You could write something based off the TikTok trend where the guy shows his life before her and then with her. Hopefully you know what I’m talking about. I think it would be cute to see how joes life changes with a chaotic gf
Life With Her
Joe Burrow x reader Word count: 2.2k
How Joe's life has changed with you in it
a/n: I had fun with this. Thank you for the idea!
Before you, his life ran like clockwork.
Not in a rigid, joyless way - he wasn’t unhappy. It was just… precise. Carefully balanced. Everything where it ought to be, happening when it should.
He liked knowing what his days would look like before they began. Mornings came early, the same way each time - coffee brewed while the world was still quiet, breakfast made without much thought. Even his evenings had a rhythm to them. Training, shower, dinner, something low and steady playing in the background. A documentary. Something factual. Something that didn’t ask anything of him except to listen.
It wasn’t lonely.
It was just… contained.
Then you happened.
Not gently. Not gradually. Not even remotely considerately.
You arrived like a disruption the universe had personally scheduled for him - and apparently refused to cancel.
And nothing, not a single thing, stayed the same after that.
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 -
He forgets to care how anything used to be.













