother blinking them back. 

Tyler shifts uncomfortably and glances at the ground. Then he mutters something the mic doesn’t quite catch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggles to find an answer. 

It makes your chest ache. 

“Well—uh,” he clears his throat, “we don’t usually get into personal stuff. We try to keep things focused on the storms. But, um...” His eyes are everywhere but the camera. “We all have personal lives, and sometimes things come up. Unexpected things. But in short… yes. She’ll be back. We’re not sure when, but she will be.” 

The confidence in his voice rips a sob from your chest. You push your laptop off your stomach and sit up, arms wrapping protectively around the little bump low in your belly. To say you feel guilty about this whole thing is a gross understatement. You feel wretched. Each day you wake up knowing you’ll find another excuse not to call Tyler, and each day you inch closer to hating yourself for it. 

You need to stop being such a coward and just do it. He has every right to know what’s going on—not just because he’s the father, but because he’s your best friend. These last two months have been the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him since you joined the chasers nearly a decade ago. And the distance—physical and emotional—is chipping away at both of you. 

You swipe the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your eyes and reach for your phone. Opening your chat with Tyler, you scroll through the brief exchange from a couple days ago about an EF3 they’d been chasing. You start typing a message—trying to ask when you can see him without sounding too obvious. 

But then Corey’s voice cuts through the room, snagging your attention again. “So, the fans want to know,” she says, “what’s next? What comes after storm chasing? Do you see yourself going back to school to become a qualified meteorologist—or maybe settling down? Starting a family?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your chest tightening until your lungs ache. 

Tyler scoffs. “There’s an after chasing?” he says, the words stabbing into you like pins into a voodoo doll. “Chasing is it for me. I’ve worked too hard to get here, doing what I love. Nothing’s going to stop me—at least not until I’m too old to drive my truck. And even then,” he laughs, “I’ll find someone else to drive me into the eye of the storm.” 

Corey giggles and tips her head, teasing. “So no dreams of settling down? No wife and kids someday?” 

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat and nausea roll over you in waves. 

“No,” Tyler says. “I just don’t see that for myself. Nothing feels as important to me as this—the storms, the research. Especially now, with Kate—she’s incredible—and Javi on the team, we’re doing real work in the name of science. I never want to stop. A family just doesn’t fit into that. It’s not what I want.” 

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the breath clean out of you. 

“That’s not to say I won’t have a wife one day,” he adds. “If I find someone who loves this as much as I do, then maybe. But kids? No. I know myself too well—I’d resent anyone who took me away from what I really love. Which is chasing.” 

You bolt from the couch and rush into the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet just in time to hurl up an unsettling amount of croutons. Tears blur your vision, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own pulse in your ears—and Tyler’s voice echoing in your head. 

It’s not what I want. 

- 

Your hands shake as you slide the mouse across the screen, clicking the answer button on the Skype call request. When Lily’s grinning face pops up—just Lily—you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh my goodness, hi,” she says, leaning toward the camera. “You look... different. Like, good, but different. How do you look different from last week?” 

You let out a soft laugh and roll your eyes, one arm resting on the kitchen counter where the laptop is propped, the other hung protectively across your stomach below the counter. You’re perched on the single barstool you picked up from a second-hand store last weekend, specifically for your weekly video calls with Lily. The couch wasn’t cutting it anymore, and you can’t exactly lie on your belly on the bed these days. 

“Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and what you’re seeing now is just a bad clone,” you tease, deflecting. 

She snorts. “Well, that would make sense, since that’s the only thing I can think of that would keep the girl I know away from chasing. Like, seriously. It’s been three months. Please tell me you’re coming back soon.” 

You sigh, eyes darting to the notepad where you’ve scribbled your pre-planned excuses—not trusting yourself to think clearly on the fly. 

“I’m sorry, Lils. I thought I’d be back by now too, but with everything going on with the family—it’s just been so stressful. And... I went to the doctor the other day. They think I could have a stress-induced stomach ulcer. I’m on meds, and I feel okay, but it needs to be monitored.” 

Until you give birth to it… 

Lily’s brow creases. “What? Seriously?” 

You nod slowly, avoiding her big brown eyes on the screen. “Yeah, but it’s okay. It’s not too serious—it’s manageable. I just need to, uh... stay here and keep things steady for a while.” 

“Can we visit, then?” she asks. “Everyone misses you so much.” 

“And I miss you guys too,” you say quickly. “But don’t come all this way for me. Keep chasing—it’s the season. Besides, it’s kind of boring over here. I’m just resting and helping out with family stuff. If you could actually help, I’d say get over here, but there’s really nothing to do except mope around.” 

She nods slowly, still looking a little unconvinced, but mostly reassured. 

“Besides, I need you to keep sending me updates so I can live vicariously,” you add, trying to lift the mood. “How was yesterday’s chase?” 

Her face lights up, and she launches into a detailed rundown of what they got up to. You try to stay focused, to really listen, but she keeps mentioning Kate’s name beside Tyler’s, and your thoughts start spiralling. 

You’ve met Kate and Javi—the new wranglers—a couple of times now via video call. They seem lovely and super smart. You hadn’t thought much of it. Until last night. 

You’d stupidly decided to watch one of Boone’s Instagram live videos—one where he and Tyler recapped the day over beers in a motel parking lot. You thought it might help ease the ache in your chest from missing them, but instead it twisted something sharp and jealous low in your gut. 

Kate had been there too, sitting beside Tyler, who wore a dopey grin and kept glancing at her like she was magnetic. They were clearly comfortable with each other—she even rested her hand on his knee once or twice as she answered some of Boone’s questions about the science side of things. Tyler didn’t adjust his belt. He didn’t shift awkwardly or look away. 

He looked at her like she belonged there. 

The jealousy that coursed through you had been instant and overwhelming. You’ve dealt with your fair share of Tyler’s girlfriends and hookups, but you’ve never seen him look at someone like that. Never once worried that maybe he’d find someone who didn’t just make him forget you—but replace you entirely. 

It’s your biggest insecurity, one you hate even admitting to yourself... Tyler doesn’t need you as much as you need him. 

“But anyway,” Lily says, her voice dragging you back to reality, “we were thinking of taking a break for a week or so. Maybe head somewhere quiet, less full of chasers. I think Tyler needs it—he’s been super stressed lately.” 

“At least he has Kate,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I—I mean, she sounds really great and helpful. Just what Tyler needs.” 

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Yeah... she’s cool, but...” She tips her head and sighs. “You know he misses you like crazy? I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping, and he’s always talking about coming to find you. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep him at bay.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual while swallowing down another wave of emotion. “I’m sure Tyler’s doing just fine. He always said I was a liability, so technically he should be way less stressed without me around.” 

She gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “You better be joking, because I’ve never seen Tyler this wound up before.” 

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest—small and fragile, but impossible to ignore. Maybe... just maybe... this whole fucked-up situation is still salvageable. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lily says before you can respond. 

You watch as she shuffles off the motel bed she’d been lying on and disappears out of frame. Your pulse quickens at the sound of a deep, muffled voice and approaching footsteps. For a split second, you consider ending the call—blaming it on bad reception or something—but it’s already too late. 

The video shakes as Lily picks up her laptop and spins it toward Tyler. “Look who it is!” she announces. 

He looks pale, the lines in his face more defined than you remember, but his eyes still sparkle the same. “Hey,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You look... different.” 

You blink quickly to stop the moisture welling in your eyes—internally cursing the hormones, even though you know they’re not the only ones to blame. 

You haven’t actually spoken to Tyler in almost two weeks. You mostly text, dodge his calls with excuses, and only agree to video chats with Lily or Dani. Tyler knows you too well—and you’re starting to look different. He’ll know something is off. 

“She’s sick,” Lily says before you can answer. 

“Sick?” Tyler repeats, his smile fading. “Sick how?” 

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in your throat. “I’m fine, really. Might be a stomach ulcer, but it’s mild and I’m already on meds. I just need a bit of rest.” 

“We can come visit,” Tyler offers quickly, his green eyes full of concern that makes your stomach turn. “We were planning to take some time off soon, and we could-” 

“No,” you cut in, your voice cracking. “Seriously, don’t. I’m okay. And there’s still stuff going on with the family. I just told Lily—if there were anything you could do, I’d say come help. But there’s not.” 

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then hesitates. His eyes flick across the screen, studying your face, your posture, the way you’re nervously chewing your lip. He’s probably already clocked that the background behind you isn’t your mom’s house. 

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” Lily says with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be back soon. She can’t stay away much longer—the chase is calling.” She looks at you with a playful grin. “Or we’ll come kidnap you.” 

You let out a shaky laugh. “I know you will.” 

“How’s your mom?” Tyler asks suddenly, leaning closer to the camera. 

Yeah. He’s definitely trying to figure out where you are. He’s been in every room of your mom’s place—he knows this background doesn’t match. 

“She’s alright,” you say, shifting closer to the laptop to fill more of the frame. “Still a little fragile, so it’s good I’m here. But she’s doing well.” 

He opens his mouth again, eyes narrowing slightly—keen and searching. 

“Anyway,” you cut in quickly, “I should go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Lily nods, oblivious to Tyler’s suspicion. “Love you,” she says. 

“Love you too, Lils,” you reply, before your gaze flicks toward Tyler’s frowning face. “You too, Ty. Stay safe out there.” 

Then you move the mouse and hit the red button, sighing out a breath of relief as the call drops. 

- 

The next four weeks are brutal—worse than the twelve before them combined. You’re creeping up on the six-month mark, which means the third trimester isn’t far off. Your belly has officially popped—there’s no hiding it now unless you borrow your mom’s retro maternity parka—and you’re out of breath more often than not. All you want to do is sleep, eat, and cry over the fact that your closest grocery store just stopped stocking your favourite juice flavour. 

But that’s not the hardest part. 

The hardest part is Tyler—he’s relentless, and you’re pretty sure he’s rallying the rest of the crew too. The messages haven’t let up, and now he’s started calling at random times during the day. He asks about your mom, your family, your ‘stomach ulcer’. And everyone else is pestering you to come back to chasing, even just for a week, because they miss you like hell. 

You feel like a total piece of shit. 

You’re running out of excuses, and you’ve deflected for as long as you can. You’ve tried over and over to come up with a version of the truth that doesn’t make you sound like the villain. But no matter how you spin it, you’re still the asshole who kept a massive secret from the people who are practically your family. They’re going to find out soon—you’re already on borrowed time—and you know you have to tell them before Tyler shows up pounding on your mom’s front door. 

The only thing you’re still absolutely certain about is this: you’re not telling Tyler he’s the father. 

On the surface, it makes you look like a terrible person, but every time you imagine telling him... you hear his words again. And you know you just can’t. 

It’s not what he wants. It would ruin everything. He’d resent you. 

You can’t do that to him. You don’t expect anything from him, and you’re more than ready to do this on your own. In fact, at this point, you’d prefer it. You made the decision to keep the baby—this is on you. All Tyler did was break a condom and fuck you more thoroughly than anyone else ever has. He didn’t sign up for consequences. And for him... there doesn’t have to be any. 

So you’ll tell them it was a one-night stand—technically true. That the father travels for work, and you gave him an out—also true. 

Now you just have to hope the baby doesn’t come out looking like a carbon copy of Tyler Owens. 

Not that you’re even sure the crew will be around to see much of the baby. You’re doing this solo for a reason—you don’t want to weigh anyone down. No matter how they react when you tell them, you’re not letting them give up chasing. That’s their life, and this choice? This was yours. 

So, yeah, you’re going to tell them. But after that... you have no clue. You might never see them again, now that you’re settling down. Or maybe they’ll pop in once or twice a year. You don’t know. 

The only thing you’re sure of right now is that you’re having this baby—and surprisingly, that’s more than enough. 

“She’s perfect,” the doctor says, handing you the sonogram. “What made you want to find out the sex?” 

You stare down at the little black and white image. Twenty-two weeks exactly. You’re more than halfway there. 

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Thought maybe I should get to know my new roommate a little better.” 

The doctor laughs softly but doesn’t press further. She types something into the computer, then jots a note on a scrap piece of paper—her recommendation for the heartburn you mentioned earlier. After a few more routine questions, she offers a kind smile and a dismissive nod. You thank her and step out. 

Her office is just around the block from your apartment, so you chose to walk today. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and—for the first time in a while—you’re feeling a little less weighed down. 

You’ve also decided that today’s the day you’ll message Tyler to ask where they are and see if you can meet up soon. You’ve practiced your story in the mirror more times than you can count, and you’ve run it past both your mom and your therapist—the latter was less thrilled about the lying, but you’re ignoring that part. All that’s left now is to show up and break the news gently. Although, your belly will probably do that for you the moment they see you. 

Strangely, you feel at peace today—despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks. You woke up clear-headed, even a little hopeful. Like if you can grow an entire human, you can handle anything. 

You try not to overanalyse the sudden shift—your moods have been a rollercoaster lately—and you’re especially trying not to compare it to the weather before a storm. But that’s exactly what it feels like. 

Everything is calm. Still. The sun is out, and there’s no wind. But you know better than to trust this kind of stillness. 

It’s the calm before the storm. 

You shake your head and take a deep breath, refocusing on your route from the doctor’s office to the grocery store. It’s still early—barely nine a.m.—and you’ve got a craving for the sugary cereal you ran out of days ago. 

The sun is warm enough that you have to shrug off your sweater the moment you step inside the store. It’s blissfully quiet—no crowded aisles, no screaming kids, and no one crashing their cart like it’s a demolition derby. 

You sling your sweater over one shoulder and head toward the breakfast aisle, one hand resting on your belly as the baby wriggles—still too small for proper kicks, but very much there. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you scan the shelves, eyes flitting across the bright, colourful cereal boxes. 

You really should start thinking of names. You haven’t even made a list. 

You grab the box you came for and continue toward the end of the aisle, already thinking about swinging past the bakery section. But just as you round the corner, a voice stops you in your tracks. 

“Holy shit.” 

You know that voice. You know it too well. 

You almost don’t want to look—but your head turns before you can stop it. And sure enough, there’s Tyler, looking downright sinful in a tight white T-shirt and faded Wrangler jeans. He’s wearing a cap, backwards, and it’s making your hormones riot. You could devour him right here in the middle of the store. But not only would that be wildly inappropriate... you’re pretty sure he’s gone into shock. 

He looks pale—too pale. Frozen. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. He looks like a fish out of water. And judging by the expression on his face, he probably feels like one too. 

“Oh my God,” you say, instinctively shifting the cereal box in front of your belly. “Tyler.” 

You want to launch yourself at him, to throw your arms around his neck. You want to hug him, kiss him, get lost in him the way you’ve been craving for months. But the way he’s staring... you’re not even sure he recognises you. 

“W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice shaky and weirdly high-pitched. “Are the others here too?” 

Panic overtakes you now, shoving the longing and hormones down into your gut and replacing them with a fresh wave of anxiety. 

“I—uh,” he clears his throat, blinking hard. “We were just... just passing through.” 

You can feel your heartbeat thumping in your throat. 

Tyler shifts on his feet and clears his throat again. “We got in late last night. I was going to—uh, call you. See where you were, but...” His eyes drop to the cereal box in your hands, like he can see right through it. 

“Wow,” you say, because it’s the only word your brain can summon. “That’s... great. I’d love to see them. Are they-” 

“They’re back at the motel,” he cuts in. 

Slowly, his expression twists—shock giving way to confusion, then something sharper. Anger, maybe. 

There’s a long pause, thick and heavy, before you clear your throat. “Well, maybe we could all catch up? I’m not doing anything this after-” 

“No,” he says, cutting you off again. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I mean, yes. They want to see you. But I think I’d like to catch up now.” His tone is harder now, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to grab a coffee—” he hesitates, “or... tea?” 

You rock back on your heels like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Tea still has caffeine in it,” you mumble. 

He doesn’t even flinch—just pins you with a look. There’s no room to argue. 

“But I could definitely go for a smoothie!” you say too brightly. “There’s a café around the corner, and my apartment’s just the next block over. If you don’t mind... can we go back there? I’ve got ultrasound jelly in my underwear and I really need to pee.” 

His brows draw together. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—hurt. “You have an apartment?” 

You didn’t expect that to hit hardest, but you see why. As far as Tyler was concerned, you were coming back. You’d only ever been on a break. But hearing you have an apartment here... it tells him something else entirely. 

That you’re not coming back. 

You nod, tears starting to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah... I do.” 

The walk out of the store and around the corner is one of the most painful things you’ve ever endured. You’re already planning to compare it to childbirth when the time comes—but honestly, you’re pretty sure this will still win. 

Tyler’s movements are stiff and deliberate. He keeps a cautious distance, like you’re contagious, and it takes everything in you not to cry right there on the sidewalk. 

Neither of you speaks. You just lead the way, and he follows. At the café, you order a smoothie—nothing else. You feel so nauseous, you're worried you might throw up your baby. Tyler orders a coffee, then steps back to type something on his phone. For a moment, panic grips you—is he telling the others? But no. Tyler’s not like that. He’s probably just letting them know that he got caught up. 

Once your drinks are ready, you head down the street toward your apartment. You don’t bother making conversation, you don’t even point out the ridiculous-looking dog in the window across the street. You just let yourself into the lobby and ride up to the fourth floor. 

Down the hall, you unlock your door and step inside, holding it open for him. 

The look on his face as he enters your space is what finally breaks you. The tears spill over before you can stop them. He looks wrong here—too big for the tiny apartment you’ve made your own. And he looks like you’ve just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. 

You make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping your untouched smoothie on the counter and diving for the tissue box. A sniffle escapes as you swipe at your eyes and nose, followed by a soft, rattling sob. 

“Hey,” Tyler says gently, suddenly at your side, a hand landing on your back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

Of course he’s not. He’s too good. Too decent to treat you the way you probably should be treated—without kindness. 

You clear your throat and look up at him, close enough now that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “You should be,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “It’d be easier if you were mad at me.” 

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, I’m not exactly happy. But why would I be mad?” 

You feel small. Pathetic. Like if the floor cracked open right now, you’d gladly let it swallow you whole. But it doesn’t. 

You force down another sob, blinking hard as you reach for your smoothie and carry it into the living room. You flop down into your favourite corner of the couch and nod for him to follow. 

Then you clear your throat, summoning every ounce of confidence you have left. 

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s the story.” 

You don’t say the truth or what really happened. Because that’s not what you’re about to give him. 

You’ve got a story. And that’s what you’re sticking to. 

“A few weeks after I got back, I went out with some old friends,” you begin, technically not lying. “It was supposed to be a way to blow off some steam after everything with my family... and I missed you guys so much, I thought it would take my mind off things. But I got a little too drunk, and I ended up going home with some guy my friend knew.” There's the lie. “It was stupid and reckless, but... that’s what happened.” 

He winces at your words, his expression unreadable. It looks like hurt, but why would he be hurt by that? Maybe it’s just disappointment. 

You clear your throat and continue, slipping into the rhythm of the story you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. “About three weeks later, I found out. I contacted the guy, but he travels for work, so... I gave him an out. I made the decision to keep it, told him I didn’t expect anything from him. So... here we are.” 

The silence hangs thick and heavy between you, suffocating you as you try to breathe through the storm of emotions clawing at your chest. 

“I was going to tell you,” you add, your voice steadier than you feel. “I just couldn’t find the right time. It all felt so messy and rushed, and time kept slipping by. You guys were so busy, and with Kate and Javi... I didn’t want to ruin the high you were on.” 

He doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you—his eyes flicking between your face and your belly. 

Then it hits him. A thousand emotions all at once. Confusion. Hurt. A flicker of anger. Sadness. And finally, he lands back on hurt. 

“You’re going to do it alone?” he asks, tension threading through his words. 

You nod once, steady. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I don’t doubt that. You’ll be amazing. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” 

Your heart squeezes. Would he still be saying that if he knew who the guy really was? 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, resting a hand on your stomach. 

His eyes fall to your hand and linger there. You think his bottom lip might wobble, just for a second. But then he looks back up, brow creased. 

“You know we’re all here for you,” he says, voice strained. “We’re not going to let you do this on your own. I know you’re strong, but-” 

“It’s not your problem, Ty,” you cut in quickly, desperate to stop him before the tears start again. “It’s not anyone’s burden but mine—not that it’s a burden. But I was scared to tell you for a reason. I didn’t want you to freak out. I made this choice knowing it would change my life, and mine alone. I know I have support if I need it, but wait for me to ask. Not that I could ask any of you to stop your lives—stop doing what you love. I’d never do that. I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to give. So please believe me when I say... I’m happy about the choice I made. I’m excited to do this by myself. You need to live your life, Ty. Chase those storms. Chase your dreams. I’m good. I’ll be fine.” 

His expression is unreadable—somewhere between pain and disbelief. He just stares at you, silent, like he doesn’t recognise what he’s looking at. Not scared. Just... bewildered. 

The silence stretches, the only sound your uneven, too-loud breathing. 

Then, finally, he whispers, “But it’s not the same without you.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “Don’t be silly, Tyler. You’ve got Kate and Javi now. You probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” You pause. “And Kate seems great. I’m happy for you.” 

No, you’re not. But you’re getting better at lying. 

His gaze snaps from your belly back to your face, eyebrows drawn tight. “Happy for me?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I really need a shower. That ultrasound goo gets everywhere. Want to catch up later? With the crew?” 

You need him gone. Now. Before you fall apart. 

“I—uh...” He glances around the room, like he’s trying to find an excuse to stay. “Yeah. They’ll want to see you.” 

You nod and head to the kitchen for your bag. “Could you do me a favour?” The guilt is immediate and sharp. How dare you ask anything of him right now? 

He nods. 

“Could you... tell them? Warn them?” You can’t meet his eyes, so you focus on the tear in the knee of his jeans as he approaches. 

“You want me to tell them?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s just... been a lot. And the way you reacted—I don’t think I can take five more of those. If you could just warn them before we meet up... it would help.” 

Straight to hell. That’s where you’re headed. You’ve spent months trying not to burden him—and now this? 

He swallows hard and nods, eyes drifting to something on the counter. “Yeah... okay. I can do that.” 

You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath. “Thanks, Ty.” 

He picks up the sonogram. “Is this the one from today?” 

“Oh.” As if she knows her dad is seeing her for the first time, your little girl wriggles. “Y-Yeah. That’s today.” 

His mouth twitches into a watery smile. “Can I take a photo? Then I can show the crew.” 

You nod, speechless, watching the way he looks at the picture. If he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to cry and throw up all over him. 

He snaps the photo and tucks his phone away, gently placing the sonogram back on the counter. 

“You said you weren’t busy this afternoon?” he asks. 

You nod, throat tight. 

“Good. I’m sure they’ll want to see you soon. Maybe dinner? I’ll text you after I talk to them. I bet you know all the good places around here.” 

He’s speaking too fast, his eyes everywhere but your face. He wants out just as badly as you want him out. 

You walk him to the door, trying to smile. It’s pitiful. It feels like everything around you has stopped moving. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of something unfamiliar. But then again, do you even know him anymore? Four months is a long time. 

Before you can say goodbye, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. Holds you like he means it. Like it’s the only thing keeping him together. 

Tears stream down your face, your shoulders shaking. The baby kicks—harder than ever—and you want to blame the pressure of Tyler’s hug. But then you wonder... does she know it’s him? 

The thoughts keep coming, hot and heavy, as your tears soak into the shoulder of his white shirt. 

After what feels like both forever and not long enough, he pulls away. His eyes rimmed with red. 

“I’ll text you,” he says hoarsely, then turns and walks down the hall. 

You shut the door—and collapse to the floor. You stay there for almost an hour. Crying. Thinking. And for the first time, wishing you’d just told him the truth from the start. Back at the gas station. Would it really have been that bad? 

You’re not so sure anymore. Because this? This doesn’t feel like the right thing. 

- Tyler - 

Tyler doesn’t remember how he got back to his truck in the grocery store parking lot. All he knows is that he’s in it now—but he doesn’t have the courage to drive. He doesn’t trust himself. His hands won’t stop shaking, his eyes are burning with tears, and his throat aches. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you: your soft smile, your wide, tearful eyes, and that intrinsic glow—granted by your pregnancy, despite how clearly distressed you’d been. 

He can’t believe you’re pregnant. 

He tried so hard to be understanding, to not blow through you with every emotion that crashed down the moment he saw you. But it was so hard. He wanted to be angry that you didn’t tell him—but he knew he had no right. He didn’t have the right to be upset at all. You were clearly stressed about him finding out—about the crew finding out. 

But why? 

That’s what he can’t figure out. 

Sure, it might not have been planned. It’s going to turn your life upside down. But why wouldn’t you want your friends to know? He knows you’ve rationalised it—told yourself you didn’t want to burden them. But he also knows that you know better than that. Your friends wouldn’t feel burdened. They’d just want to be there for you. 

He just wants to be there for you. 

And as complicated as this whole thing is, it’s confusion that lingers the loudest. He’s confused about how he should feel, and confused about what he does feel. He thought he knew you—but right now, he’s not so sure. You’re still familiar... but different. 

The sharp chime of Tyler’s phone cuts through the silence of the truck cabin. He glances at where he tossed it on the passenger seat, just able to make out the text from Boone: ‘You good?’ 

No. 

He exhales slowly and turns the key, the truck rumbling to life around him. Then he grabs the phone and fires off a quick reply: ‘Be back in 10. Get everyone together for breakfast.’ 

Then he pulls out of the grocery store parking lot and starts rehearsing how he’s going to break the news to the crew. 

An hour later, in a quiet café on the other side of town with two small tables pulled together, Dani leans toward Tyler and blurts, “She’s what?!” 

Dexter chokes on his coffee, spluttering into his napkin, while Lily’s jaw drops mid-chew, revealing a messy mouthful of pancake. 

“She’s pregnant?” Boone asks, his voice calmer than Dani’s, though his eyes are still wide as saucers. 

Kate and Javi exchange a quick, uncertain glance, both clearly unsure how to react to the news that’s left half the crew reeling over their breakfast. 

“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” Dani says, her voice tight with offense. 

Lily finally swallows. “So that’s why she’s been avoiding us?” 

Dexter tips his head, eyes narrowing on Tyler. “How far along is she?” 

Tyler shrugs, his stomach twisting with nausea—though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like this is his big news. “She said she met the guy a few weeks after getting home. So... she’s probably around four months.” 

“Four months,” Dani echoes. “And she didn’t tell any of us?” 

Kate’s quiet laugh draws every eye to her. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wide-eyed. “I just—” She glances at Tyler, then looks around the table. “I mean, can you blame her? Look at how you’re all reacting.” 

Tyler frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Kate sighs and leans back in her chair. “No offense, but you’re all acting like this is about you. If this wasn’t planned—and it doesn’t sound like it was—then she’s probably just scared. Of course she was nervous to tell you guys. She probably knew how you’d react.” 

The group goes quiet then, effectively chastised. And Kate isn’t wrong—Tyler knows that. As someone less emotionally entangled in your situation than the rest of the crew, she can probably see it more clearly. Understand why you did what you did. 

But that doesn’t make Tyler feel any less conflicted. He still feels off. His palms are damp and his stomach won't stop twisting itself into nauseating knots. His heart is beating too fast, sitting high in his throat. And he can’t stop seeing your face—those tearful eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips the moment you saw him again. 

For a fleeting moment, he’d been taken back to that night. The night where everything else blurred except for you. Your flushed face, kiss-bruised mouth, lips parted for him, breathless beneath him. The way you’d whispered his name like a secret, the sounds he drew from you with his hands and mouth, the feel of your skin against his. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about that night… a lot. At first, he tried not to. He couldn’t believe the lines he’d crossed, waking up with you in his arms at three a.m., your bare body pressed to his. He wasn’t even that drunk—just drunk on you. And God, he wanted nothing more than to pull you closer and fall back asleep. But panic had crept in. He had to get out. Had to breathe. 

The next day was awkward—mostly because he couldn’t stop seeing you the way he’d seen you the night before. He wanted to talk, to say something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk burning down years of friendship for one selfish desire. So after about a week, he cracked a joke. You shot back with something sarcastic, and things felt… almost normal again. 

Until you left. 

And when you did, you took a piece of him with you. A big piece. One he doesn’t know how to get back—or if he even wants it back. 

“Hey.” Kate nudges her knee against Tyler’s. “You good?” 

The rest of the group has slipped into quiet conversation, murmuring among themselves about you and the baby. 

Tyler nods once, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He opens it, pulls up the sonogram picture, and slides it across the table. 

“She had an ultrasound today,” he says, the words tasting like lead on his tongue. 

Lily’s eyes light up as she snatches the phone, gazing at the black-and-white photo. Dani leans over one shoulder, Dexter over the other, and it’s not hard to catch the soft smiles spreading across their faces. 

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset,” Kate says, her voice lowered just for him. “I just think... maybe consider how she’s feeling before you take too much of that out on her.” 

Tyler sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I tried to be calm. But it was so fucking hard. She kept crying.” 

Kate exhales a half-laugh. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Whatever you think you’re feeling, multiply it by a thousand. That’s probably where she’s at.” 

The memory of your tear-streaked face hits him square in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d felt so useless, even as he held you close. All he wants is to make things better. To go back, find you sooner, and give you everything you’ve needed but never asked for. 

“I just want to help,” Tyler mutters, his voice rough. “She said she’s happy to do it on her own, but... I want to be there.” 

“Then be there,” Kate says, brows furrowed like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You don’t have to overstep or force your way back in. Just be her friend. Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Just because she thinks things have to change doesn’t mean they do. Show her that.” 

Tyler’s eyes flick to Dani, who now has his phone and is zooming in on the sonogram with an awed expression. 

“But things have changed,” he says, turning back to Kate. 

On her other side, Javi has his phone in front of his nose, but Tyler can tell from his posture that he’s still listening. 

“For her, yeah,” Kate replies. “Her whole world’s flipped. But for you? Not really. So be something that hasn’t changed. Something stable. Something she can still count on.” 

Tyler’s brows draw together, eyes starting to burn again from the now-familiar sting of tears. He knows Kate’s smart—but wise too? Suddenly, he feels like a kid who threw a tantrum he didn’t fully understand. 

“I mean,” Javi chimes in, the straw of his milkshake still at the corner of his mouth, “it’s not like you’re the father.” 

The words hit Tyler harder than they should. They sink into his skin and burn as they draw blood, the pain spreading through his chest. His skin prickles, heat rushes to his face, and his head goes a little light—like the floor’s been yanked out from under him. 

He’s not just angry that you didn’t tell him. Not just upset that you left, that you ran away from the crew with a half-assed excuse. He’s confused, yes—but underneath it all, he’s heartbroken. 

Because it’s not just about you being pregnant. It’s not about the distance, or how much everything suddenly feels so different. It’s the fact that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby. 

Not his. 

And for the first time, the weight of it truly hits him— 

He wants it to be his. 

“Ouch!” Javi hisses as Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “What was that for?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Not reading the room.” 

“Shit,” Javi mutters, leaning forward past Kate to see Tyler—a very shocked-looking Tyler. “Sorry, man.” 

Tyler tries to shake his head, but it’s slow, almost robotic. “It’s fine,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

Kate rests a hand on his knee and leans toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. He was going to say yes—but that would be a lie. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since you left. 

Kate’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “You’re not, like... just realising you’re totally in love with her, are you?” 

Tyler’s green gaze snaps to her face, a jolt of electricity running down his spine at hearing those words said out loud. 

“Oh, Tyler...” she sighs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Wake up.” 

He’s always known he loves you—of course he does. But in love with you? Maybe it should’ve been obvious. He hasn’t felt fully human without you by his side. There’s been a gaping hole in his chest since the day you left—because you took his heart with you. 

It always has been yours. He just never really thought about it that hard. He’s just always known, deep down, from the very beginning, that he belongs to you. 

And he’s always thought of you as his. Never questioned it, even through your crappy boyfriends and his meaningless hookups. Some part of him was sure you’d always come back. That at the end of the day—after the storm—you’d be his again. 

But now? Now some other guy has a claim on you. And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s primal. But God, he fucking hates it. 

After breakfast, the crew heads back to the motel. They try to work—and try even harder to pull Tyler out of whatever existential wormhole he’s fallen into—but it’s not easy. He spends most of the day staring into space, half-listening (at best) to anyone who speaks. Eventually, they give up and leave him to it. 

Lily ends up messaging you about dinner, since Tyler’s too dazed to even type a text. You agree to meet at a restaurant downtown, halfway between your place and the crew’s motel. 

“Okay, pal,” Kate sighs as she drops into the lawn chair beside Tyler’s. “You’re starting to worry us.” 

Lily drops into the chair on his other side, braced like she might have to chase him if he bolts. 

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Kate asks gently. 

Tyler nods—slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because you’ve been a damn zombie all day,” Lily snaps. “You think acting like this is going to make her feel loved and supported?” 

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her tone sharp. “The answer is no. So get your shit together.” 

Tyler turns to Kate, frowning. “Why is she being mean to me?” 

Kate rolls her eyes for what feels like the thousandth time today. “Because you’re being a child. So what, you’re in love with your best friend who’s now pregnant with some random guy’s baby? Suck it up. Start acting normal—or you’ll just make her feel worse.” 

Tyler lets out a long, dramatic sigh and tips his head back. “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can,” Lily says. “Come on—practice talking about baby stuff with us.” 

Kate perks up. “Good idea. Ask us about being pregnant.” 

Tyler slowly lowers his head and gives Kate a flat stare. “This is dumb. I’m not going to make things awkward. I’ll be fine.” 

“Then why have you walked away from every conversation about babies today?” Lily fires back. 

“Just try,” Kate pleads. “Let’s just talk about her, okay? And no deflecting.” 

Tyler groans but doesn’t argue, silently accepting the assignment. 

Kate folds her hands in her lap and leans in like an interviewer. “So, you said she’s got an apartment here—did you see the nursery?” 

“No,” Tyler replies, nausea twisting in his gut. Just thinking about that visit makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t exactly a show-and-tell kind of vibe.” 

Kate sighs. “I get that. But just work with us.” 

“I’ve got one,” Lily chimes in. “Did she say she’s having any weird cravings?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No.” Then, at her expectant look, he adds, “But she was buying some sugary cereal when I ran into her. I think she told the cashier it was the baby’s favourite breakfast.” 

Lily nods, satisfied. 

Kate clears her throat. “Did she say how far along she is?” 

“Not exactly,” Tyler says. “But from what she did say, I’m guessing around eighteen weeks.” He did the math—counting from the day you left the crew, assuming you met ‘the guy’ maybe three or four weeks later. 

“Nuh-uh,” Lily says, brows pinched as she shakes her head. “She’s twenty-two weeks.” 

Tyler’s heart skips. “What? How do you know?” 

“It’s on the sonogram, stupid.” 

His pulse kicks up, head spinning, hands suddenly numb as he fumbles for his phone. He yanks it from his back pocket and pulls up the image, squinting at the screen. 

Lily sighs and takes it from him, zooming in on the small print in the corner. “See? Twenty-two weeks.” 

Kate says something, but Tyler doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. Loud. Fast. Deafening. 

Twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months. You’ve only been gone four months and three weeks. 

That leaves three weeks. 

Three weeks you were still with the crew. Still with him. 

Somewhere in those three weeks… you got pregnant. 

The world tilts. He blinks, once—twice—but everything stays blurry. The thought barrels through him like a freight train. It doesn’t make sense—shouldn’t make sense—but it does. The timeline. The things you said. The look on your face when you saw him. His stomach drops as the pieces slam into place, sharp and undeniable. 

Holy shit. 

“Tyler,” Kate says, her hand closing over his shoulder. 

Lily frowns again. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, dude. You can’t keep freezing like that.” 

“I have to go,” he mutters, shooting to his feet. 

Kate blinks. “Where?” 

“I’ll meet you guys at the restaurant.” He’s gone before they can respond, feet already pounding the pavement. 

He throws himself into the truck and jams the key in the ignition, peeling out of the motel lot fast enough to make the tires squeal. 

His grip tightens on the steering wheel as the truck barrels down the street, heart pounding like a war drum. The shock is still there, curling cold and sharp in his chest, but the panic has started to harden. Settle. Sharpen. He’s not going to lose it. Not now. If this really adds up—if the impossible is true—then he needs answers. Not anger. He sucks in a breath through his nose, jaw locked tight. 

He’s not going there to yell. He’s going there to hear it. To look you in the eye and make you say it— 

The truth. 

- You - 

You stand in front of your closet with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out what still fits and also looks decent enough for a nice restaurant. You picked a nice place on purpose—you haven’t been out in months. Literally. Most of your friends have been too busy chasing tornadoes while you’ve been stuck in this town, growing a baby. And while you’re not angry about the choices you’ve made, you’re more than a little excited to be getting out for the first time in what feels like forever. 

You’re feeling a lot better than you did a few hours ago. After a solid hour of crying on the floor, you dragged yourself into the shower and stayed there until your fingers pruned. Then you wrapped yourself in two towels, curled up on your bed, and passed out. When you woke up, your phone was full of messages—hearts, check-ins, a few sweet “can’t wait to see you” texts—and you decided that maybe you’d been overreacting. 

Sure, seeing Tyler had been the emotional peak of the last five and a half months, but that’s over now. And yeah, things might still be awkward. A little tense. But the secret’s out, and your story had him convinced—hook, line, and sinker. He was just emotional because he missed you. Because you’re best friends, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone without each other. 

You’d thought about telling him the truth earlier, while curled up on the floor. But once the initial wreckage settled, you remembered why you hadn’t. Just to be sure, you went back and rewatched Corey’s YouTube interview. It still stung—maybe even more than the first time—but it did what it was supposed to: reminded you to stay strong. Because when it comes to Tyler Owens, strength is not your strong suit. 

A knock echoes through the apartment and jolts you into motion. You yank a pair of thick black leggings from the drawer and wrestle into them while shuffling toward your bedroom door, grabbing an oversized knit sweater on the way. 

“Coming!” you call, your voice muffled as you pull the sweater over your head. 

Random visitors aren’t exactly uncommon. Your neighbour Marge likes to accuse you of stealing her newspapers, and you’ve definitely forgotten about more than a few online orders until the delivery driver comes knocking 

You reach the door and tug the sweater down over your bump before pulling it open. 

“Tyler,” you breathe, startled, taking an automatic step back. “You’re—uh—you’re like an hour early.” 

Lily had mentioned he’d be picking you up—something about saving you the cab fare. You hadn’t objected, for obvious reasons, but you’d hoped for at least enough time to do your hair and makeup. 

Still, he looks infuriatingly good. He’s swapped his white tee for a red plaid flannel, the top few buttons undone down to his sternum. His hair’s a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s holding his cowboy hat in one hand. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured we could catch up some more.” 

Did he drive here? Or run? 

“Um, okay. Sure,” you say, stepping back further. 

He nods as he walks in, kicking off his boots by the door before heading toward the lounge. But he doesn’t sit—he just stands there, stiff and distant, eyes scanning the room like he’s searching for something specific. 

“I was just getting ready,” you say, slipping into the kitchen. “Mind if I do the quick version before we... catch up?” 

He shakes his head and sets his hat on the coffee table, still glancing around like he’s casing the place. 

“Want a drink?” you ask, watching him carefully. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

“Okay,” you mutter, and retreat toward your room. So much for taking your time and enjoying getting ready. 

Maybe he’s just trying to be nice after this morning. Or maybe the others sent him here to smooth things over before they all see you for the first time in over four months—baby bump and all. 

“How far along did you say you were?” Tyler calls, poking his head into your room. 

You jump, dropping the sock you were trying to pull on. “Oh... um, about four-ish months.” 

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press, just leans in the doorway, quietly taking in the space. 

This can’t be good. 

“When are you due?” he asks. 

“Five-ish months,” you shoot back with a smirk. 

His lip twitches, almost smiling—and it still gets you. That little flicker of him is enough to stir your heart. 

Then he asks, “What did you say the dad’s name was again?” 

You freeze mid-step toward the ensuite. “I didn’t.” 

“Oh...” His nod is slow, satisfied, like he was waiting for that. 

“It’s Todd,” you blurt, turning quickly and disappearing into the bathroom. 

Behind you, he scoffs. “Todd.” 

Yeah, this isn’t good. Tyler’s onto something. What, you don’t know. But you can feel it—he’s circling like a shark, toying with you before he bites. 

“So, when exactly did you find out you were pregnant?” he asks, stepping into view in the mirror behind you. 

The hairs on your neck rise. “About three weeks after I slept with him.” 

His eyes lock on yours in the mirror, steady and sharp as you try to run a comb through your damp hair. 

“What did he say when you told him?” 

You shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “Not much. He was shocked. Asked if I was keeping it, and I said yes. Told him it was fine if he wanted out. He took it.” 

Tyler shifts, raising one arm to lean against the doorframe. He’s filling the small bathroom doorway with his body—and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are, how strong his arms are, remembering the way he’d thrown you around that night... 

The memory slams into you, heat creeping between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together. 

He notices. That tiny smirk returning as he leans in a little more, boxing you in. 

“Bit strange, don’t you think?” he says, voice low. “Knowing you’re having a kid and not wanting anything to do with it. Sounds like a dirtbag move.” 

Anger slices through your chest. “Yeah, well. Some people just don’t see themselves settling down.” 

The words are out before you realise—they're his words, from the interview. 

His eyes narrow. “Who said anything about settling down? Kids don’t ruin lives.” 

You scoff, avoiding his gaze. “No, they just stop you from pursuing your dreams.” 

Another quote. Damn that interview. Damn you for watching it again. But the way he’s interrogating you is pissing you off. What right does he have? He’s the one who told the world he’d resent anyone who gave him a kid. 

And here he is, acting like he cares. 

A heavy breath hangs in the air as you trade your hairbrush for a makeup brush, leaning closer to the mirror. Tyler’s eyes stay locked on you—intense, unwavering, a little too focused. 

Then his voice slices clean through the silence. 

“Why didn’t you use birth control?” 

White-hot fury flares up your spine, lighting your cheeks on fire as you spin to face him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t recoil. He just stands there with that same infuriating glint in his eye—smug, steady, unreadable. His posture is so relaxed it makes your skin crawl, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade into the middle of your lie. 

“You know I’m not on birth control,” you snap, your voice low and trembling with rage. “And the condom. Fucking. Broke.” 

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to drag it back in. You could’ve said anything else—something careless, something wild, something stupid. But instead, you gave him truth wrapped in a lie—and now the whole thing is starting to crack. 

“That so?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Crazy how that happened... twice in a row.” 

Your jaw clenches. “Clearly I need to buy a new box of condoms.” 

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh and leans in closer, eyes glittering. “That was my condom that broke.” 

Your breath comes faster now, chest tight, nerves sparking under your skin like live wires. You can’t even remember the lie you rehearsed. Your heart’s thundering, the baby is moving restlessly in your belly—like she feels your panic. Like she knows. 

“Maybe you and Todd use the same damn brand,” you mutter, spinning back toward the vanity and gripping the edge like it might hold you steady. 

“You just said you need to buy a new box,” he presses, relentless. “Does Todd leave his condoms here?” 

You grit your teeth, drop your chin, and breathe in through your nose. “Jesus, Tyler. I’m sorry I don’t remember every single detail.” 

You hear him shift. Feel the heat of him behind you. Too close. 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. 

You turn, slowly, heart in your throat. He’s so close now your belly nearly brushes his belt and you have to press against the vanity for space. 

You meet his eyes. “What do you think, Tyler?” 

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I think you remember the night you got pregnant like it just happened. I think it’s carved into your brain. And I think you’re tripping over your story right now because you can’t forget what it felt like. Because it was so damn good, you don’t want to forget it.” 

Panic coils in your chest like a gathering storm—rising fast, twisting tight, pushing a tangled mess of guilt and frustration up your throat. Your breath catches on it, your lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and breakdown. And then it spills over. Tears blur your vision before you can even try to blink them back, heavy and hot as they streak down your cheeks—weighted with remorse and something close to desperation. 

Tyler is frozen in place, wide-eyed and still, his lips parted like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. You can see the regret flicker there—he hadn’t meant to be cruel, not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever version of the truth he’s starting to piece together... he’s probably right. 

And still, you can’t say it. Not yet. 

Instead, you swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater and slip past him, your shoulder brushing his arm as you squeeze out of the bathroom. You cross the room on shaky legs and drop onto the bed, curling in on yourself as a raw sob breaks free and rattles from your chest. You bury your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. 

Tyler doesn’t move at first. The silence stretches and settles around you, thick and stifling. But then comes the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he’s choking on his own emotion. “That was too harsh.” 

You don’t look up. Not yet. You can’t. 

“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he continues, voice gentler now. “I got caught up—and I guess I’ve been walking around with all this shit in my chest. Then I saw you again, and it just... it all hit me. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, like it didn’t gut me when you left. But it did. You took more of me with you than I ever realised.” 

Your fingers shift, just enough to peek through them—and there he is, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting near your thigh but not quite touching. His eyes search yours, glassy with emotion he’s clearly trying to hold back. 

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I did before all of this—before you left, before... the baby. I’ve always loved you. That night wasn’t a mistake. And honestly? I wasn’t even that drunk. I just—needed you. I still do. I need you more than anything.” 

You swallow hard. 

“But not more than you need the chase,” you mutter, tears spilling again. “Right? Because that’s it for you. That’s the dream, and you’ve worked too damn hard to give it up.” 

He blinks. Confused. Then his brows furrow as recognition dawns. You can see it hit him—he remembers. 

You let out a shaky breath and slide your hand over his. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ty. I don’t want you to give up what you love. You’ve got an out.” 

His eyes widen, locking onto yours like he’s just now realising what you’re trying to say. 

“You can still walk away,” you whisper. 

He stares at you, frozen—like your words knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. His brows knit tighter, his hand shifting beneath yours. 

Then, after a beat, he whispers, “Are you serious?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just look at him, eyes brimming, heart thundering in your chest like it’s trying to burst out and reach for him itself. 

His throat works around a swallow. Then he says it—low and broken and burning. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” His voice cracks. “I fucking love you. More than anything. More than storms and chasing and everything I’ve ever been stupid enough to think mattered more. That interview... it was bullshit. I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about you. Because with you, I want all of it.” 

Then he moves. 

There’s no breath between the words and the moment he surges forward—like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and searing, all teeth and desperation and need. One hand tangles in your hair, the other pulls you toward him with a grip that says he’s never letting go again. 

It steals your breath. Steals your thoughts. Your hands fist in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely, matching the fire with one that’s been simmering in your chest since the day you left. 

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s raw and reckless and messy, and it tastes like every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every broken piece finally slamming back into place. 

It feels like the truth. 

Between frantic kisses, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.” 

You feel his mouth curve into a smile before he murmurs, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.” 

The kisses slow, soften—his tongue sweeping against yours with aching intention, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, every breath. The hand tangled in your hair slides down to cradle your neck, while the other one drifts to your waist, settling gently against the curve of your swollen belly. 

Then the baby kicks—hard. Harder than she ever has. You both jolt. 

“Shit,” you whisper, hands flying to your stomach. “Sorry.” 

Tyler stares, completely still. He looks unfairly beautiful like this—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, wide, glassy eyes locked on your belly. He looks like he’s just witnessed something holy. Something impossible. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. 

You shrug, brushing your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. “She doesn’t usually kick that hard. I guess she’s getting stronger.” 

His eyes shimmer. “She?” 

You nod, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Yeah. We’re having a baby girl.” 

His bottom lip trembles, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We?” 

A shaky laugh bubbles up as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “Yes, Tyler. She’s yours.” 

His tears fall freely now, trailing down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you like you’ve hung the moon—just for him. 

“I’m yours too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We’re all yours.” 

Then he’s kissing you again—wet and messy and full of everything you’ve both been carrying for months. You’re crying, he’s crying, but neither of you care. You just hold on—breathing hard, laughing softly—lips meeting again and again as you both sink into the familiar shape of each other… into home. 

He says it casually, leaning against the kitchen counter in gray athletic shorts and a worn tee from LSU that’s so soft it’s nearly translucent. The boys orbit him like over excited puppies - Hayes explaining a new route concept he “invented,” Sawyer correcting him loudly, and Tate - your Tater Tot - has one small hand hooked into Joe’s pinky like an anchor.

“You can go,” Joe tells you, bumping his hip against yours. “You handle three grown women. I can handle three boys.”

You arch an eyebrow. “They are grown.”

“Have you met your mother?” he shoots back, and you laugh because you have.

The truth is, you do worry. Not because Joe can’t do it - he can read a defense in seconds, can throw a spiral fifty yards without thinking, can stand in front of a stadium packed with screaming fans at Paycor Stadium and look unbothered. But home is louder in a different way - it’s overlapping questions and snack negotiations and someone crying because someone else looked at them wrong. It’s Hayes and Sawyer wanting to run routes in the backyard until the sun sets, and Tate blinking against the noise, asking if he can go inside and color dinosaurs instead.

Tate is the youngest and the most sensitive. Not in a fragile way - just in a thoughtful one. He feels things longer. When his brothers crash into him mid-play, they bounce off and keep running. He lingers, rubbing his shoulder, eyes shiny.

Hayes, at eight, already studies Joe like he’s preparing for a job interview. He mirrors his stance when they throw. He squints at the field (your yard, but they insist on calling it the field) like he’s calculating coverage.

Sawyer, six and a half and pure chaos, wants to win everything. If Hayes catches three passes, Sawyer needs four. If Hayes says he’s faster, Sawyer will run laps until someone confirms it.

And Tate would rather sit at the kitchen table with a box of crayons, tongue peeking out in concentration, drawing a family of stick figures where everyone is smiling and holding hands.

Joe sees all of it. That’s the thing. He acts relaxed but you know him. You’ve known him since he was seventeen and trying too hard not to look at you in the hallway. You know the slight tightening around his eyes when the noise stacks too high, the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s overstimulated but pretending he’s not. The deep breath before he steps in to referee.

He catches you watching him now.

“I’ve got it,” he says again, softer this time.

You walk through the house one more time before leaving - checking that Tate’s favorite coloring book is on the table, that the freezer has the popsicles Hayes likes, that Sawyer’s cleats are by the back door so he doesn’t tear the grass up in sneakers and then cry about slipping.

Your mom and Maisie are already texting you about brunch reservations. You should be excited. You are excited. But as you grab your bag, Tate’s voice drifts in from the living room.

“Daddy, can we not go outside yet?”

Hayes groans dramatically. “Tate, it’s summer.”

Joe’s voice follows, calm but firm. “Hey. We’re not groaning at each other. We’ll figure it out.”

That’s when you pause in the doorway.

Joe is crouched down, eye-level with all three of them. One hand on Hayes’ shoulder, the other tugging Sawyer closer so he stops pacing. Tate is pressed into his side, small fingers curling into Joe’s shirt.

They look like a team already.

You married him young - you remember people telling you that was reckless. High school sweethearts don’t always last, especially ones in the NFL. But you’ve built this life brick by brick - through college apartments and draft night nerves, through your first tiny rental house and then the one with the yard big enough for backyard scrimmages.

Three boys, endless noise, grass stains that never fully come out.

Joe glances toward the door, catches your eye.

“Go,” he mouths.

And for a second, you see it - QB1, dad, the boy you fell in love with - all braided together into one steady presence.

You step out into the thick Cincinnati heat, knowing full well that by mid-afternoon, someone will be crying, someone will be hungry again, and Joe will be standing in the kitchen, overwhelmed but pretending he’s not.

But he meant what he said.

He’s got it. Or at least, he’s going to try.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Joe stands there for half a second longer than he needs to. He listens and waits until your car starts. The boys already talking over one another.

Then-

“Dad,” Hayes says immediately like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Can we do pancakes?”

“No, waffles,” Sawyer cuts in. “You always say pancakes.”

“I do not always say pancakes.”

“You literally always say pancakes.”

Joe exhales through his nose slowly. It’s only 8AM.

Tate is still by the front window. He hasn’t moved.

Joe notices it before he even answers the breakfast debate. Tate’s small hands are pressed to the glass, watching your car roll down the street like it might change its mind and reverse.

“Hey, Tater Tot,” Joe says gently.

No response.

Hayes and Sawyer are now debating syrup ratios.

“She uses more syrup when we do pancakes,” Hayes argues. “It’s, like, proven.”

“Because they need more syrup,” Sawyer fires back. “Waffles have pockets, that’s kinda the whole point.”

Joe rubs a hand down his face.

“Okay,” he says, raising his voice just enough. “Time out.”

They both stop mid-sentence. He’s learned that tone. Not mad, just firm.

“We’re going to make breakfast,” he says. “And nobody is yelling about breakfast.”

Sawyer opens his mouth.

Joe lifts a finger. “Nope. Not yet.”

He walks over to Tate first, crouches down beside him. Tate’s lip is wobbling in that quiet way. No dramatic crying, just the slow build of it. His eyes are glossy, doesn’t look at Joe, still staring out the window.

“Hey,” Joe says softly. “Mom’s not moving back in, you know.”

Tate sniffles. “I know.”

“You know?”

He nods, but he doesn’t turn around.

Joe rests a hand gently on the back of his head. Soft brown hair, warm from the sun through the window.

“She’s just at brunch,” Joe says. “You remember brunch?”

“With Grandma and Aunt Maisie,” Tate whispers.

“Yeah.”

Another sniffle.

Joe glances over his shoulder. Hayes is now dramatically leaning against the counter like he’s been deeply wronged by the waffle lobby. Sawyer is digging in the pantry like he’s going to find a solution in there.

Joe turns back to Tate.

“Want to help me make breakfast?” he asks.

A small shake of the head.

“Do you want to stand by me while I make breakfast?”

Pause.

“Can I call her?”

Joe’s chest tightens in that subtle way it does when one of them looks too small for the world.

“We’re not calling her five minutes after she left,” he says gently. “She deserves a little break.”

Tate’s fingers curl into the hem of Joe’s shirt now.

“I don’t like when she leaves.”

Joe shifts so he’s sitting on the floor fully now, back against the wall, Tate tucked into his side.

“I know.”

And he does know.

Tate has always been this way. As a baby, he’d cry if you left the room for too long. As a toddler, he’d toddle after you like a shadow. He doesn’t like sudden quiet, doesn’t like big changes. He thrives on predictability.

Which is ironic considering his brothers are basically human fireworks.

Joe presses a kiss to the top of Tate’s head.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You know what’s cool?”

Tate doesn’t answer.

“You get me all morning.”

That gets a small look.

Joe makes a dramatic face. “No practice or meetings, or film. Just me. And you.”

Hayes cuts in from the kitchen. “Dad, he always gets you.”

Tate immediately looks like he might cry again.

Joe points without looking. “Hayes. Not helping.”

Hayes freezes.

Joe softens his voice again. “It’s just us today, bud. And when Mom gets back, you can tell her all about how awesome this morning was.”

“Can it be waffles?” Sawyer shouts.

“Can it be quiet?” Joe shoots back.

Silence.

For three seconds until Sawyer mutters, “Waffles are quieter than pancakes.”

Joe stands up slowly, lifting Tate with him automatically. Tate wraps around him like a koala.

“All right,” Joe says, walking toward the kitchen with Tate attached to his hip. “We are making-”

“Waffles!” Sawyer cheers.

“Pancakes and waffles.”

Both boys blink. He sets Tate on the counter beside the stove, one protective arm loosely around him. Tate leans into his side immediately.

“Okay,” Joe says, grabbing a mixing bowl. “We’re doing one batch pancake style, one batch waffle style. Everybody wins.”

Sawyer squints suspiciously. “But which one do you like better?”

Joe doesn’t hesitate. “Whichever one doesn’t involve yelling.”

Hayes snorts.

Joe hands Hayes the measuring cup. “You’re in charge of flour. Two cups. Level it off.”

Hayes straightens immediately, taking the job seriously.

“Sawyer,” Joe continues, “crack the eggs.”

Sawyer’s eyes light up. “Can I do it one-handed?”

“No.”

Sawyer deflates.

“And crack them over the bowl,” Joe adds. “Not the counter.”

Tate’s fingers are still curled in Joe’s shirt.

Joe starts whisking.

The noise level rises again within seconds.

“That’s not two cups,” Sawyer says.

“It is two cups.”

“You didn’t level it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You didn’t!”

Tate’s shoulders inch upward.

Joe notices.

“Hey,” Joe says, not looking up from the batter. “Volume.”

They quiet a notch.

Sawyer cracks an egg too hard. Shell fragments plop into the bowl.

“Shoot,” he mutters.

Joe fishes them out calmly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Sawyer insists. “Now it’s ruined.”

“It’s eggs and flour,” Joe says. “We are not performing surgery.”

Tate presses his hands over his ears.

Hayes groans. “Sawyer, you’re so loud.”

“You’re loud!”

“I’m not loud!”

“You are loud!”

Tate squeezes his eyes shut. Joe puts the whisk down.

“Okay.”

That tone again.

All three boys freeze as Joe turns fully toward them.

“First of all,” he says evenly, “nobody is calling anybody loud like it’s an insult.”

Hayes looks down as Sawyer shifts.

Joe steps closer, one hand resting on Tate’s back.

“Second,” he continues, “if we can’t make breakfast without arguing about flour and eggs, we are not making breakfast.”

Silence.

Sawyer fidgets.

Hayes mutters, “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Sawyer echoes.

Joe nods once.

Then he crouches so he’s eye-level with them, Tate still leaning against him.

“You two are big enough to handle disagreements without yelling,” he says. “And your brother doesn’t like when it gets loud.”

They both glance at Tate.

Tate keeps his hands over his ears.

Hayes’ face softens. “Sorry, Tate.”

Sawyer walks closer. “We weren’t yelling at you.”

Tate shrugs as Joe rubs his back gently.

“All right,” Joe says. “Reset. We’re starting over.”

He stands, turns back to the counter.

“Hayes,” he says, calm again. “Show me the flour.”

Hayes carefully levels it this time.

“Sawyer,” Joe says, “crack the last egg.”

This time it’s cleaner.

Tate slowly lowers one hand from his ear.

Joe hands him the whisk.

“Want to stir?”

Tate hesitates, then nods. Joe keeps his hand over Tate’s smaller one as they whisk together. The batter sloshes slightly over the edge.

“Oops,” Tate whispers.

Joe grins. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Sawyer leans against the counter. “Can I pour it?”

“You can pour when I say you can pour,” Joe replies.

Hayes rolls his eyes. “Control freak.”

Joe points the whisk at him. “Inherited.”

Hayes grins despite himself.

The waffle iron heats with a click as the skillet warms on the stove.

Joe moves like he does in the pocket - aware of everything at once. Sawyer inching too close to the heat, Hayes trying to peek under the waffle lid, Tate shifting when the sizzle gets too loud.

“Back up,” Joe says gently, nudging Sawyer with his hip. “Hot.”

Sawyer backs up.

Tate flinches when the first pancake hits the pan.

Joe lowers the heat slightly.

“Too loud?” he murmurs.

Tate nods.

Joe bends so they’re eye-level again. “You want to sit at the table while I finish?”

Another small nod.

Joe sets him down at the table, but Tate immediately looks uncertain again. Joe then, grabs the coloring book from the counter and slides it in front of him.

“Front-row seat,” he says. “You can supervise.”

Tate cracks the smallest smile.

Hayes watches Joe flip the pancake. “That was clean.”

“Of course it was clean,” Sawyer says. “He’s a quarterback.”

Joe snorts. “That has nothing to do with pancakes.”

“It kind of does,” Hayes argues. “Hand-eye coordination.”

Sawyer nods seriously. “Yeah.”

Joe shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He plates the first pancake and cuts it in half automatically.

“Who’s first?” he asks.

“Me,” Sawyer says.

“No, me!” Hayes counters.

Joe doesn’t even look at them.

“Tater Tot,” he says.

Both older boys groan.

“That’s not fair.”

“He didn’t even ask for it.”

Joe slides the plate in front of Tate.

“Exactly,” he says.

Tate beams. It’s small, but it’s there.

Hayes and Sawyer exchange a look.

Joe starts the next pancake.

“We’re rotating,” he says. “Relax.”

The kitchen settles into a rhythm. Pour, sizzle, flip.

Sawyer sets the table dramatically, narrating his own movements like it’s a cooking show.

“And now,” he announces, placing a fork down, “the contestants wait.”

Hayes rolls his eyes but helps.

Tate colors quietly, glancing up every few seconds to make sure Joe is still there.

Joe feels the pull of everything at once - the noise, the heat, the constant questions but he breathes through it.

“Dad,” Hayes says, “after breakfast can we run routes?”

“Outside?” Sawyer adds eagerly.

Tate stiffens at the word outside.

Joe notices.

“Maybe,” Joe says carefully.

Hayes lights up. “Yes.”

“That’s not a yes,” Joe corrects. “That’s a maybe.”

Sawyer groans. “You always say maybe.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “I wonder where you got that from.”

They eat in waves.

Hayes inhales his portion like he’s fueling for a combine. Sawyer talks the entire time, syrup on his chin. Tate eats slowly, still watching Joe like he might disappear if he blinks too long.

Joe finally sits down with his own plate when they’re halfway through.

For three minutes, it’s peaceful.

Then-

“Hayes took more syrup.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t!”

Tate’s hands creep back toward his ears.

Joe closes his eyes briefly.

Deep breath.

He opens them.

“All right,” he says evenly. “We are not fighting over syrup.”

“But-”

“Nope.”

Silence again.

Joe reaches for the syrup bottle and places it dead center on the table.

“Shared resource,” he says. “Figure it out.”

They stare at it like it’s a negotiation table.

Tate slowly reaches first, Hayes and Sawyer both pause as Joe watches carefully.

Tate pours a tiny amount. Very precise and careful, then sets it back.

Hayes glances at Sawyer.

Sawyer sighs dramatically but nods.

They manage it without yelling.

Joe leans back slightly.

Small win.

Tate looks up at him. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“When is Mom coming home?”

Joe checks the clock. “Couple hours.”

Tate frowns.

Joe leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You know what we’re going to do?”

Tate shakes his head.

“We’re going to have the best morning ever. So when she gets home, you can tell her she missed it.”

Tate considers that.

Hayes grins. “Yeah. We’ll be like, sorry Mom, you should’ve been here.”

Sawyer nods enthusiastically. “Awesome.”

Tate’s mouth twitches.

Joe sees it - the shift, the tiny easing.

He ruffles Tate’s hair gently.

“See?” he murmurs. “We’ve got it.”

As Hayes immediately starts explaining a backyard play concept and Sawyer argues about formation spacing, the volume rising again, Joe braces himself.

Joe stands in the middle of the kitchen after breakfast like he’s in the huddle as wipes his hands on a dish towel, glances at the clock again, and nods to himself.

“Okay,” he says.

Hayes looks up from licking syrup off his fork. “Okay... what?”

“We need a plan.”

Sawyer groans instantly. “Why?”

“Because,” Joe replies calmly, “when we don’t have a plan, we yell about waffles.”

“That was one time,” Sawyer mutters.

Joe ignores him. He walks to the fridge, grabs the magnetic notepad and clicks a pen.

Hayes’ eyes narrow. “Are you seriously making a schedule?”

Joe writes at the top in neat block letters -- BURROW BOYS SUMMER AGENDA

“Yes,” he says simply.

Sawyer collapses dramatically against the chair. “Dad.”

Joe doesn’t even look at him. “9AM to 10AM: Coloring and quiet time. We’ll watch Shrek 4.”

Tate perks up immediately. “The dragon part?”

“Yes,” Joe says. “The dragon part.”

Hayes squints. “Again?”

“Yes,” Joe says. “Again.”

Sawyer sighs. “We watched that yesterday.”

“And you’ll survive watching it today,” Joe says, still writing. “11AM to 12AM: Backyard football.”

That gets their attention.

“12AM to 1PM: Pool.”

Hayes straightens. “Like actually swim, not just sit?”

“Actually swim.”

Sawyer fist pumps.

Joe caps the pen and turns around.

“Everyone gets something,” he says evenly. “Tate gets quiet time. You two get football. We all get swimming. No arguing about what’s next because it’s written down.”

Hayes studies the list like it’s a game plan. “Can we adjust based on performance?”

Joe fights a smile. “No.”

Sawyer crosses his arms. “What if we finish coloring early?”

“Then you color better,” Joe says.

Tate is already climbing off his chair.

“Can we start now?”

Joe nods once. “Living room. Get the blankets from the closet, I’ll get the crayons from upstairs.”

The living room becomes headquarters within five minutes.

Joe drags out the big gray throw blanket and spreads it across the floor. Hayes and Sawyer fight lightly over who gets which couch pillow until Joe silently removes both pillows and tosses them to the opposite side of the room.

“You get the floor,” he says.

They grumble but comply.

Tate settles right beside Joe, thigh pressed firmly against his. His coloring book is open to a dragon page. He arranges his crayons in a neat line before touching any of them.

Joe notices.

The TV glows as Shrek Forever After starts up again. Sawyer groans at the opening credits but doesn’t actually look away.

Joe picks up a random superhero coloring book Sawyer abandoned weeks ago and flips to a page.

“You’re coloring?” Hayes asks skeptically.

“Yes,” Joe replies.

“That’s so unnecessary.”

Joe shrugs. “I commit.”

Tate leans against his arm, already carefully filling in a wing.

For a little while, it works exactly how Joe hoped.

The movie hums in the background. Tate is quiet, fully absorbed. Joe colors in long, steady strokes. Hayes and Sawyer bicker softly about which crayon shade is more “realistic” for ogre skin but it’s light not too loud.

“That’s not forest green,” Sawyer says.

“It literally says forest green.”

“It looks like grass.”

“Grass is in a forest.”

“That’s not the point.”

Joe doesn’t intervene because this is manageable. Tate doesn’t even glance at them. His tongue peeks out slightly in concentration as he outlines a dragon’s tail.

On screen, Donkey starts yelling.

Sawyer laughs. Hayes mutters a line along with the movie.

Joe catches Tate smiling.

“You’ve memorized it, huh?” Joe murmurs.

Tate nods without looking up. “He says it wrong on purpose.”

Joe hums.

Behind them, Hayes flicks a crayon at Sawyer.

“Stop,” Sawyer says automatically.

“You stop.”

“You’re in my bubble.”

“There is no bubble, it’s a blanket.”

Joe exhales but doesn’t look up.

“Keep it at banter level,” he says.

“What’s banter?” Sawyer asks.

“Not yelling,” Hayes answers.

Joe smiles faintly.

Tate finishes his page and holds it up silently.

Joe looks over. “That’s good, Tater.”

Tate beams.

“Can you hang it?” he asks.

“On the fridge?” Hayes interjects. “There’s no room.”

“There’s always room,” Joe says.

He takes the page, smooths it out carefully, and sets it aside.

The hour moves slower in a good way. The noise never spikes too high. Tate stays anchored to Joe’s side. Joe finds himself half-watching the movie with him, half-listening to the rhythm of Hayes and Sawyer’s ongoing, harmless debate about whether Shrek could play tight end.

“He’s too slow,” Sawyer insists.

“He’s strong though,” Hayes counters. “He could block.”

“He’d get called for holding every play.”

Joe snorts under his breath. Tate leans into him further when a louder action scene starts and Joe lowers the volume slightly without being asked.

When the credits roll, Joe checks the time.

10AM.

He stands, claps once. “All right.”

Sawyer jumps up instantly. “Outside!”

Tate’s shoulders tense.

Joe kneels in front of him.

“Football first,” Joe says gently. “Then pool.”

Tate hesitates.

“You’re on my team,” Joe adds quietly.

That helps, Tate nods.

The backyard is bright and hot, the grass slightly damp from early morning sprinklers.

Hayes grabs the football immediately as Sawyer starts pacing off imaginary yard lines.

Joe hands Tate a smaller ball at first.

“Warm up,” he says.

Tate tosses it back carefully.

Hayes rolls his shoulders. “We’re offense.”

“No,” Sawyer says. “We’re defense.”

Joe steps in. “Teams are set. Me and Tate, you two together.”

Sawyer grins. “We’re going to win.”

Hayes nods confidently. “By a lot.”

Joe arches a brow. “We’ll see.”

They line up loosely. Hayes starts calling out dramatic, unnecessary audibles.

“Blue 42! Blue 42!”

“You don’t even know what that means,” Sawyer says.

“Yes I do.”

Joe bends down next to Tate.

“Okay,” he murmurs quietly. “You run straight to the tree, turn around. I’ll throw it to you, just focus on the ball.”

Tate nods seriously as Joe hikes the ball to himself dramatically.

Sawyer rushes him immediately.

“Hey!” Joe laughs. “No blitzing on the first play.”

“There’s always blitzing,” Sawyer argues.

Hayes circles wide.

Joe steps back, scanning theatrically. Tate runs - small but still determined.

Joe throws.

It’s a clean spiral, soft enough. Tate catches it against his chest.

Hayes groans loudly. “No way.”

Sawyer throws his hands up. “He traveled!”

“That’s basketball,” Joe says.

Tate smiles shyly as they reset.

The game builds slowly, energy rising but still playful. Hayes makes a diving catch in the grass and rolls dramatically like he’s in the Super Bowl. Sawyer trash talks relentlessly but never cruelly.

Joe keeps glancing at Tate, checking in.

He’s keeping up, laughing more now. At one point, Hayes accidentally bumps him but immediately steadies him.

“Sorry,” Hayes says quickly.

“It’s okay,” Tate replies.

Joe scrambles to the side, Sawyer chasing him hard. Hayes cuts across the middle, Tate is near Joe, ready for a short pass.

Joe pivots to avoid Sawyer, doesn’t see Tate step forward at the same time.

His elbow clips Tate’s forehead. It’s not hard, but it’s enough.

Tate stumbles backward and falls onto the grass.

Everything stops.

For half a second, it’s silent, then Tate’s face crumples.

Joe’s stomach drops.

“Hey - hey,” Joe says instantly, dropping to his knees.

But Hayes and Sawyer get there first.

“Dad!” Sawyer yells.

“What did you do?” Hayes demands, voice loud.

Joe blinks, stunned.

“I- he stepped-”

Tate starts crying fully now, hands over his forehead.

Hayes kneels beside him, glaring up at Joe like he just committed a crime.

“You hit him!”

“It was an accident,” Joe says quickly, reaching out.

Sawyer pushes Joe’s arm away. “Don’t touch him!”

Joe freezes.

There it is, that big-brother instinct.

Hayes cups Tate’s face gently. “Where does it hurt?”

“My head,” Tate sobs.

Joe swallows.

“I didn’t... mean to,” he says softly.

Sawyer shoots him a look. “You’re supposed to watch.”

Joe almost laughs at the absurdity of being scolded by his six year old, but Tate’s crying stops him.

“I know,” Joe says. “You’re right.”

That disarms them. Hayes hesitates as Joe moves slower now.

“Can I check?” he asks Tate.

Tate nods weakly. Joe carefully moves his hands away and examines the spot.

It’s already reddening.

“Okay,” Joe says softly. “That’s going to bruise a little.”

Sawyer looks furious. “Mom is going to freak out.”

Joe exhales slowly. “Let’s not escalate.”

Hayes looks between Joe and Tate. “You didn’t even see him.”

“I know,” Joe says again. “That’s on me.”

Tate sniffles.

Joe scoops him up carefully.

“I’m sorry, Tater Tot,” he murmurs into his hair.

Hayes stands, still hovering. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” Joe says gently. “Just surprised.”

Sawyer crosses his arms, eyes still narrowed at Joe.

“He need ice,” Hayes says decisively.

“Yes,” Joe agrees. “Ice.”

They all march inside together like a tiny protective unit as Joe grabs a cold pack from the freezer and wraps it in a towel.

Hayes holds Tate’s hand while Joe presses it gently to his forehead as Sawyer stands close, watching like a security guard.

“You can’t hit him,” Sawyer mutters.

Joe huffs a quiet laugh despite himself. “I’m aware.”

Tate’s crying fades to sniffles.

Hayes leans closer. “You’re tough,” he tells him.

Sawyer nods firmly. “Yeah, you barely cried.”

Joe raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

Tate gives them a small, wobbly smile, and Joe feels something warm in his chest.

They love him. Even if it means yelling at their own dad.

After fifteen minutes and a popsicle bribe, Tate’s eyelids start drooping.

Joe notices immediately.

“Nap,” he decides.

“I’m not tired,” Tate mumbles.

“You are,” Joe says gently.

He carries him upstairs, the house quieter now. In Tate’s room, Joe dims the lights and sets him down carefully.

“Will you stay?” Tate asks.

“For a minute.”

Joe sits on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers through Tate’s hair.

“You did good out there,” Joe murmurs.

Tate’s eyes flutter. “Hayes was mad at you.”

Joe smiles faintly. “I noticed.”

Tate falls asleep mid-sentence.

Joe stays an extra minute anyway, then he slips out quietly.

Downstairs, Hayes and Sawyer are already in swim trunks.

“Pool?” Sawyer asks immediately.

Joe nods. “Pool.”

They head out back again.

Without Tate, the energy spikes. They cannonball into the water within seconds, as Joe slides in slower.

“Okay,” Hayes says, treading water. “Hypothetically.”

Joe groans.

“If you had Ja’Marr and Justin on the same team in backyard rules-”

“Unfair,” Sawyer cuts in.

“I’m not done.”

Joe leans back against the pool wall.

Hayes continues, “Would you run slants first or go deep?”

Joe smirks. “Depends on coverage.”

“There is no coverage,” Sawyer argues. “It’s backyard.”

“There’s always coverage,” Hayes insists.

Joe watches them argue about imaginary defensive schemes in waist-deep water.

They debate zone versus man like it’s life or death. Sawyer insists blitzing every down is smart, Hayes calls him reckless.

Joe lets them go at it for a while before he interjecting calmly, “You can’t blitz every down. You’ll get burned.”

Sawyer looks betrayed. “You always say take risks.”

“Calculated risks,” Joe corrects.

Hayes grins smugly as Sawyer splashes him.

They wrestle in the water, laughing. Joe feels the noise climbing again, but it’s different without Tate’s sensitivity in the mix. Still, after forty-five minutes, he’s tired.

“Out,” he calls.

They groan but obey.

By the time they’re towel-drying and arguing about sandwiches versus grilled cheese, Joe glances at the clock.

Time to wake Tate.

“He’s going to have a mark,” Hayes says casually.

Joe’s stomach flips. “Don’t say that.”

Sawyer grins. “Mom’s going to kill you.”

Joe stares at them.

“She... is not going to kill me.”

Hayes shrugs. “She might.”

Joe runs a hand through his hair.

Upstairs, Tate wakes slowly, blinking. Joe lifts him carefully.

“How’s the head?”

Tate touches it. “It’s fine.”

Downstairs, Hayes gasps dramatically.

“Oh my gosh!”

Joe’s heart drops.

The bruise is faint but visible now.

Sawyer winces. “You’re so done.”

Joe exhales slowly.

“Okay,” he mutters. “We’re just not going to make a big deal.”

Hayes grins. “She’s going to notice immediately.”

Joe points at him. “You are not helping.”

Tate looks between them. “Am I in trouble?”

All three of them answer at once. “No.”

Joe crouches down, smoothing Tate’s hair gently over the bruise.

“You’re good,” he says softly.

But internally he is absolutely preparing a defense speech for when you walk through that door.

Joe has officially decided he is done pretending he has the energy to cook again.

The boys are sprawled across the living room floor, damp hair from the pool still curling at the edges. Tate is sitting upright now, a little quieter than usual, bruise on his forehead has bloomed into a faint purplish mark, not dramatic but noticeable if you’re looking.

Joe is definitely looking. He stands in the kitchen with his phone in hand, staring at the fridge like it might volunteer to make lunch.

“Grilled cheese?” Hayes suggests halfheartedly.

“You burned it last time,” Sawyer says.

“I did not burn it.”

“It was black.”

“It was... crispy.”

Joe rubs his temples.

“Okay,” he says finally. “New plan.”

They all look up.

“We’re ordering.”

Sawyer shoots up like he just won the lottery. “From the sandwich shop?”

“Yes.”

Hayes nods approvingly. “Smart.”

Joe arches a brow. “Thank you.”

Tate perks up slightly. “Can I get the turkey one?”

“The one with the cheese melted?” Joe asks.

Tate nods.

“Yeah,” Joe says. “You can.”

He places the order from the little sandwich shop five minutes away - the one you both love because they know your family by name at this point. It’s quick, no additional fires to put out.

While they wait, Hayes flips on the TV.

“Highlights,” he announces.

Joe doesn’t argue.

Within minutes, the living room is filled with the sound of a broadcast recap. Big hits, touchdowns, commentators’ voices layered over stadium noise.

Tate sits between Joe’s knees on the floor, leaning back into him. Hayes and Sawyer are on either side, arguing quietly about which throw was better.

“That one,” Sawyer insists, pointing at the screen. “That’s perfect.”

“He underthrew him,” Hayes counters.

“It still worked.”

“That’s not the point.”

Joe rests his chin lightly on the top of Tate’s head.

“You guys realize,” he says calmly, “half of those plays only work because of protection.”

Hayes glances back at him. “So you’re saying offensive line is more important?”

“I’m saying,” Joe replies, “it’s not just about the throw.”

Sawyer squints suspiciously. “You’re biased.”

Joe laughs softly. “Probably.”

The doorbell rings.

All three boys scramble up at once.

“I’ll get it,” Hayes says.

“No, I will,” Sawyer counters.

Joe stands, tired. “We’re all getting it.”

They crowd the front door like it’s Christmas morning as Joe grabs the bags, thanks the delivery guy, and ushers them back inside before they rip into everything in the doorway.

“Plates,” Joe orders automatically.

They actually listen.

Within minutes, they’re back on the floor, unwrapping sandwiches, paper crinkling, the room filled with the warm smell of toasted bread and melted cheese.

Tate eats slowly again, careful bites.

Joe watches him without meaning to.

“I’m okay,” Tate says quietly, not looking up.

Joe’s mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

Hayes bites into his sandwich and talks through it. “When Mom gets home, we should just act normal.”

Joe freezes.

Sawyer looks up. “We are normal.”

Hayes gestures vaguely toward Tate’s forehead. “I mean about that.”

Joe glares at him lightly. “It was an accident.”

Sawyer smirks. “You’re scared.”

“I am not scared.”

Hayes leans back dramatically. “You are so scared.”

Joe points at him. “Eat your sandwich.”

They do and it’s oddly peaceful. The highlights roll, they argue in lower volumes. Tate leans into Joe again, drowsy from his nap and the full morning.

Joe glances at the clock - you should be home soon.

He inhales slowly.

He has run two-minute drills in louder stadiums, has stood in front of reporters dissecting every mistake.

And yet- there’s something about you walking into the house and spotting a bruise on your four year old’s face that makes his pulse spike.

You expect chaos, already bracing for it as you pull into the driveway.

Your girls’ day ran long in the best way. Brunch turned into coffee, coffee turned into walking around shops and at some point you let yourself fully relax because Joe had insisted. He had that look in his eye when he told you he could handle it.

Still.

Three boys, all day, in the summer.

You unlock the door slowly, half-expecting to hear yelling before you even step inside.

But it’s… quiet. Not silent - there’s the hum of the TV and the low murmur of voices but no crying or shrieking, or thundering footsteps.

You step into the living room.

All four of them are on the floor - eating and watching football highlights.

Joe glances up first.

Relief flashes across his face so quickly you almost miss it.

“You’re back,” he says.

Hayes looks over his shoulder. “Hi, Mom.”

Sawyer waves his sandwich. “We didn’t burn anything.”

You blink. “That’s… promising.”

Before you can say anything else, Tate spots you.

He drops the last piece of his sandwich and bolts across the room.

“Mama!”

You laugh as he collides into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“I was gone for five minutes,” you tease softly, bending to scoop him up.

And then, you see it - the bruise. Your heart jumps into your throat instantly.

“Tate,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “What happened?”

Joe closes his eyes.

Hayes and Sawyer both point at the same time.

“Him.”

Joe opens one eye. “You two are unbelievable.”

You stare at Joe, alarm flashing.

“What happened?” you repeat, more urgent now.

“It was an accident,” Joe says quickly, already standing. “We were playing outside and he, uh, stepped forward when I pivoted. My elbow clipped him.”

“You elbowed him?” you demand.

“I didn’t... mean to.”

Hayes crosses his arms. “He didn’t look.”

Sawyer nods firmly. “He should’ve looked.”

Joe glares at them. “I said it was on me.”

You examine Tate’s forehead carefully, fingers gentle around the bruise.

“Does it hurt?” you ask softly.

Tate shrugs. “A little.”

You look up at Joe again.

He looks genuinely stressed. Not defensive or annoyed - stressed.

You exhale slowly.

“You know what I expected?” you say.

Joe braces.

“Broken bones, stitches. At least one ER trip.”

Joe blinks.

“What?”

You laugh suddenly. “It’s a bruise, Joe.”

He stares at you like you just handed him a lifeline.

“That’s it?” he asks cautiously.

“That’s it.”

Hayes frowns. “You’re not mad?”

You glance at them. “Were you playing?”

“Yes.”

“Was it an accident?”

They hesitate.

“Yes,” Sawyer admits.

“Then no, I’m not mad.”

Joe visibly deflates.

You shake your head, smiling now. “You should see the way they were looking at him.”

“They yelled at me,” Joe mutters.

“Good,” you reply easily. “That means they love him.”

Tate rests his head on your shoulder.

Joe steps closer, softer now.

“I iced it,” he says. “He napped. He’s okay.”

“I know,” you say.

There’s a small beat of quiet between you.

You catch his eye.

He really did try. You shift Tate to your hip and hold out your hands suddenly.

“Okay,” you say brightly. “More important things.”

Hayes squints. “What?”

You wiggle your fingers. “I got my nails done.”

All three boys immediately crowd you.

“What color?” Sawyer demands.

You hold them up dramatically.

Blue with tiny sparkles.

Hayes gasps. “No way.”

Sawyer grabs your wrist carefully, examining them like it’s a serious inspection.

“That’s the exact blue we said,” he says.

“With sparkles,” Hayes adds approvingly.

Tate touches one gently. “They’re shiny.”

You grin. “You guys asked for blue with sparkles. So I did blue with sparkles.”

Sawyer beams like he personally commissioned them.

“They’re cool,” Hayes says, nodding firmly.

Joe watches the whole thing, leaning against the couch.

You glance at him.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly, smiling. “Nothing.”

The boys are still holding your hands, turning them in the light, debating which finger looks best.

“Ring finger,” Sawyer declares.

“Pinky,” Hayes counters.

Tate just keeps staring at the glitter.

You feel warm in that deep, steady way.

You were gone for a few hours and somehow, they’re all intact.

Eventually, you settle down on the floor with them while they finish eating. Joe hands you the last half of a sandwich without asking.

“You didn’t eat?” you ask.

“I did,” he says. “I just saved you some.”

You take a bite.

He watches you chew like he hasn’t seen you in days instead of hours.

You notice and raise an eyebrow slightly.

He leans closer, pressing one small kiss on your lips, soft and quick.

And then, almost immediately-

“Ew!”

“Gross!”

Hayes throws a pillow at Joe’s shoulder.

Sawyer covers Tate’s eyes dramatically.

“Stop,” Sawyer groans. “Why do you do that?”

Joe pulls back slowly, unfazed.

“How do you guys think you were made?” he asks casually.

There’s a pause.

All three boys stare at him, processing. Not fully understanding.

You burst out laughing and smack Joe’s chest lightly.

“Joseph.”

He grins.

“What?” he says innocently.

Hayes narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, still laughing. “It means eat your sandwich.”

Sawyer looks deeply suspicious as Joe just leans back, finally relaxed.

You shake your head at him, smiling.

For someone who was terrified ten minutes ago, he looks pretty proud now. And despite the faint bruise, the grass stains, the crumpled sandwich wrappers, and the lingering smell of chlorine-

It doesn’t look like a war zone, it looks like summer. And your boys are alright.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

he shut off his phone, his attention back to the game. “ready for married life?” this time, ja’marr spoke, hearing the clicking from the remote, a silent curse dropping as he failed a task. “might be crazy to say, but i don’t think much will change. i feel like we’re already living that life the day we moved in,” joe explains. 

“it’s different, though. she will become your wife, and you’re gonna be her husband,” tee said, pausing his game on his end. 

“guys, y/n has been my wife since the day i asked her to be my girlfriend. we went to the same university, bought a house together, live in the same city, and we’re getting married. the only thing that changes our status, it becomes official on paper,” joe ranted, pausing his game to check his phone again, your location frozen. 

“you say it like it’s so easy…” ja’marr chuckled. “there will be moments where it won’t feel as easy, and that's okay. in a marriage, well, our marriage, we will work things out, no matter how difficult or easy it is,” joe continued, shutting the game off completely, not in the mood to play. 

“y/n is different, you guys have no idea how thankful i am for her,” this time, he turned his camera on, seeing both of his teammates with cheesy grins. “you’re whipped, bro. it’s been years, and you still have the same look when you talk about her,” tee teased him, joe hiding the evident blush on his face, hating being the center of attention. 

you had a terrible habit of not charging your phone when going out. today was a close call after leaving the girls' dinner; your phone completely discharged as soon as you stepped foot into the uber. thankfully, you had texted joe beforehand, letting him know you were on the way before it died.

the uber was a cute older woman. she had you laughing with a few of her funny experiences as an uber, and kept you entertained the entire ride as she ranted about her life. you listened and expressed your voice when she asked, knowing all she wanted at the moment was to be heard. you hadn’t realized how much you had spoken to her until your house came into view, wishing her a safe night and leaving her a heavy tip. 

you shut the door quietly, afraid to make too much noise in case he was busy doing something football related, yet to your surprise, all that was heard and filled the house was him talking loudly. he hadn’t realized your presence as you moved around to remove your coat, placing it inside the closet. 

“i’m telling you. no bullshit, she wants it all the time,” you overheard joe say. you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he was obviously talking about you. it better had been you he was referring to, or else hell was about to break loose. you stayed behind the corner, feeling like a reporter as he continued his conversation.  

“mannnn, we don’t want all those details,” ja’marr laughed nervously, tee trailing behind, “you’re one lucky bastard, that’s for sure.” 

you didn’t want to continue hiding or intrude on his privacy. you made your presence known, setting your purse on the counter, his face lighting up with happiness, completely oblivious to your knowledge of your eavesdropping. he walked around the island, his arms wrapping around your middle, giving you a long hug. he wished his teammates a good night, hanging up the phone, his full attention on you.

it had been on you the minute you walked down after getting ready. wearing your signature fancy perfume, a dress that hugged and shaped all the right place along with a pair of lace tights, leather boots, you hair styled with perfection. you looked like a goddess, his goddess.  

smugness, cockiness filled withing you. your hands delicately wrapping around his torso, feeling his lips press on your temple. “you’re back! how come i didn’t hear you come in?” joe asked cluelessly. he lifted you onto the counter, his hands raking your thighs as he looked at you with a look of lust. eyes blazing blue, a tiny smirk, cheeks rosy at the filthy thoughts invaded his head. 

“i don’t know, the ring camera saw,” you said, meeting his kiss halfway, arms wrapping themselves around his shoulder. “sorry, i was busy with the guys, and i didn’t hear you come in,” he muttered through the kiss, his hands coming and raking your sides, fingertips pressing on the flesh of your hips. 

“yeah? what were you guys talking about?” you pressed, joe still unaware of you hearing him, 

“when i texted you, we were on call playing games, but we got bored, so we just started talking about life,” he said with no urgency or clue. 

“life?” you chuckled, “that’s an interesting topic.”

“it was. we talked about our wedding, and they called me sappy because god forbid i love my fiancée,” he explained, taking his time undoing the zippers and removing each of your boots. “how was your night? did you have fun with the girls?” joe questioned, gently placing your boots aside. 

“it was perfect. i miss them already,” you said with an anguished tone. “i ordered this delicious steak with a baked potato, and gave the chef kisses for his incredible taste,” joe looked at you with a brow raised, unamused at your words. “i didn’t actually kiss him; it was a joke,” you giggled, feeling him come between your legs, a kiss pressed on the corner of your mouth. 

you scooted forward, legs trapping him. you dragged a hand along his bicep, not looking at him entirely, only feeling both of your excitements light on fire as your core hit his growing bulge, your hips tracing his hard member. “what else did you talk about tonight?” you asked, joe not suspecting a thing, too entranced by you. how you smelled, how you looked, how you felt, hell, even how you spoke. 

“why do you ask? hmm?” 

“because i want you to explain ‘no bullshit. she wants it all the time’ to me,” you dragged him to the cage, just to quickly flip the switch and lock him in it. joe’s brows tugged in, his blood running cold at your words. you didn’t seem mad or upset, which frightened him more. 

you simply stared at him with amusement, awaiting his response. joe let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, dragging a hand through his hair. “we were just talking, you know how they are,” he visibly winced, knowing he wasn’t safe yet. 

your brow raised, intrigued, “i don’t know how they are. i’m interested, do tell me more.” joe couldn’t speak, feeling conflicted. he would never lie to you, but he was confused as to what to do or say. he wanted to be careful, yet minutes ago, he didn’t care about it. “we were just talking, one topic switched to another, and it just slipped out,” he sighed.

“slipped out? just casually?” you edged him further, crossing your legs, leaning your weight onto your hands that propped onto the marble counter. he was still observing your moves. you were having fun with this, a flicker of interest sparking. “it’s hilarious because you couldn’t fool me. the only one who ‘wants it all the time’ is you, joe,” you said it simply, joe not catching your smugness until he finally looked at you.  

“you think this is funny?”

“funny? no. but i am having my enjoyment with this,” you let out the tiniest laugh, even he could miss, a smirk tugging your lips. you held his gaze for a long second, then smiled, slow and dangerous.

“you’re evil…”

“i’m evil? how about we call up ja’marr and tee right now and tell them their qb was just saying shit to impress them?” you snarked, leaning with your back straight, crossing your arms. it was impossible to stay mad at you, especially when you were this close, tempting every nerve. 

“was i? darlin i think you’re forgetting who was making you scream last night,” his voice was deep and rough, his eyes low as he stared at you. your legs involuntarily clenched tight, the tension becoming unbearable by the second. joe didn’t crack, not immediately, which annoyed you more than you expected.

he stepped back into your space, his nails dragging over the lace fabric. “i think you’re forgetting who runs the show around here,” he says, trying to impress you but failing. “i think you’re forgetting that without me, you’d be nothing,” the reminder sets deep in his chest, knowing you were right. 

this time, your fingertips trailed their way up from his chest to his jaw. he leaned down slowly, watching your lips open and close, letting out shaky breaths. “let’s propose a game,” either of you could close the gap easily, and make your lips brush. “since you say ‘i want it all the time’, let’s see who can hold out the longest,” the idea proposed sounded silly, but seeing how he refused to be let down, he thought of it clearly. 

he exhaled a quiet laugh, “what do i win if you lose?”

“you can proudly say, ‘i want it all the time’. but if you lose, you will call up whoever was in that call tonight and take back your words.”

“any rules?” his hand came around your back, tugging you closer, his nose nudging yours. 

“besides, no sex or jerking off, not lose?” he felt you smirk, pushing him back. he couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this. yet whatever consequence he had to face, he’d do it. he messed up tonight, and if this was his karma, let him be a doomed man. 

“okay, mrs. burrow, you have a deal.”

“not mrs yet…” you remind him, stepping off the counter, slowly undoing your dress in front of him. he looked away, knowing that if he did watch you, he would lose the bet before even starting. 

“not yet, but you will be…” 

“mhm, we’ll see about that.”

the first two nights were torture. he did it to himself. you did it to yourself. the days felt agonizingly slow. you tried not to think of it, or him specifically. he did his best not to get near your space. it was like back in the old days, when both of you were afraid to be near each other, not knowing where you stood. 

every glance lasted for too long. if there was an accidental brush of hands or any limb, the two of you backed away as if it were forbidden. both of you were dedicated, especially to a challenge like this; neither of you wanted to fail. 

by the third day, you left early for a workout class, and when joe saw you come through that door after, he choked on his protein smoothie. his head felt puzzled; he knew he was staring hard. how could he not when you wore his favorite color, in apparel that clasped everywhere, bareface, hair up, your scent still strong despite the heavy workout. he almost reached for you when you passed behind him. but this was on purpose, and three days wasn’t enough. 

later that day, you made the mistake of going down to the gym he had. it was on the way to where your desk was, and not sneaking on him wasn’t a part of the deal. there was something so hot about him working out. his determination, muscles flexing, the grunts and noises. you closed your eyes, walking away from the scene before it was fully engraved, not knowing joe felt your stares. 

the next four days became harder and harder. you sat on opposite sides of the couch, joe resisting the urge to pull you onto his lap. you fighting the impulse to run your fingers through his freshly trimmed hair. both of you built a routine that had included ignoring each other. you were the first to be awake; he was the last to fall asleep. 

sure, both of you still communicated, but it was short responses. not the ones that would last an hour before both of you fell asleep at night. not meeting each other's gazes, either way too embarrassed or too shy to stare into each other's eyes. there was no longer any cuddling, no reaching for each other at midnight when it got cold, and you craved for one another's comfort. 

on the ninth day, the bet was put further to the test. it was a casual outing. no one suspected a thing until someone, a man, got way too comfortable, his hand making the mistake of touching your shoulder. joe excused himself, his steps pacing as he reached for you, shuddering when his arm wrapped your waist. “everything okay here?” it was smooth, too casual for the guy to notice how joe’s blood was boiling beneath his suit. 

“i don’t think we’ve met. i’m joe, her fiancé,” it was subtle, his handshake tighter than the usual professional one he handed out. you rolled your eyes, wanting to laugh at the coincidence. the tension snapped; it wasn’t dramatic. your hand reached and interlocked with his, a small reminder that despite what was occurring, you were still here, still his. 

on the thirteenth day, the whole bet was beginning to irritate you. you missed him desperately, and sharing the same house was becoming insufferable. because now both of you were painfully aware of how much you wanted to lose. neither of you acknowledged it. just accepted fate for what it was. 

on the fifteenth day, you purposely started to tease him. joe felt the sudden shift, and that should’ve been the first sign of what the day had in store, but he ignored it. you didn’t attend your workout class; you were instead in the kitchen, prepping his breakfast and coffee, wearing nothing, just an old shirt from lsu that barely skimmed your thighs. 

“morning joe,” your shoulder brushed his chest just enough to register, just enough to linger. he stilled for half a second, while you didn’t react. “you’re doing this on purpose, and it’s not going to work,” he warned you, casually taking a sip of his coffee, sitting across from you, not trusting himself. 

“i’m not doing anything? what? i can’t make breakfast without you thinking of losing?” your eyes innocently met his, pouring the water into your mug, which already had the tea packet in it. he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes roaming down your figure, not wanting to escalate his heartbeat further. you looked so tempting, something so simple, casually ruining his mind. 

this went on until dinner. he was hyperaware now; he anticipated your every move. he saw it before you responded, which made him look crazy when you didn’t even do anything. “you can back out at any time, joe,” your voice was alluring, elusive. it had been so long since he properly touched you, and right now, he was inches away from giving in. 

you thought he had lost. until you saw him give you an infamous smirk, scratching his temple before giving you a short reply. “same goes for you… i can practically feel you drenching under the table right now. it’s up to you if you’re gonna do something,” the smugness replaced the apprehensive expression on his face. 

“never. its way too fun having this much control over you…” 

“control over me? i’m not the one practically begging for it.” 

“if that makes you feel better, do whatever you need to do.” 

he wasn’t going to let it slide. he just wanted to catch you when you least expected. 

which brought day nineteen. you were showering, getting ready for work. he knew it was your longer showers where you took your time washing your hair, scrubbing your body, shaving if you needed to. which is why he didn’t think twice before removing his own clothing and joining you. 

he startled you, jumping when you heard the glass door shut. his fingers skimmed across your hips as he gently moved you to the side, watching you with intense eyes that had your feet trembling. you made the mistake of looking at him, watching every piece of him flex as the hot water cascaded over his body. 

“you’re in my space,” you heard him let out a low chuckle. he faced you now, his hand running across his chest with his body gel, as you nervously swallowed. “you didn’t seem to care last night when pressing yourself against me?”

“did you think this was only a one-person game, beautiful?” he took two slow steps, feeling him corner you against the cold tiled walls. he was inches away from your face, his eyes bluer than ever, seeing just how much the anticipation was riling. joe swore to himself that this was to get back at you, yet he completely forgot when you had him under a spell. he saw your legs clench, the nervous gulp, pupils dilated. 

“sorry, only reaching for this,” he smirked, carrying his shampoo, wasting no time to continue his routine. 

you were thankful that work was able to distract you from the morning’s event. he made this mission impossibly harder. so close to losing only because you let him get under your skin. you weren’t oblivious to his intentions; if he had cornered you a second longer, today wouldn’t be going as peachy. you left your phone ping, a text from him, again for the fourth time today. 

joe 

going to the facility for a workout

should be home a little late

y/n

ok, thank you for letting me know

i’m going grocery shopping, is there anything you need? 

joe

strawberries 

and bell peppers

y/n

bell peppers? 

can i ask what for?

joe

just need some for dinner

joe

y/n

nice

nice? were you being serious or just pushing his buttons? he sighed deeply, focusing on the heavy reps, doing everything to not think of this morning. he almost had you. he was so close to making you lose, but fuck, you were a strong warrior. joe waits to start another set, brows pulled in as he sees you send a risky text.

y/n 

y/n 

what do you think of my new dress? 

i’m thinking of returning it

joe

do not return it

you look fucking stunning, baby

y/n

careful… or else i’ll be thinking you’re giving in

joe

you’re gonna have to do more than that

see you soon

the next day felt different. you had woken up with joe slightly lying on your chest, a hand snug around your waist as he slept with no worries. your hand grazed his bare back, tracing shapes and lines, fingers then wrangled into his longer locks. 

twenty days had passed, and this was the first proper cuddle. you almost pushed him off, but this was all you craved and wanted. he was warm and snug, protective even in his sleep, mindless of what was happening. your eyes fluttered closed, sleep threatening to take over until you felt his palm shift up and rest on your boob, squeezing the flesh softly. 

he hears your perilous breath, shifting and parting from his touch slightly. “joe, i know you’re awake,” you whispered, nervous he might still be asleep. “am i? can’t tell,” he teased, his head nudging further into the crook of your neck. he inhaled your scent, feeling so comfortable he could fall asleep right on the spot. 

“i need to get up. we have so much to do today,” he shivered, feeling your hand swipe across his bare back again, tangled once again between his hair, scratching his scalp. “let me just enjoy this a little longer, it’s been forever since we’ve done this,” he murmured, pressing the softest kiss on the corner of your jaw. 

“we could’ve avoided all of this if you hadn’t said what you said,” you reminded him, this time shifting closer to his body heat. “still mad about that when you know it’s true?” joe taunted, the hand on your boob squeezing the flesh again, becoming more aware of his intentions. 

“don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re the only one miserable here…” you dared, this time turning your weight, sitting on top of him. he froze, uttering a tiny ‘shit’ as his hands reached for your thighs immediately. you felt his morning wood press against you, rocking your hips to exhilarate him further. 

“tell me you don’t miss this? waking up, having no urgency besides making love?” you whispered, leaning down, pressing soft kisses along his neck, up to his ear, where you bite his lobe, taunting the euphoric feeling. joe raised his lips, pressing his more evident bulge against your core, creating a sensation, that pressure in your gut that made you want to shut your legs tight. 

“just give in already. you want me just as much as i want you,” he whispered back, his fingers tightening their grip on you, his chest filling with butterflies. 

“never. it’s too fun watching you like this. begging for more. begging to be touched. begging for me,” you sneered, fully removing yourself from him, directing your way to the bathroom. he groaned, thinking he finally had you, but you were too stubborn, way too good at this game. it was starting to mess with his head, pushing him further and further, wanting to give up. 

you felt his stare, his irritation at not being able to get his way. you felt annoyed knowing this could easily be avoided if both of you agreed. you hated doing that stupid bet; it was costing you a lot. twenty days later, you feel different, not your usual self. joe isn’t himself. it’s like walking on eggshells. a bomb ticking until its final countdown.  

you missed him badly. even if he was next to you, that longing to feel him next to you was agony. he hated not being near you, not being able to do the everyday stuff. this was a living nightmare, and he slowly regretted ever saying what he said. because at the end of the day, the only one who wanted it badly was him… 

three days had passed. he had left town for a campaign shoot. you stayed in cincinnati due to a few contractors coming in to renovate the laundry room. joe was being clingier than usual. he sent texts almost every hour during his time out of town. his calls came and go randomly, and every time he expressed how much he loved you. 

joe

i will be home in 30 

do you want anything from the store?

y/n 

no thank you! 

i’m leaving soon

joe

where to?

you didn’t mention anything

y/n 

going out with the girls

last-minute decision 

joe

you serious?

y/n

yes? why would i not be?

you're finishing your last few steps when he comes in. he leaves his bag in the same spot that drives you crazy, resisting the impulse to complain. he lets out a breath, eyes roaming your figure from head to toe. you’re wearing the dress he begged you not to return a couple of days ago. 

you’re putting on tiny diamond earrings, looking at him, watching closely for his next move. you weren’t even going anywhere. you lied just to get into his head. he was close, so close you felt it. he stepped closer, distracting himself by washing his coffee cup. he feels you press behind him, reaching for your purse, still not saying anything. 

there’s no way. there was no way he would last another minute of this bet. he needed to feel you. he needed to feel your response. needed to hear your breath hitch when he kissed your favorite spots. he needed to feel your hands in his hair again, or the way they wrapped around his biceps. he just needed you. 

your back is to him. he can’t read your expressions, but he’s prepared if you’re willing to turn him down. he deserved it. the bet was placed because of his selfish ways of thinking. his arms wrapped around you, his nose trailing your bare shoulder up to your pulse point, smelling your rich scent, “you’re not going to say anything to me? just gonna leave me here?”

his voice was husky, hearing the strain and tiredness from the busy schedule he faced. yet that seemed not to matter. “why didn’t you tell me you were going out?” he demanded, kissing your ear, “as i said. it was a last-minute plan,” the lie rolls off easily, putting a respectable space. 

“fuck this,” his hands cradled your face, leaning down and capturing your lips before you could react. his moves were fast and passionate, showing you how much he missed you. a small moan fell from your lips, and joe was quick to capture it. one of his hands raked your side, resting just below your ass, his kiss pressing you closer and closer to the counter. 

you tasted so sweet, an addiction he wanted no cure from. it has been too long. embarrassingly too long without. he spent the past twenty-three days next to you, holding just for him to lose. he didn’t care about that now. not when he finally had you. not when you desperately showed him how much you missed him. 

he lifted you into the counter, the same one where the bet was declared three weeks ago. his fingers remove your top, placing wet kisses along your sternum up to your jaw, biting and sucking your sweet spot. “gosh, it’s been too long, way too fucking long, can’t believe i deprived you of this,” he whispered, capturing your lips back into a messy kiss.

“you can’t go out tonight,” he shook his head, “not when you’re wearing this color, look this fucking sexy. wearing my ring.” you smirk, peppering kisses along the corner of his mouth, his resistance breaking, marking you the clear winner. “give me a good reason to stay joe,” your eyes innocent, trail his face, his jaw resting tight. 

“show me how much you’ve missed this. missed me,” that was all he needed. his lips hungrily kissed yours, tongue slapping, tracing with yours. he lets out a groan in delight when your small hands reach to remove his leather jacket, roaming and squeezing his muscles. “twenty-three days, darlin’. twenty-three days of being unable to do this,” he ushered. 

he took a step back, hands on your knees as he took you in. his pupils dilated, a red blush on his cheeks. you bite your lip, seeing this dishelved state of him, yearning for you, turning you on more by the second. “look at you. so fucking beautiful, baby. never forget that,” joe cursed, coming back between your legs, undoing the zipper from the side. 

his moves were fast, kissing your jaw as your through your head back. he felt so warm, taking his time as he reached all the way down. joe urged you to lie down, seeing the hesitation in your eyes, “here? why don’t we go to-” 

“y/n i couldn't care less where we do it. this is our home. no one else is here besides you and me. and i can’t wait any longer to taste you,” he confessed, placing a kiss on your inner knee. your back arched at the cold sensation from the counter, meeting his gaze as he kissed the flesh of your thighs, his fingertips rolling down your underwear. 

“three weeks of torture,” his lips press just above your naval, watching you suck in at his touch. 

“three weeks of me suffering knowing damn well you were right, and i was wrong,” joe moved down, blowing cold air along your wet core, watching as you trembled, legs itching to close around his head. 

“three weeks of me paying for my mistakes,” he placed a kiss on your most sensitive spot, hearing the tiniest whimper fall from your lips. 

“joe, please.” 

“not a chance, i’m taking my time with this with you,” his tongue lapped against your walls, groaning at the sweet taste made for him. “i was sick of it. sick of not being able to kiss you, sick of not being able to hold you, sick of not being able to fully have you,” he yapped, his tongue reaching and lapping your entrance. 

your back arched off the counter, moaning his name, hips pushing back, but he was ready, his hands dragging you back into place. all that built-up stress releases from him as he continues to devour you. his mouth felt like he was making out with your most intimate area. your cries dragged further, a hand coming down and brushing through his locks, moving him where you needed him the most. 

he moves just the way you like it. his lips suck at your bundle of nerves, soft but fierce. “yes, baby, yes fuck,” you cry out, your grip tightening as he continues to ravish you. there was no way of thinking, not when he pinned you down like this, tasting everything you had to offer. it had been too long, feeling incredibly sensitive with the gentle curve of his tongue dawdling on your clit. 

“you taste so fucking sweet, forgot how much i missed this, could stay here for hours,” he never stopped looking at you. observing every breath, every cry, every action you let out.  “i was so wrong, darlin’, please forgive me, i’ll do anything,” he apologizes, a hand coming from his hips, two fingers circling your clit, his chin glistening with your wetness. 

“of c-course i-i forgive you, just keep doing what you’re doing,” you falter a giggle, eyes connecting with his, giving him the confirmation. you cry out his name, his fingers intruding your entrance, rocking them slowly, feeling the clench as he moves them. the overstimulation had gradually built; this, along with his tongue, was bound to make you combust. 

he traced his name twice along your walls, twisting his fingers in and out, pushing in a third one when you felt ready. your legs began to shake, chest rising up and down as he praised you over and over. “you feel so fucking tight, need to stretch you out properly,” he spoke, kissing your clit once again. 

“please don’t stop, you feel so good, baby.” 

joe feels your climax approaching, with the way you're clutching his fingers, your clit throbbing as he flattens his tongue on you. he knows it. he knows how close you are, and he can’t wait. his cock is aching underneath the tight clothes. you feel his moves speed slightly, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, tummy aching as that suspense threatens to burst. 

joe feels your release, lapping every single drop, cleaning you fully, a deep groan escaping, humming and vibrating through you, adding more to the sensation. he slows his movements, careful not to hurt you as his fingers glide out, licking clean one by one. “you’re so dirty!” you giggled, watching the obscure scene unravel, taking your time regaining consciousness. 

“not what you were begging for minutes ago,” he smirks, his clean hand reaching behind you, leaning you up so he could properly carry you. he reaches for your kiss, humming in relief, once you’re in the room together. he turns on the lamp on your side of the bed, coming back, and this time undoes your bra, laughter filling the room as he struggles to remove it. 

“can i do it?” you whispered, fingers reaching his pants. he nodded, hands to his side as you undid his belt. you worked your way slowly, taking your time unzipping the zipper, pushing down his jeans and boxers. he watched you prop yourself onto your knees, barely reaching his height as you took off his shirt, your hands raking his chest, tracing over the tiny moles marked on him. 

“missed you so bad joey… the worst three weeks of my entire life,” you confessed, holding yourself onto him as he guided both of you to the middle of the bed, throwing the pillows onto the floor, covering your shivering bodies with the thin sheet. “when we’re married, call me out on my bullshit, no matter how hard it is. not being with you properly is the worst thing i’ve had to endure…”

he kisses you with so much passion, you forget how to breathe again. your hands rest on his shoulders, accepting the way he leads the kiss with no urgency, tongue poking and sliding gently between your lips. he holds your waist, eyes shut, hearing how both of your breathing gets heavier. 

“i can’t wait to marry you. i can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” joe expressed, his thumb drawing tiny shapes, as his eyes met yours, properly taking you in. your lips were slightly plump from the kiss, there was a flush of endearment on your facial expression, and your eyes spoke everything you held in for the past three weeks. love and lust. 

“i love you,” he said loudly, proudly. 

“i love you, joe…” 

his forehead leaned against yours, feeling your hand wrap around his cock. you could feel how hard and heavy he was. your thumb brushed over his sensitive tip, then moved down to his base, feeling how he jerked under your touch. your wet and glistening served as a small layer of lube, lapping his tip, then slowly moving him to your entrance. 

joe watched your eyes pinch shut as he unhurriedly drove and rocked his hips in you. he kissed your forehead, itching further and further in you, a tiny groan releasing him. “breathe, baby, take your time,” joe muttered, fully sunk in now. a hand rested on his jaw, as the other moved down and held him by his middle. 

there was a pause, a movement where neither of you spoke, just stared into each other's gazes. you leaned up, kissing him fervently, urging your hips, giving him a sign to move. he thrusted out and then in again, hearing your hefty moan, the tight grip on his side. it had been so long, he had forgotten how tight you felt. 

“joe feels so big,” you panted, brows pushed in, looking down to see where your bodies met. he followed your movements, making the mistake because he now felt so close to his own release. he could behave, he could wait and hold it out if it meant cumming with you. your pussy fluttered as he drove back into you, a little harsher, his tip reaching that spingy part inside.

“goddamn, you feel so fucking perfect. so wet, so tight for me,” joe praised, his head guiding yours to the side where he hid into the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking softly at the skin. you cried out, nails sinking into his skin, encouraging him to move faster. you feel how he buried himself with each jab, “i’ve got you, darlin’, i've got you.”  

“you drive me insane, you know that? everyday i wakeup and i’m immediately thinking of you, of what i can do to make you smile, thinking of how lucky i am to have met you, let alone date you,” joe uttered, feeling that band gradually resist and resists as he continues to push in you. 

its a steady rhythm, your name falling from his lips in a desperate whine. you start moving with him, each shove a little rougher, more intense than the ones before. the pleasure itself clouded your head, wanting more and more of him as the angle switches this time, feeling his tip kiss that spot inside you, causing your toes to curl. 

your body feels on fire, you're gone completely. joe grabs both of your hands, letting his weight shift down onto you more as he pins your hands up. he watches the scene unfold, your boobs moving with each thrust he offers, how your eyes shut close, your mouth not knowing where to bite the inside of your cheek or continue to yell out. 

he thinks of anything to distract him from the possibility of cumming. he wants this exact moment to last forever. and if thinking about a stupid play he did in middle school would stop him, he was going to do it. your body erratically shifted upon a singular deep thrust he gave. “i’m so close joe, can feel how close you are too,” you warned, gaining the courage to look at him. 

he had a determined lustful expression. “not gonna last that long when you’re clenching this tightly around my cock. it’s okay, baby, let go, i want to feel it,” he grunted, letting go of your hands, propping his weight with one arm at the side of your head. the air in the room felt humid and heavy, the sound of your skin slapping overtaking the sound of the ac unit. 

you felt the bubble burst, sobbing soft moans, joe’s hips stuttering as he felt his own high betray him. you felt his release drip inside you, hot ropes of cum nonstop as his cock jerked under the overstimulation. he felt how you pulsed around him, dropping nearly his complete weight on you, letting the small after sex waves approach. 

both of you let out tired laughs, bodies feeling numb and like complete mush after tonight’s activities. he traced small shapes on your arm, as your fingers raked through his hair, clearly displaying how much you missed it. “where’s your phone?” your lips taunted to a smirk, joe lifting his head, offering a puzzled look. 

“downstairs, probably. why?”

“a bet is a bet. you still haven’t forgotten about our deal, right?”

“y/n i’m sure i can convince you in different ways to make you drop that…” his cheeks burned redder, hiding his embarrassed face back onto your chest. 

“you shook on it. that was part of the deal…”

“you’re gonna make me do it? after giving you the best sex of your life?” 

“don’t forget, you brought this upon yourself. you need to stick to your word and tell ja’marr and tee that you were exaggerating-”

“if i just agre will you drop it? i’m still not done with you yet. twenty-three days were long…”

“twenty-three days happened because you refused to admit to them that you want it all the time,” you teased him, feeling how he shifted up, placing a tired kiss on your lips. 

“of course i want it all the time… i have the smartest, most sexy, hardworking fiancée ever. god forbid a man wants to love and appreciate his future wife…” joe spoke through the kiss, feeling the thrill spread across his veins once again. 

“i’ll forget it for now…” 

“good, because right now i’m thinking of twenty-three ways i can make you-”

“just shut up and fuck me again joe. playing dumb isn’t a good luck…” 

“playing dumb? i thinking youre forgetting how quiet and dozed off you were minutes ago… should i remind you again?” his lips pressed all over your jaw and down to your chest.