The first time he gave you a key, he expected – reasonably - that you would treat it like a responsibility.

You treated it like an invitation.

He was halfway through something in the kitchen when he heard the door open, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of you - movement, noise, presence, all of it clattering in at once.

“I brought stuff,” you called out, already inside.

When he stepped into the hallway, you were there with a bag over your shoulder, another in your hand, and a plant tucked under your arm like it had insisted on coming with you.

He looked at it, then at you.

“That’s new.”

You glanced down at it as if you’d forgotten it was there. “Yeah. I just thought the place could use a bit of life.”

“It has life,” he replied, somewhat defensively.

You didn’t answer straight away. Just looked past him, taking in the clean lines, the neutral tones, the shelves arranged with quiet, almost stubborn precision.

“Mm,” you said eventually, unconvinced, and slipped past him.

By the end of the week, there were more plants.

They didn’t match. They weren’t arranged. One leaned too far toward the window, while another seemed permanently undecided about whether to exist or give up entirely.

You crouched beside one of them one afternoon, brushing your fingers over a curling leaf.

“This one’s dramatic,” you said.

“It’s dying.”

You glanced up at him. “That feels like a strong opinion.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

You turned the pot slightly, like that might help. “No, he just needs a bit more attention.”

Later, when you weren’t looking, he looked up the species online and adjusted where it sat.

Not enough to be obvious.

Just enough.

It wasn’t one big change.

It was hundreds of small ones.

A dish appeared by the door. It filled itself slowly with things that you decided matter - a button, some coins, crumpled receipts, and a bead you’re saving “just in case.”

“It’s a collection,” you insist.

“Of what?”

“Things.”

“…right.”

It makes no sense.

None.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, he finds himself pausing when he gets home, turning whatever’s in his pocket over in his hand before dropping it in with the rest.

Not because he understands it.

Because you do.

There are mugs now, too.

Too many, objectively.

They don’t coordinate. They were never meant to. Some are chipped, some are too small to be practical, one is slightly too wide at the base, and never quite sits properly on the shelf.

You bring them in without ceremony.

Sometimes you show him - “Look at this one” - holding it up like it’s something rare and worth admiring.

Other times they just… appear.

He tries, at first, to keep them organised. To make them fit like a game of ceramic Tetris.

One evening, he takes them all out, sets them on the counter, and studies them like there might be a solution he’s just not seeing yet.

That’s when he finds the one you made.

It’s uneven. The glaze shifts slightly where it settled incorrectly. The handle curves in a way that wasn’t entirely intentional.

“It doesn’t sit flat,” he says, inspecting it.

From the other room, you answer easily, “It’s not supposed to be perfect.”

“It wobbles.”

“It has personality.”

You pause, then continue with a softer - “I like it.”

He moves it to the front.

Now, it’s the one he uses.

Even when you’re not there. Especially when you’re not there.

Somewhere along the way, his evenings stopped belonging entirely to him.

Not because you took them but because you filled them.

You are a night owl in the most unapologetic sense.

Where he winds down, you wake up.

Where he settles, you spark.

He’ll put something on - something informative about deep-sea ecosystems or historical events - and you’ll last all of five minutes.

“Wait, no - why would they do that?”

“It’s explained - ”

“But that doesn’t make sense if - ”

You’re already turning toward him. Already talking. Already pulling his attention away from the screen, as if it was never going to win.

You end up leaning right against him, hands waving, talking in half-formed theories and soft tangents.

It becomes second nature. For you, at least.

For him, it becomes something else entirely.

He used to follow things through to the end.

Now he has no idea how most of them finish.

Because somewhere between your questions, your commentary, and the way your voice softens when you get sleepy -

He stops paying attention to anything else.

There’s a night - somewhere in the middle of all of this - where he pulls out a puzzle.

A quiet activity he uses to relax. Something structured. Contained. Logical.

A beginning. A process. An end.

He opens the box, neatly sorts the pieces, and flips them all right-side up with efficient precision.

You watch for approximately thirty seconds.

Then -

“What are you doing?”

“Starting with the edges.”

“Why?”

“It’s the most efficient method.”

You consider this.

“…Or we could just find pieces that look fun.”

He doesn’t look up. “That is not a method.”

“It’s a better method.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

A pause.

You start making piles.

He has one pile.

Edges. Clean. Organized. Progressing steadily.

You have four.

Colours. Vibes. “This one feels like sky.” “These are definitely part of a house.” “I just like these ones.”

None of them are particularly helpful.

He fits two edge pieces together with a soft, satisfying click.

You gasp from across the table.

“Oh my god, wait – wait - this one fits here.”

He glances over. It does not.

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

You press the pieces together harder.

“They want to fit.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

“They physically don’t.”

You squint at it, adjusting the angle like determination alone will change reality.

“You’re not believing in it enough.”

“I’m believing in the laws of physics.”

A beat.

You push harder.

The cardboard bends slightly.

He reaches over immediately, steady but firm, stopping you before you can force it.

“Don’t.”

“They were so close.”

“They weren’t.”

“They had potential.”

“They had nothing.”

You huff, dropping them back into one of your completely unhelpful piles.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m effective.”

“That’s worse.”

A few minutes pass.

He’s built most of the frame.

You’re… rearranging.

And then -

“Wait.”

He pauses.

You lean forward, holding up two pieces, suspiciously aligned.

“Wait – no - this one actually - ”

He watches as you press them together.

They click.

Perfectly.

You freeze.

Then look up at him, eyes wide, like you’ve just discovered something groundbreaking.

“I told you.”

A pause.

He studies the pieces.

Then you.

“…Statistical anomaly.”

You grin, insufferably pleased.

“Skill.”

“Luck.”

“Talent.”

“Coincidence.”

You slide the connected pieces into the middle of the table like a trophy.

“You’re just mad I didn’t need your system.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat.

He reaches over, adjusts one of your piles slightly so it’s less chaotic, more usable.

“I’m… adapting.”

You watch him, amused.

“You like this,” you say.

“I like finishing the puzzle.”

You lean back in the chair, completely unconvinced.

“You like me making it harder.”

A pause.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just fits another piece into place, calm and precise.

“…I like that you’re here while I do it,” he says finally.

That makes you soften for half a second -

Before you immediately go back to jamming two completely unrelated pieces together.

“I think these go.”

“They don’t.”

“They could.”

“They can’t.”

“They will.”

He exhales, but there’s something quieter in it now. Warmer.

And when you inevitably get distracted halfway through -

He reaches over, pulling the half-formed, chaotic little sections a bit closer to his side of the table.

Just to make sure none of your pieces gets lost.

Later, much later, when the puzzle is still unfinished, and the table is a mess of half-formed sections -

You’re standing in the bathroom, lining up bottles like it’s a ritual.

He pauses in the doorway, watching.

“that’s… a lot of steps.”

“It’s a process,” you say, already halfway through it.

“You’ve been in here ten minutes.”

“It’s not about time, it’s about care.”

He leans against the frame. “I just wash my face.”

“With what?”

“…water.”

You slowly turn to look at him.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

You stare at him as if you’ve just discovered something deeply concerning.

“Get in here.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your poor skin is just… surviving.”

“My skin is fine.”

“It could be thriving.”

A pause.

He considers leaving.

He doesn’t.

A few minutes later, he’s standing next to you, slightly damp, mildly inconvenienced.

“What is this one?”

“Cleanser.”

“And this?”

“Cleanser.”

He looks at you. “Why are there two?”

“Different purposes.”

“…of course.”

You smile, stepping closer, gently pressing your fingers against his jaw to tilt his face toward you.

“Stop talking.”

“I wasn’t - ”

“Shh.”

He lets you.

Of course he does.

Later still, in bed -

You are, as always, completely incapable of staying on your side.

At some point in the night, you shift - half asleep, entirely unaware - and end up draped across him like it’s instinct.

He exhales softly.

“Babe.”

You make a sleepy noise against his chest.

“This is my side.”

“No, it’s not,” you mumble.

“It is.”

“It’s ours.”

He stops, then adjusts the blanket instead of arguing.

Your leg hooks over his. Your hand curls into his shirt.

You settle.

He stays like that.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fix it.

Just lets you take what you need.

It wasn't just home life either. You changed everything.

Joe has never been someone who liked being watched.

That was the thing.

His life – because of who he is and what he does - came with attention he never asked for nor wanted. So, he learned early how to keep things separate. What was his stayed his.

No explanations. No displays. No unnecessary exposure.

You never asked him to change that.

You never asked for more.

But one day you just… reached for him.

In public, absentmindedly, like it was nothing.

Your hand finds his without hesitation. Leaning into him mid-conversation. Smiling up at him like there wasn’t an audience, even when there was.

At first, he was aware of everything.

The space. The people. The possibility of being seen. Cameras and whispers.

You noticed him noticing.

But you didn’t pull away.

Didn’t push either.

Just stayed - warm, steady, patient.

Letting him decide.

The first time he reached for you, it wasn’t a moment.

No build-up. No announcement.

Just instinct.

Your hand grazes his as you walk, and his fingers close around yours before you can even think about it.

You glanced at him.

He didn’t look back.

Just kept walking, like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t taken him everything to get there.

It happens again, in smaller ways.

A hand at your waist. A quiet pull closer. His thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles like he’s forgotten where he is.

He hasn’t.

He just doesn’t care as much anymore.

The post comes later.

Not planned.

Definitely not announced.

It’s just a photo.

One of those that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.

But to the people watching - to the ones who have followed him long enough to understand what he doesn’t share -

It’s loud.

You’re not even fully in it.

Just there.

A reflection. A blur. Still unmistakably you.

It’s enough.

And somewhere between all of that -

the plants, the mugs, the unfinished puzzle, the nights that don’t go to plan -

His life stops feeling like something he needs to keep in order.

Because now it has you in it.

Loud, messy, warm.

Everywhere.

And he doesn’t fix it.

Doesn’t pull it back into something neater, quieter, easier to manage.

He lets it stay.

Let’s you stay.

One night, when you’re half-asleep beside him, still talking about something that doesn’t quite make sense, your hand lazily tangled in his hair -

He realises, distantly, that the documentary he put on hours ago is still playing.

Unfinished.

Again.

He doesn’t reach for the remote.

Just turns slightly, pressing his mouth to your hair instead.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs.

You hum in protest.

He smiles.

Let’s you keep talking anyway.

And just like that -

The invitation itself was casual. A little too casual.

Joe: Game Sunday. You should come. I’ll have a box.

She stares at the message so long her eyes start to dry out.

A box means family. Team, friends and inner circle. People who belong there.

She types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Maya: That’s generous, but I’ll just watch from home.

The three dots appear, pause, then disappear – taunting her.

Joe: I had my last stylist in the box sometimes. Not a thing, just easier access.

 There is no ego in it. No subtext, and that somehow made it worse.

She pictures herself between his mother and an old college friend and feels her throat tighten.

Box seating implies proximity, and proximity implies importance.

She doesn’t do importance.

Maya: I’d rather not be in the middle of your people.

She sent it before she could overthink her tone. A minute passes then –

Joe: Fair I’ll leave tickets for you anyway. Section 112. Come if you want.

That was it. No push back or questioning. He wasn’t butthurt or adamant. He just adapted.

She exhaled slowly.

He read that one right.

Section 112 is loud. It’s perfect.

She stands when everyone else stands. Sits when they sit. She just blends in. It feels safe here – anonymous amongst the other jerseys and plastic cups. Nobody notices her when they are yelling at the refs.

On the field, Joe is something else entirely.

He’s patient and precise. Completely unbothered by the noise and the 290lb men hunting him down. He doesn’t scan the crowd or look for anyone. He moves like the stadium doesn’t exist.

Maya likes that more than she expected. He’s not performing. He’s working, and she can’t look away if she tried.

When he throws a forty-yard completion in the fourth quarter, the section erupts around her. Beer sloshes, hitting her legs. Someone grabs her shoulders and shakes amidst the celebration. The laugh tumbled out of her. A genuine mixture of shock, joy and pride.

Joe never looks up. Not once. And that fact somehow makes her feel steadier.

It took longer than expected to trudge out of the stadium, but once she gets halfway to her car, she pulls out her phone.

Maya: Looked good, played well. Congrats.

His response came around ten minutes later.

Joe: You came.

Not a question and blunt enough to make her mouth curve.

Maya: Yup. Section 112.

Joe: Pretty good sight lines from there.

Somehow, he knew she’d prefer the distance. Another buzz follows suit.

Joe: A few people are coming round later. It’s low-key. You’re welcome if you want.

It was harmless. He wasn’t trying to push or tell her what to do. A simple offer without expectations. She stares at it. Casual is manageable. She can do casual.

Maya: For a bit.

It’s relaxed as promised. Music low and shoes haphazardly kicked off, making the path a little precarious. Two guys she couldn’t recognise without a number on their backs argued in the kitchen about a missed call. Someone else had cracked open a beer on the couch.

There isn’t an interrogation about her presence. She’s not made to feel like a spectacle. It’s only after a few minutes that she realised he must have framed it that way.

He’s across the room, laughing at a receiver gesturing wildly when his eyes flicker to her. Just once, but that’s all it took.

She gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. He nods back. That’s it.

The rest of the evening moves without issue. She mingles and laughs, getting to know some of the WAGs and players. It feels… normal. Good. Unfamiliar.

When the room starts to thin, and the music lowers further, she finds herself in the kitchen again, rinsing out her glass without being asked to.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She jumps. His voice is much closer than she expected.

“I know.”

He steps into the space next to her, not crowding her but close enough that their shoulders almost brush.

“You stayed,” he said quietly.

“For a little while.”

“It’s been two hours.”

She hadn’t realised. And she refused to acknowledge the fact that he had.

She dries her hands slowly. The proximity forced her to tilt her head back to speak to him properly.

“You are good this you know.”

“At what?”

“Making me feel like I’m not intruding.”

His jaw ticks slightly.

“You’re not.”

“That’s subjective.”

“No,” he says evenly. No room for argument. “It’s not.”

The house is quiet now. The faint rumble of the dishwasher starting its cycle. Suddenly, she’s hyperaware of just how close they are. Not touching, just there. Solid.

“Why did you really send different tickets?” She asks. Voice softer than she intended.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because you don’t like being placed.”

Her pulse jumped. Heat racing up her neck at being seen.

“And you would rather choose your own spot,” he continued.

She swallowed thickly; certain he heard it.

“You don’t mind adapting,” it was meant as a question, but came out as a statement.

“I mind forcing.”

Something so simple shouldn’t have hit her so hard. There were no games. No tactics. Just simple calibration.

“You didn’t look for me,” it slipped out before she could stop it.

His brows furrowed ever so slightly.

“During the game?”

“Yeah.”

“I was working.”

She nods once.

“I know.”

He waited only a second before speaking again.

“If you had needed me to,” he said calmly, “I would have.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t get distracted. He was disciplined but not indifferent.

The silence is full between them. He reaches up to take the towel from her hands, fingers brushing up her arm intentionally. His eyes were travelling down to her lips and back again.

It’s brief, barely there, and yet her breath still shifts.

He notices, because of course he does, but he chooses not to comment. He doesn’t smirk or take it as an invite. She steps back, flustered.

“Well,” she starts.

“You heading out?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Early morning.”

He walks her to the door.

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

“Thank you for…adjusting.”

That gained a small smile.

“Goodnight Maya.”

She paused at the door.

“You played well.”

His expression softens – subtle but real.

“Goodnight,” he repeats.

She leaves first. She always leaves first.

He stands on the other side of the door a second longer than necessary. Not frustrated or confused. Just thinking.

She came. She stayed.

She left before it meant more.

He can work with that.

She wakes up irritated.

Not at him but at herself.

The memory replays in fragments – the kitchen, the closeness, the way he didn’t crowd her when she was leaving.

She had felt the shift. How he looked at her. But the steadiness of him, the complete absence of pressure… it unsettled her.

If he pushed, she could have pushed back. If he implied, she could have dismissed. But he didn’t. And it left her nowhere to brace.

On her drive into work, she makes the decision.

Nothing happened. She refuses overthink something that doesn’t exist.

…Easy.

By ten a.m., the fashion house is mayhem. Racks of clothes are rolling, steam hissing and someone swearing in the distance about late tailoring.

Maya is halfway through reorganising a rail when Sloane, her best friend, appears beside her.

“You look like you’re about to fight someone.”

“I’m sorting pants.”

“Violently.”

Maya ignores her. Sloane lowers her voice.

“You saw him after the game.”

Maya keeps her eyes locked on the clothes in front of her.

“I dropped by.”

“Mhm”

“That’s all.”

Sloane watches her for a second too long.

“You’re weird when you lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are but I respect the commitment.”

Maya exhales sharply. “It was nothing.”

“He’s into you.”

“Stop.”

“That’s not a denial,” she sings.

“It’s not happening.”

Sloane grins. “Ugh I love this for you.”

The next time she sees him, it’s after an away game. It’s later than usual. A delayed flight pushed back his schedule. The house is quiet when she arrives. The lights are lower, and the whole place just feels… settled.

He opens the door in sweats, long hair damp from the shower.

“You made it,” he says.

“I said I would.”

She steps inside and gets straight to work. He watches her for a second before nodding.

“Okay.”

It starts normally. Which is absolutely her intention. She keeps it light.

“You looked better in the second half.”

He glances at her.

“You watched again.”

She shrugs. “I had time.”

“You’re becoming a fan.”

“Don’t push it.”

He almost smiles.

She moves around him easily. No avoiding contact, but no lingering touches either. Intentionally balanced. Controlled.

He notices.

“You eat today?” he asks suddenly.

She doesn’t look up.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

She straightens. “Listen you don’t have to- “

Her stomach cuts her off.

“Sit.”

She sighs. “No.”

“Maya.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s not your problem.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it’s still happening.”

She stares at him. “Are you always like this?”

“Only when I’m right. Now let me feed you.”

“Fine. Quickly.”

The food’s already there. Of course it is.

“You planned this,” she says, sitting.

“My chef made extra.”

“That’s not better.”

“It works.”

She shook her head but picked up her fork. It’s easier than she expects. Conversation flows without effort. It starts with work. Then not. They discuss everything and nothing. He is locked on every word she says, like she is something worth knowing. She warms at the thought. Maya likes this side of him. Loose and passionate. Rattling of facts on a whim and humour, dry and fast. It's addictive.

They don’t get back to work immediately. They remain seated as the space settles around them.

“You don’t do this often,” she says.

“Do what?”

“Let people stay like this.”

He considers that. “No.”

“So why me?”

He looks at her.

Because you don’t want anything.

Because you’re not trying to take something from me.

Because you leave.

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead:

“You’re easy to have here.”

It surprises her. The ease with which he said it.

“That sounds like a line.”

“It’s not”

She believes him.

Eventually, they resume the fitting. But the energy has shifted. She’s closer now. Allowing herself to linger and touch more freely.

He doesn’t react, but he sees it all.

“You’re different tonight,” he says gently.

“In what way?”

“You aren’t rushing.”

“I have time.”

“That’s new.”

She glances at him. “Don’t read into it.”

“I’m not”

He is.

When she finishes, she doesn’t immediately grab her bag. That’s new too.

He leans against the chair beside him. “There’s a film I’ve been meaning to watch.”

She huffs softly. “That’s not subtle.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Silence.

She looks at the clock, then at him, then away again.

“I should go.”

“Okay,” he replies after a moment. The way he said it - it’s not disappointment. It’s just acceptance.

She hesitates at the door. She has half a mind to turn around. She leaves anyway.

He closes the door slowly, the night’s events running through his mind.

That worked. Not insisting. Not Forcing. Just making space for her.

You hear Joe before you see him.

His sock-covered feet thumping loudly across the floor of your LA rental. He joins you in the kitchen, freshly showered, hair wet and dripping onto his hoodie. He had spent the morning working out, so you assumed he was here to debrief you on whatever weird routine he did today. You didn’t expect what came out of his mouth instead. “You should come with me tomorrow,” he says, leaning back against the counter, watching you dig through the pantry. You don’t even look at him. “To the gym?” “Yeah.” You grab the bag of chips you were searching for, opening it as you answer. “No.” He looks stunned. “…You didn’t even think about.” “I did,” you said, mouth full. “Hard pass.” He exhales loudly through his nose, pushing off the counter and stalking towards you. “You’ll like it.” “I won’t.” “You don’t know that.” “I do,” you say, pulling another chip out of the bag. “This is the only crunch I’m interested in.” That earns you a look. He isn’t annoyed. He’s recalculating. “You’re coming,” he decides. You blink at him. “Oh, am I?” Your voice takes on a teasing tone. “Yup.” You raise a brow, leaning against the counter behind you. “And how exactly are you planning to make me?” He leans down, arms bracketing you in, tongue dragging slowly to wet his bottom lip. “I’ll make it worth your time,” he says lowly. Your stomach flips in the most unhelpful way. You aren’t sure what your face does, whatever it is, it makes a small, satisfied smirk tug at his mouth. He leans forward to press a kiss to your lips, “be ready at seven.” With that, he gives your ass a loving tap before turning to leave. You are screwed.

~~~~

You regret everything immediately. “Why is it so early?” you grumble, still half-asleep, eyes barely open as he guides you into the gym. “It’s not that early,” he says. “There are plenty of people here.” Your eyes flick around judgmentally, assessing all the other psychos in the room. “I prefer my torture in the afternoon.” He huffs a quiet laugh, hand warm against your lower back as he directs you to “his” area. The Alo gym is… intimidating. Not crowded, but you can tell there isn’t another newbie in sight. Influencers are filming, and you just know you’ll wake up tomorrow with videos of you struggling in the background. Your most vulnerable moments immortalised. You glance at Joe. “I already hate this.” “You’ve been here thirty seconds.” “Long enough.” He shakes his head, amused, and hands you a water bottle. “Just stay with me,” he says. “I’ll go easy on you.” You narrow your eyes. “That’s a lie.” “It’s not” “Is” “Babe,” he deadpans. You sigh dramatically, determined to get the last word – well, noise.

~~~~

The warmup is… fine. You find you are pretty good at windmill arms and jumping jacks. But your optimism lasts all of ten minutes before you are, once again, over it. “Why are there so many variations of the same pain?” you complain, dropping back onto the mat. He stands over you, legs on either side and hands on his hips. He isn’t even breathing hard. “Because you aren’t doing them right.” “I am doing them right,” you argue. “I’m just making them a little easier.” “That’s the problem.” You glare up at him. “You’re enjoying this.” “A little,” he admits. You squint. “You’re being very… bossy.” He tilts his head slightly. “You like it.” Annoyingly… he’s not totally wrong. You sit up, flicking your ponytail back over your shoulder. “Don’t get used to it.” “Hmm too late.”

~~~~

You try. You really do. But after another set of something that feels unnecessary and personal, you flop back down again. “I’m done.” “You’re not done.” “I am.” “You’ve got one more.” “I don’t. You counted wrong.” He steps closer before crouching down to your level, elbows resting on his knees. “Yes, you do.” His voice drops in that way again that makes your stomach flutter and heat rise in your spine. You look at him – really look this time. Slightly flushed, skin glistening and that intense look he gets in his eyes when he’s locked in. It’s hot and unfair. “You are doing that on purpose,” you accuse. “Doing what?” “That tone.” He smirks. “What tone?” he feigns innocence. That’s when you get an idea. A way to make this interesting for both of you. “Fine,” you say.

~~~~

The shift starts subtly. You start to focus on your movements, timing position changes when you know he’s watching. When you reach your arms over your head and bend over teasingly, he notices immediately. Of course he does. “You need to finish your set,” he says, but there is an edge to it now. “I’m stretching,” you reply innocently.

“You were just laying down.” “And now I’m stretching. Focus on yourself.” You continue to stretch, bending even further to touch your toes. You hold it for longer than necessary, and when you glance up, his eyes are zeroed in on your figure. Bingo. You hide your smile. A few moments later, you decided to take it further. You peel off your t-shirt, revealing your sports bra. The way you did it wasn’t even dramatic, but the effect? Immediate. His jaw tightens, eyes dragging over you before you see him swallow and turn away as if he’s trying to remain in control. “You’re distracting me,” he says. You tilt your head. “From what? You’re not even doing anything right now.” “I was about to.” “Mm,” you hum, turning slightly to throw the balled-up fabric to the side. It lands on his foot instead. “Doesn’t look like it.” He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair and over the back of his neck. “You are playing a dangerous game.” You smile sweetly. “Am I?” The fun continues for a while. You ask him to “help you with your form” and add a little grunt or moan for good measure. When he sits on the edge of a bench with a set of weights ready to lift, you skip over. “I’ll spot you,” you tell him, knowing damn well your arms will snap trying to lift just one. You straddle the bench behind him, press your front against his back and graze your long nails against his arms and up his shoulders, a trail of goosebumps following. “This ok?” You feel him stiffen then, before you can register it, he drops the weights. He reaches an arm around your waist and pulls you to settle you between his thighs. Flustered, you send him a grin as his hands grip your hips tightly. You are very pleased with yourself. “Hey,” you chastise unconvincingly. “We’re in public.” His thumb brushes up over your exposed skin and along the band of your leggings. “Then stop,” he mutters. “You stop.” “You started it.” You grin again. “Did I?” He meets your eyes, and you can tell whatever restraint he has is hanging by a thread. “You’re gonna be the reason we leave early.” “Oh no!” you pout sarcastically, not upset in the slightest.

By the time she came to his house for the next fitting, the first look had already been dissected on every platform. Maya pretended not to notice.

She absolutely noticed.

Her phone had been buzzing constantly when the arrival pics dropped. Tags, reposts, stylists she admired quietly following her. One headline read:

Joe Burrow has entered his grown-man era.

She didn’t text him. He didn’t text her.

But two days later, an email from his assistant came through.

Future fittings are to be done at Joe’s residence for privacy and scheduling ease.

Privacy. She could handle that. ~~~

His house, despite being massive, wasn’t flashy. That surprised her. It was modern and clean, with a piano sitting proudly at the entrance. Big windows flooded the space with light, and the pops of art made it distinctly his. Lived in but not cluttered.

He opened the door himself. No assistant or hovering staff. “You found it,” he said. “I can follow instructions,” she quipped back. He smirked and moved aside, letting her through. She took off her shoes and placed them delicately next to his. “You want a water?” he asked.

“Please.” He disappeared into the kitchen. She stood in the entryway for a moment, taking it all in. Her eyes scanned the details. The little photo frame of him standing with his parents, some flowers she was sure he didn’t buy himself and a Lego figure placed proudly for all to see. That one made her smile. It was cute.

Being here felt different from the facility or the studio. It was personal. More intimate. He returned holding a glass. “Relax,” he said. “it’s just a house.” “That’s what people say when it’s not” “You think I’d make it something else?” “I don’t think ahead like that” “You do,” he said easily. As a matter of fact, as if they knew each other.

“You just don’t admit it.” She ignored that.

~~~

She laid out the fit on his dining room table, setting the pieces out with care. It was different from the last look. A colour she hadn’t seen on him before but knew he’d pull off.

He leaned his hip against the table, arms folded, watching her assemble it.

“You are enjoying this,” he said.

“What?”

“The control”

She paused.

“You make it sound so dramatic”

“You are adjusting how I’m perceived without saying a word.”

“That’s literally my job”

“And you are good at it”

He said it with such certainty. Like it was a fact, not an opinion. He stepped forward and picked up the sweater.

“Colour psychology?”

He’d been listening to her mutterings. Filing away terminology to learn it.

“The red undertones photograph warm under the stadium lights. It’ll soften your expression.”

“My expression needs softening?”

“You look like you are reading a defence when you order a coffee.”

He smiled at that.

“Point taken”

When he disappeared down the hallway to change, she released a long exhale. Being here was strange. It was like everything had been magnified. There was no aimless chatter from staff walking past. Just the distant sounds of the city through glass.

When he came back, her breath caught slightly. The fabric hugged his frame in the best way, and the colour turned his eyes impossibly blue. It wasn’t loud. It was him.

She stepped closer to make some minor adjustments.

“Turn,” she said softly.

He did.

She circled him, fingers grazing the seams.

“You aren’t nervous?”

“About?”

“People noticing the shift? Questioning it?”

“They already have”

“And?”

“And I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like I’m stepping into something. Moving forward instead of just maintaining” She met his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling in her stomach at his intensity. “Well, you are approaching thirty,” she noted casually. An attempt to shift the vibe. “It’s normal to recalibrate.” He tilted his head slightly. “You do that often?” “Do what? Recalibrate?” “Yeah.” She stepped back. “I don’t usually stay long enough in one place to need to.” It was the smallest admission, but he caught it anyway. “You move a lot?” “In general.” “Professionally?” “Personally.” He didn’t push for more, just nodded, absorbing it. His quarterback brain kicking in. Store the information, but don’t force the play. “You don’t seem like someone who runs,” he said cautiously after a moment. She arched a brow. “You don’t know me” “I’m trying to.” Her pulse jumped. “That’s ambitious.” “Strategic,” he corrected lightly. She let out a short laugh despite herself. He stepped closer to the mirror in the hall. Twisted awkwardly to see all sides of himself before doing a short walk to see how it moved. It looked effortless. “You changed how I stand,” he said simply. “You changed how you stand,” she corrected. “Because I’m not fighting the clothes” She didn’t respond to him. He turned back towards her. “You stopped designing backups,” he observed. She paused. “How do you know that?” “You didn’t bring a second option.” It hadn’t even occurred to her. “You didn’t ask for one,” she countered. “I never wanted one.”

Maya received the news on a Wednesday.

She was adjusting a sample hem when her creative director called her into the glass office.

“He requested you,” he said, sliding his tablet across the desk. She read the email once. Then once more.

For future appearances, Mr Burrow would like to work directly with Maya Sinclair. We value her structural direction and aesthetic alignment.

Aesthetic alignment… interesting phrasing.

She almost laughed.

“It’s a few events,” she said evenly.

“It’s not,” her director replied. “He wants you with him throughout the season. Brand shoots, interviews, game day fits. The works.”

That last one caught her attention. Game fits meant slow-motion videos. Social media breaking down and ranking each look. Millions of eyes dissecting her work weekly.

It meant visibility.

It was already unusual for someone of Joe’s calibre to adjust image teams so casually. Everything he did was layered in strategy. He focused on branding, narrative and longevity. A rebrand at this stage in his career meant something, and people would notice.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll start drafting options.”

Her director leaned back. “This could be good for you.”

The implication was crystal clear.

Don’t mess it up, don’t get personal and don’t get attached to the opportunity.

As if she would.

That night she got to work, researching his previous red-carpet events and tunnel walks. The clothes weren’t boring. But they were loud in the wrong way.

Luxury labels and trend-heavy silhouettes. Statement pieces that photographed well on racks but swallowed his frame. Odd layering and proportions disrupted the flow, and poor tailoring diminished the impact. The looks didn’t miss, they just never quite hit.

There was a difference between bold and disconnected and so she started sketching.

One look was familiar. A relaxed cut, a graphic knit and some clean sneakers. Photogenic. Easy.

She played around with the second. Layered textures instead of logos. She experimented with the cut and colour. Something polished but exciting. A statement without shouting.

She stared at the second design longer.

He’d chosen risk before. But this wasn’t a gala. It was his arena. His domain. Where the scrutiny increased tenfold.

Still, she packed both.

Joe had arranged for her to come to the facility the next week. She’d quickly discovered just how packed his schedule was, so they utilised the small opening between training and meetings.

He was alone when she arrived, watching something on his tablet intently.

He finished the clip before looking up.

“You’re early,” he mused.

“You’re busy”

“Not now”

He set the tablet down and turned fully towards her.

She laid the garment bags across the table then waited a beat.

“You requested me,” she said lightly, like it didn’t matter.

“Yes”

No elaboration.

“You could have kept the house team”

“They’re good”

“And?”

“They’re not you.”

The simplicity of that answer irritated her.

“And your previous stylist?”

“They styled trends”

“And I don’t?”

“You style people”

That one landed.

She unzipped the first bag. Relaxed luxury. It aligned with current trends that made it safe in a different way.

Then the second.

The fabric came alive as she pulled it out. It was mesmerising.

His attention shifted immediately.

“That’s different,” he stated.

“It’s designed around you,” she replied

“How?”

“You’re physique and how you move. You have broad shoulders and long lines. Most of your previous fits made you look stiff.”

He absorbed that without ego.

“You’ve done your research,” he noted.

“I like to be prepared. No guessing.”

His lips tugged into a brief smirk.

He shrugged off his Bengals hoodie and reached for the jacket.

She handed it over quietly.

It settled across his shoulders cleanly – structured but not rigid. Tapered in a way that sharpened his waist without restricting movement.

She stepped forward to adjust the collar.

“Lift your chin slightly.”

He did as he was told without hesitation.

“You don’t question much,” she observed.

“I watch first.”

“That sounds strategic”

“I suppose”

She moved around him to smooth out the fabric, meeting his eyes briefly before continuing down his frame. He watched her closely. From the subtle tilt of her head to the way her cheek curved from biting it.

“You are doubting it?” his question broke the silence.

“I’m assessing”

“Do you like it?”

She hesitated for half a second too long.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m wearing it.”

“You don’t want to try the other one? What if this trends for the wrong reasons?”

“It’ll trend,” he said calmly. “That’s the point.”

She studied him.

“I didn't know you were this comfortable being talked about.”

“I’m comfortable when I’m prepared.”

“And you are prepared for this?”

“I wouldn’t have requested you if I wasn’t”

There was that word again. Requested.

Chosen.

She stepped back to create a professional distance.

“I’ll have it to you by Friday.”

“Maya,” His voice stopped her in her tracks.

“If you ever want to design something without a safety version- “he said, measured and deliberate, “-I won’t ask for a backup.”

His offer hung between them. The weight of it heavy.

That was the first moment she felt the shift. Men with power edited her vision. They asked for options or negotiated until the original became unrecognisable.

He just removed the contingency plan entirely.

Joe Burrow didn’t dislike attention. People often get that wrong.

He disliked careless attention. There’s a difference.

On the field, attention was earned. It was structured and predictable. It followed the rules. Cameras followed movement, commentators followed stats. It made sense.

Off the field, however, the attention was scavenging. It picked at things. Speculated. Distorted.

He controlled what he could. At twenty-nine, he had solidified his place as one of the greats. A franchise quarterback, endorsement deals and marketing campaigns, a story that inspired and a face people adored. Analysts called him disciplined. Sponsors called him reliable. Reporters called him “refreshingly drama-free”

Although no one said the word inaccessible, it’s what they meant. He gave them nothing. No late-night scandals or public relationships. No headline-making opinions.

He showed up, did his job and left. Nothing to dissect. Nothing to debate.

Despite this, his need for privacy had created a sense of mystery. People felt like they had the right to crack him open. To create narratives and micro-analyse his every move. It became hard to differentiate between a friend and someone after their five minutes.

That’s why events like tonight were a rarity for him.

The Arts and Athletics initiative had been his idea. Sport was his entire life; he lived and breathed it. His entire childhood was shaped by meets and training. It gave him purpose. When he heard the local rec centre needed extra funding, it was a no-brainer. And although less expected, he knew a creative outlet was essential too. The two programs ensured everyone had a space. So he supported both.

The gala, however, was NOT his idea. It was his version of hell, actually. The small talk. The mingling. The social climbers and forced enthusiasm. Pretending to enjoy the company and the champagne for the cameras. It was exhausting.

As he stood adjusting the cufflinks on his suit, his publicist ran through the usual bullet points.

“Smile. Mention community. Deflect dating questions”

“I always do.”

She studied him. “And try to look less like you are about to flee.” He didn’t answer that one. It was exactly where his mind was. He’d already mapped out potential escape routes and hiding spots.

~~~

Across town, Maya Sinclair was on her knees with a steamer and a deadline. The fashion house she worked for had managed to secure a sponsorship placement at the gala. They would oversee dressing key attendees, stage a small installation piece, and ensure the company logo appeared in enough photos to justify the budget.

Maya had been assigned one of the highest-profile clients. Not because she was the most senior but because she was the least likely to embarrass them.

“Mr Burrow is particular,” her creative director had warned her. “Doesn’t like fuss. Don’t over style him.”

The initial fitting had been earlier that week. Joe was given two suit options to decide between.

One was safe. Classic black, clean lines. Sharp. Predictable.

The other, Maya’s design. A deeper charcoal with midnight undertones. A slightly sculpted waist and shoulder structure intended to alter his silhouette. It changed his proportions in a way that felt… deliberate.

Riskier.

He glanced at the mood board, then down at Maya, who, up until now, remained quiet and focused.

“You prefer this one,” he’d noted.

She hadn’t met his eyes. “It has more presence.”

“Will it photograph well?”

“It will photograph honestly.”

That answer stayed with him.

He’d picked her design without hesitation. His agent had blinked at the final look.

“it’s not what you normally go for”

“Good,” Joe said.

He wasn’t interested in explaining that he liked it when the clothes said something before he did.

And so, hours before the event, and after some last-minute alterations, Maya delivered the garment bag to Joe’s private room at the venue.

She’d deliberately presented the two versions at the fitting. It was her experience that men like him didn’t choose risk. They flirted with it, asked for options before inevitably retreating to safety. She wasn’t offended by it. Just used to it.

Her design instincts leaned towards tension – slight asymmetry, colours, subtle elongation of line. Nothing theatrical, but enough disruption to wake the eye up. Most clients liked the concept. Most clients still chose the safer draft.

When confirmation came through that Joe had selected her design, adjustments and all – including the brushed silver collar pin she’d added as an afterthought – she stared at the email longer than necessary.

Interesting.

She wasn’t impressed.

She was curious.

Curiosity was worse.

~~~

The warehouse hummed with curated philanthropy as the gala came to life.

Maya stood beneath the suspended installation – black silk structured to cast deliberate shadows. She’d fought for the sharper angles in the draping. The senior designer worried it was “too architectural”.

It wasn’t. It was precise.

The light hit the fabric exactly how she intended.

Well, until someone stepped into it.

“You’re blocking my light,” she said automatically.

He moved without argument.

That caught her attention before his face did.

When she looked up and registered him fully – in the suit, her suit – she felt a flicker of unwilling satisfaction.

It sat exactly how she imagined. The rich, dreamy tones caught the industrial lighting and deepened it. The softened shoulders made him look less armoured. Softer. The longer line shifted his centre of gravity. It was intentional. It demanded attention without asking for it.

He noticed her assessing eyes, studying his frame.

“You changed the collar pin,” she said.

“You added it,” he replied.

“I wasn’t sure you’d keep it.”

“I liked it.”

Simple. Direct.

No bravado about taking risks. No self-consciousness.

Just a preference.

That unsettled her more than ego would have.

Across the room, phones began angling discreetly. She followed the ripple of recognition, then returned her gaze to him.

“You’re that guy,” she said.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Her gaze flicked over him again, analytical despite herself.

“You didn’t adjust anything?”

“No”

“Most do”

“I hired you”

The words landed differently than they should have.

It wasn’t romantic or charged.

Just factual trust.

He’d taken her suggestion fully.

No edits.

No dilution.

It was a small thing.

But in her world, men with influence rarely surrendered control like that.

“You’re aware this is different to your usual style?” she asked.

A subtle test.

He glanced around the room, looking at the safe options.

“That’s the point.”

She studied him more closely then.

There was nothing reckless about him. Nothing flamboyant. He wasn’t chasing spectacle.

He just wasn’t afraid of intention.

That was new.

“Do you always take the riskier option?” she asked.

“Only when I trust the person suggesting it”

The air shifted slightly.

Trust.

Such an easy word in his mouth.

Such a loaded one in hers.

She crossed her arms lightly – not defensive, just grounding.

“You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I know you didn’t design the other one”

Her fingers stilled.

Most clients couldn’t tell the difference.

He had.

From afar, someone called his name for photos.

He didn’t look away from her immediately.

“Will you be around if I need adjustments?” he asked.

Professional

Neutral

“Yes.”

“And if I want something less safe next time?”

There it was.

Not flirtation.

An invitation.

She held his gaze evenly.

“I don’t design safe.”

A beat passed.

His mouth curved faintly. He stepped away towards the cameras.

The room bent around him.

Maya watched him move – confident, controlled, the fabric catching the light exactly as she intended. The silver pin glinted beneath the flashes.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t tug at the lapel. Didn’t look uncomfortable or cower wearing something outside his established brand.

He looked like he belonged in it.

And something uncomfortable curled low in her stomach.

Because when he’d said I hired you, it hadn’t sounded transactional.

It sounded like belief.

And Maya had learned a long time ago that belief came with conditions.

Still, when the applause swelled, and he glanced briefly toward the installation, toward her, his expression wasn’t performative. It was searching.

As if he wanted to see her reaction. Like her approval mattered.

That was the first imbalance.

He had taken the risk she offered. No hesitation.

She told herself it was just good client dynamics. Smart branding. Simple curiosity.

But somewhere under the structured silk and curated light, a quieter thought pressed forward:

He hadn’t diluted her vision.

Joe Burrow has built his life on control and precision.

Franchise quarterback followed by millions, but a life so private it's almost untouchable. His image matters, and fashion is how he's able to express himself. Now, nearing 30, he's ready for something new.

Enter Maya.

Artsy. Guarded. Dangerously talented.

A junior stylist with big ideas and no interest in fame, Maya has become familiar with men who admire her ideas but always take the safe route. Predictable. Boring.

Until him.

She doesn’t believe in forever, in building her life around someone else. She definitely doesn’t believe in mixing business with feelings.

When Joe hires Maya, the lines between professional and personal start to blur. The world starts watching. Whispers begin. And Maya must decide whether she’s willing to risk becoming part of someone else’s long-term strategy.