I'm daydreaming

Meeting friends was one thing. He could handle that. He felt very confident in that. But meeting the best friend was something else entirely. It meant more. He hadn’t introduced you to his best mate yet, but he thought about it all the time—about the day you’d meet, the way Wes would pull you into a hug and treat you, not just like Joe’s girlfriend, but almost like a little sister instead.

Joe took a deep breath as he pushed open the door to the pub, the nippy night air left behind in an instant, replaced by the warmth radiating from inside. The hum of the music, the clinking of glasses, and the low murmur of conversation. The place was crowded but cozy, the kind of crowded that felt intimate rather than chaotic. It was one of his favorite spots and if he knew you…he knew which table you’d pick.

You were mid-spin, hand-in-hand with Ayo, both of you lost in the song that was playing through the speakers. The dim amber light from a single hanging lamp poured down on you, soft and golden, like the universe wanted to focus on you. Your laughter rang out louder than the muffled voices and cheering sports fans, and Joe swore it reached out to him, like it searched for him and pulled him to you. 

You had that kind of post-summer-day warmth clinging to you. Almost as if the sun was still lingering on your skin. Maybe it was from the heat earlier or the post-shopping high you always got when you found something you liked, but either way, it was fucking breathtaking. The way your hair curled around your face, the way your eyes caught the light. You looked like something straight out of a dream. Like the kind of girl people wrote songs about. Which, of course, you were. Two tracks were streaming on Spotify that detailed this exact feeling. 

Joe’s eyes dipped down to your top. A simple black thing, but on you, it was pure temptation woven into silk. It clung to your body like it had been made just for you, hugging every curve, stopping just above your jeans to reveal the tiniest strip of skin—and suddenly, that strip was all he could think about.

He pictured his mouth right there. Pressing soft kisses from one hipbone to the other, taking his time, savoring the sound of you falling apart over something so little, so gentle. You’d tug at his hair—god, your fingers in his hair— he cursed the fresh trim he’d gotten two days ago. You loved his curls. You really loved pulling on them, latching onto them when he—

Joe cleared his throat. Christ. 

How was he supposed to survive tonight without touching you? It’s been so long. Five days, but still, way too fucking long. Now that you were in front of him again, the need was instant. Pure fucking primal. But tonight had to go well. He couldn’t just paw at you like some touch-starved idiot. He had to make sure he got it right with Ayo, really fucking nailed it.

Then, his eyes slid to her and just like that, the nerves came rushing back.

You’d told him the stories about how sharp she was. How she didn’t waste any time with people who weren’t worth yours. How her loyalty came wrapped in brutal honesty and how she wasn’t afraid to say, “I don’t know about this one,” or “I don’t trust him,”. You hadn’t said much about your last big relationship. Just little hints. Like how you crashed on Ayo’s couch for a few weeks after, moving your stuff out in between shoots.

So of course he was nervous. 

He didn’t just want Ayo to like him—he needed her to. Not out of ego or because he was technically your last serious relationship. But because this—you—meant more to him than anything he’d ever stumbled into before. Because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. Not once. 

All day, through the press junket, through flashes, and the shallow questions, and the fake laughs, you were the only thing on his mind. Seeing you again. Holding you in his arms again. Kissing you again. 

God, kissing you again.

Your last kiss replayed in his head on a loop. The feel of your mouth on his. The way your kisses always turned hungry. The way your fingers always found their way to his neck. The way you clung to him like you wanted him just as badly—just as desperately—as he wanted you.

He needed it. He needed you. He needed to touch you, to feel you, to lose himself in you, to just fucking drown in you—even for a moment. Just enough to remember that this was real. That you were real. That what you two had wasn’t a dream conjured up between flights and FaceTime calls.

You and Ayo opted for the secluded table, a high-top pushed into a dim corner that offered a little privacy from the rest of the pub. Joe’s eyes locked with yours as he approached, and you smiled—soft, knowing, glowing. Careful and hesitant in a room full of people.

“Can’t believe it took five months to meet the legendary Ayo Edebiri,” Joe said, stepping up to the table, arms already reaching out for a hug.

“Heard you’re a bit nervous about it,” Ayo replied, slipping into the embrace. It was casual, quick. Friendly, if a little stiff, but still, Joe hoped she would appreciate it. Maybe she even found his nerves a little endearing.

“And who told you that?,” he asked, his voice teasing and his eyes already looking at you. You were inches away from him.

Elbow on the table, chin resting on your hand, watching him with that look. The one that made him feel like more than he was. That he wasn’t just some guy who got lucky. That he wasn’t just a punchline to casting discourse. That you were happy he acknowledged Ayo before acknowledging you. That you’d been waiting for him all night. 

And that look undid him every single time.

He could feel it now—pressing in his chest, itching in his palms, curling into a smile he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. God, he missed you. He didn’t care about the pub noise, or who might be watching, or how nervous he’d been walking in. He moved toward you, fast but unhurried, like his body knew exactly where it needed to be.

His hand cradled your jaw instinctively, fingers sliding into your hair, brushing it back like it was second nature. Everything was feeling so natural right now. So simple. His thumb traced the soft curve of your cheek.

“Hi,” he murmured, low and breathless.

And then he kissed you. 

It was immediate and all-consuming. You tasted like lime and something a tad bit sweeter—something so distinctly you. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of quiet desperation, his other hand anchoring to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer even though you were already right there. He groaned softly into your mouth—fuck—he parted your lips just slightly with his own. Not enough to make a scene, but enough to take a breath more of you. Just enough to remind his body what it had been missing.

You were warm under his hands, soft and steady, matching the kiss in a rhythm so familiar it was like you were made for him. Your hands had found their way up his hoodie, clinging to his neck as you pulled him down to you, desperate for just a bit more.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to. God, he didn’t want to stop. But give him one more second—give him the chance to get a moan out of you—and he would’ve lost it. His thumb lingered beneath your jaw, brushing over your skin as if your bodies were having their own little reunion. His eyes stayed on yours, wide, and lost, and fucking grateful to have you in his arms again.

“Hi,” you whispered back, and the sound of your voice dragged another smile out of him before he could stop it. 

He dropped his head to your shoulder, chuckling low against your skin. His hands slipped from your neck to your waist, fingers curling into your sides like he needed to hold you just to try to anchor himself. But the press of your body against his, the feel of your hips against his, was enough to ruin him completely. It sent a film reel flashing through his brain of tangled sheets and breathless moans, your nails digging in his back when you were close—Fuck.

He wanted you—needed you. But not here. Not in public. Not tonight.

Well….maybe tonight.

“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly, his lips brushing the slope of your bare shoulder in a kiss that was way too soft for how much he really wanted you. 

“I can tell,” you laughed, breath catching just slightly. Your hand came up to cup his face, tilting it until his eyes met yours again.

And he swore he could stay lost there forever. The sparkle in your eyes. The way you looked at him, like he wasn’t just Joseph Quinn, like he was yours. He didn’t know how he made it five days without this. Without you. He didn’t know how he ever made it without you.

His hand drifted up to wrap around your wrist, fingers splayed against your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you. You were just like he remembered. Your skin still impossibly soft. You still smelled like that warm, honeyed whisky perfume you loved—the one you told him was currently “out of season,” as if something that smelled that perfect on you, that complimented you so fucking well, could ever go out of style.

“So,” Ayo cleared her throat loudly, “is it just going to be you two making out all night or…..?”

You laughed before immediately burying your face in his chest, like you also just realized you weren’t alone anymore. Like you had forgotten how public that kiss had just been. Like hiding in him was the only option. And fuck—he felt you grip his hoodie tighter, like you wanted to crawl inside of him.

He closed his eyes for a second and let himself feel it—the way your body melted into his. The way your body found him for a moment of comfort. The heat of your skin bleeding through that little black top. The tension still clinging to your fingertips, like you weren’t ready to be done kissing him, like you weren’t quite finished with that kiss. 

He would’ve given anything to wrap you up and take you out of here. Just carry you away to a quiet place where there weren’t eyes, or noise, or limits. Kissing with no direction. Breathing like you were running out of air. Where you could be as loud or as needy as you wanted to be—as either of you needed to be.

But instead, he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your forehead, breathing you in. One hand stayed at the small of your back, the other tapped the edge of the table to remind himself where he was.  “Sorry, mate. Got a bit carried away, we’re all yours now.”

“Mhmm,” Ayo muttered, rolling her eyes. “Where’s Ebon?”

“On the phone with Yelena,” Joe said, sliding into the empty seat beside you and across from Ayo. He wanted to pull your chair closer. God—he wanted to be closer, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to break a promise to Ayo five minutes in. So he settled.

Settled for the way your body instinctually leaned toward him. Settled for the way your fingers reached for his under the table like they couldn’t help it. Settled for the way your thumb dragged against his. Settled for his wrist resting on top of your knee, playing with your fingers beneath the table as you both glanced toward the pub entrance, just in time to see Ebon step through.

Ebon made a beeline for Ayo, the two of them immediately slipping into a conversation that gave you and Joe a precious second alone.

“I’m sorry if that was—” Joe leaned in, his voice low, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers tightened around yours. He looked down at your intertwined hands. The way you held him should’ve been enough to silence the nerves still crawling beneath his skin. But your quietness…it was a little unlike you.

And now, he was second-guessing. Was the kiss too much? Too public? Too soon after the morning interview?

But then you turned to him, smiling. “Joseph Quinn,” you whispered, shaking your head before you looked at him. “The next time you kiss me like that…I’m going to need you to finish what you started.”

His lips parted slightly. “You didn’t mind?” he asked, still testing the waters of your response. Still unsure if he could fully let go of the worry clawing at his ribs.

“Mind?” you laughed. “I’ve been thinking about how’d you kiss me again for five days.” You gave his hand a squeeze, your thumb tracing deliberately along the inside of his wrist.

Joe let out a breathless laugh, leaning in close, goosebumps radiating as your nails scraped against his skin. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Did I live up to the fantasy?”

You didn’t hesitate. Not for a single second. You leaned in, hand sliding over his thigh like it was the most natural, innocent thing in the world. “Not sure,” you teased, your voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Might need a refresher.”

“Oh, do you now?” His grin bloomed instantly, already cupping your jaw again. Brushing your cheek like a habit—like they couldn’t not touch you. His mouth was on yours. Softer this time. Slower. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your lips, like he wanted to get drunk on just the remnants of your drink.

He pulled away, just barely, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re not worried about….” his eyes flicked back to the pub’s crowd behind you.

But you didn’t even look. You looked right at him—right into him. Your eyes tracing his face like you were searching for more than just an answer, and you just shook your head. “Not at all.”

Fuck.

Did you know what you were saying? 

He hoped so.

God, he hoped so. Because to him, those words meant everything. 

They meant you were ready. That this wasn’t just a phase or a fling or some press-tour flame. That you were in it. You were all-in. Like maybe—maybe, you were in love with him too. Like you were telling him, without saying it, that you wanted this next chapter. The quiet parts, the hard parts, the boring domestic shit, and the never-ending chaos that came with fame. That you wanted all of it. And you wanted it with him.

He swallowed hard. “Really?” he asked, voice soft like he was almost afraid to let himself believe it.  

You smiled and it was written all over your face. You weren’t just answering the questions he was asking, you were answering the ones he hadn’t yet. “Really,” you said. Then you tilted your head, a little bit of teasing in your tone. “Are you worried?”

His thumb slid down, brushing along your bottom lip, pulling it down just slightly. His forehead still resting against yours, your breaths mingling with each other. “No,” he exhaled. “Not with you.”

He was already leaning in again, lips just barely brushing yours—reading to fall back into you—when Ebon’s voice rang out across the table. 

“Alright, Jesus Christ,” Ebon deadpanned. “Ma’am, is this man bothering you?” 

Joe jolted slightly, groaning as he turned toward Ebon’s voice, chuckling under his breath.

You let out a sharp laugh, pulling yourself away from Joe’s orbit long enough to throw your arms around Ebon. “Finally,” you grinned. “The main event actually made time for us.”

“Couldn’t have worked on your timing?” Joe asked, trying to sound annoyed but already smiling.

Ebon shrugged. “I gave you a full two minutes. That’s generous.” “It was starting to feel a little bit illegal watching you two,” Ayo joked, settling into her seat. 

You laughed, but your brow furrowed with sudden realization as you pulled away from Ebon. You turned to Joe, then looked back at Ebon. “Wait…you know.”

Ebon raised a brow, slinging his arm casually over your shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I know. Your boyfriend’s a real bad liar.”

Joe groaned, slumping in his chair as you sat back down beside him. He curled into your side like he wanted to disappear into you, before popping back up with a half-hearted protest. “In my defense, you asked me right before the next interview started.”

“And then you blinked like fifty times in ten seconds,” Ebon said, grabbing a chip from the middle of the table. “You started stammering, and they were doing the countdown thing, and then you just confessed.”

You turned to Joe, biting your lip, eyes sparkling with barely contained laughter. Your hand started rubbing circles on his back before you poked him a few times. “Aww…you cracked under pressure?”

“I–” Joe started, then sighed, letting the weight of it fall from his shoulders with a quiet, breathy, kind of laugh.

Because really, it wasn’t even the pressure. It wasn’t the timing of it all; it wasn’t even about being caught off guard. It was the fact that he didn’t want to deny it—deny you. He didn’t know how to keep lying about that. Not to Ebon. Not after that interview, when he was already in love with you and was just sinking deeper by the minute.

He couldn’t say no.

He didn’t want to say no.

So…he just didn’t.

“I could’ve made him sweat a little longer,” Ebon added. “But I steered away from it on camera.” “Such a gentleman,” You laughed, shaking your head and throwing another chip at him, though in your case, he knew you’d rather call it a fry. 

Ayo chuckled. “I think he’s sweating enough for right now.”

Joe held up both hands in surrender. “Alright. Alright—I see how it is. Roast the happy couple.” 

His hand slid discreetly over your thigh beneath the table, fingers brushing against you just enough to feel you. To remind himself that he was allowed to. His fingers brushed light lines against your jeans, deliberate and a little smug. Payback for your earlier quip.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye, your lips twitching into a smile as you settled into your seat, your thighs squeezing subtly together like you were trying not to react. But he noticed. Of course, he noticed. 

“You did kinda start it,” you teased.

“Oh, you too?” Joe raised his eyebrows, rubbing at the corner of his mouth like he was trying not to grin. Like his hand wasn’t still on your upper thigh. “Betrayed by my own girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, full of that barely-contained laughter. “Who here called their secret girlfriend during a radio interview and then flirted with her over the phone?” You raised your drink and tipped it towards the others. “Ebon? Ayo?”

“Not me,” Ayo said, clinking her glass with yours. “But I did call it so…”

Joe leaned in, his voice dipping lower, his hand on your thigh sliding ever-so-slightly higher. Two could very much play at this game. “Alright, darling, who here asked me—on camera, on radio—‘What can you picture me doing?’”

“I knew he clocked that one,” Ayo muttered with a snort. 

“Alright, alright,” Ebon interjected, raising the menu like a white flag. “Who here wants to order wings?”

For the rest of the night, you both reined it in. Joe did his best to stay present—to focus on the conversation, the drinks, the easiness of the little corner the four of you took up in the buzzing pub—but his hand stayed loosely wrapped around you the entire time. His thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin, like his body couldn’t help reaching for yours.

And he felt good. Really good. 

You were relaxed again. Your laughter came easily and openly, like you weren’t afraid to hold anything back. Your shoulder would brush with his now and then as you talked with Ayo about one of the more chaotic stunts you had to do as Shalla-Bal, and every time you leaned closer, every time your smile curved toward him, it made his heart fall that much deeper. 

You were it for him. This was it for him. He could have a million more nights like this with you, and that would be enough.

Ebon and Joe jumped in now and then with commentary about how stupidly comfortable the motion-capture suits were, how borderline inhumane some of the holding positions had been for you. It all flowed effortlessly. The rhythm of the entire night just worked.

Ayo was everything you told Joe she’d be. She was sharp, quick, and unfiltered in the best way possible. She was hilarious, but never too harsh. Curious and observant, but never invasive. And Joe found himself comfortable around her. The kind of comfort that came when someone didn’t just tolerate you being in someone’s life, but they actually welcomed you into it.

She made you laugh harder, made you talk faster, and Joe could see how much of you just lived in her presence. The way your eyes sparkled when she teased you. The way you got embarrassed when she poked at your stories, and the way you’d poke right back. The way you smiled when she turned her jokes on Joe. He’d seen glimpses of this part of you before, but never quite like this. 

And still—through all of it—you leaned into him. Still stole glances. Still kissed his shoulder in those small, affectionate bursts. Still let your fingers toy with the edge of his sleeve, or run lazy shapes into his thigh like you didn’t even notice you were doing it. And that made him feel like everything was okay. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

God, he loved looking at you like this.

Don’t get him wrong…seeing you glammed up for events or on the red carpet, shining under camera flashes in those silver dresses that hugged your body like they were a second skin? Those moments were seared into his memory. He could barely breathe on red carpets beside you. Had to actively remind himself to let go when you peeled away from him after a cast photo.

But this?

This was different. This was you—hair loose, skin glowing, laughing like no one was watching. You looked so at home. So at ease. So you. Like there was nowhere else you’d rather be, and no one else you’d rather be with. It was beautiful, achingly beautiful, in the most cliche way possible. He couldn’t stop staring at you. 

Because this was what had convinced him.

He had always felt sure about you.

This wasn’t a fantasy he’d built up in his head. Even when you were apart—even when time zones and premieres and chaos pulled you in different directions—he didn’t doubt it. What you two had was real. It was terrifying. Of course it was terrifying. But it was real. 

It wasn’t just some whirlwind romance built from on-set chemistry and close proximity. You made it real. With the way you looked at him, with the way you touched him without even thinking about it, and the way you answered the question earlier.

Not at all.

He hadn’t stopped replaying those words. They echoed through his mind all night on a loop, soft and certain. Quiet but impossible to ignore. For him, they were as close as you’ve gotten to saying those other three words. And for the first time, he wasn’t scared about saying them either.

He wasn’t worried you’d run from them. Not anymore. Not when you were here with him. He just needed to make sure that when he said them, you heard them. You heard how much he meant it. That you understood that he’s felt it for a while now, longer than he even initially realized, because it was so gradual, so natural, that it felt like it was just always there.

He wondered if, after all this promo madness, the two of you could just disappear. If you two could slip away somewhere warm and quiet. Somewhere without cameras or stylists knocking on hotel doors. A place where no one cared if your fingers were laced under the table. A place where you wouldn’t have to break away when a phone got angled too long in your direction.

God, he wanted that. A break—a real break. A break that would be longer than the sliver of time he usually carved out between projects. A stretch of days where he could exist next to you—wake up beside you, cook breakfast with you, wash dishes with you, fall asleep next to you with your leg slung over his—with no responsibilities. He wasn’t asking for forever, not yet at least. But just something uninterrupted where the two of you could simply just be.

He knew he’d have to leave again soon. He knew that your calendar was about to turn into madness, too, with back-to-back rehearsals, recordings, flights, and press for your next movie. But right now, tonight? With his hand resting just beneath the hem of your jeans, his thumb brushing the skin he hadn’t stopped thinking about since he walked in? With your laughter hanging in the air like the most addictive sort of song? He didn’t care. He was happy.

The lights in the pub had dimmed, casting everything in that same soft amber haze. The music thudded faintly in the background, but all he could hear was laughter around the table—your laugh intertwined with his own. The sound of it, the sound of the two of you, settled into his chest and made something ache in him in the best fucking way.

You were doubled over now, laughing at something Ebon said, another one of his too-honest commentaries on the industry. Ayo was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, gasping for breath between cackles, and Joe just watched you. The way your shoulders moved. The way your eyes were glistening from the tears and pure joy you were experiencing. The way you pressed into him like you didn’t even realize how close you two were at this point.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Ayo choked suddenly on her drink. The laugh died in her throat and her glass hit the table hard. Her fingers fumbled around for a napkin as the three of you focused your attention entirely on her. 

“Ben?” her voice came out rasp.

“Are you—” he started to ask, but then he noticed it. The way Ayo’s eyes widened past you. How her posture straightened and her expression shifted from having fun to something else instead.

“Ben?” You echoed, blinking at Ayo with your brows furrowed—confusion evident on your face. 

Until a name that Joe had never heard before called out from behind you. It wasn’t the name Joe used. It wasn’t the name that anyone else at the table used either. But it was a name that belonged to some other version of you. A name that you just knew.

You turned around. You turned so fast, so instinctively, that you slipped right out of Joe’s touch. Out of his space. Like your body still responded to that name.

“Ben,” you repeated, no longer a question, but a statement. A memory.

Joe felt it. That subtle but unmistakable shift in the air. Like the moment right before a storm, when everything stills just enough for you to notice how loud your heartbeat is. There was something sweet about the way you said Ben’s name that made something curdle in Joe’s stomach. Like this version of you, the one he just spoke to, the one he was just touching, belonged to a time he didn’t know—belonged to someone he didn’t know.

Joe’s gaze followed yours, followed the slow tilt of your shoulders, the soft slack of your jaw, the way your eyes warmed just slightly until they landed on him.

Ben. Of course it was that Ben.

Sure, Joe liked to joke about being offline. And okay, maybe he didn’t know half the memes interviewers threw at him—but even he wasn’t oblivious to the headlines from two years ago. He remembered the interviews, the headlines, the vague statements including words like “amicable,”, “mutual,”, and “privacy”. The kinds of words that sounded mature but really they were just PR. He remembered the photos. He remembered the internet going mad over you both.

And the fancasts. 

God. The fucking fancasts. 

Ben was the internet’s golden boy. The prime Tom Welling type of golden boy. The people’s Johnny Storm before Joe even had a call with Matt. He had the all-American jawline, abs sculpted by the divine, and that effortless charm that made the press fall in love with him even when he said nothing at all.

The internet already preferred Ben over him once. Why wouldn’t they do it again? He couldn’t help but start comparing himself to him. The world had once pictured that guy with you. How long would it take for people online to start asking the same questions they asked two years ago: why him and not Ben?

Joe’s chest tightened. He watched the two of you carefully, like he was preparing to brace for impact. He searched your face for any sign—any flinch or glance or hesitation that said get me out of this, or that sort of, I need you. But no, there was nothing. 

Instead…you smiled. Not the way you smiled at Joe, that much he was grateful to discern, but still in a way that made his chest tighten.

“What are you—” you started, but your voice trailed off. And for once, Joe wasn’t sure if he even wanted you to finish. 

Ben’s smile stretched wide, genuine, and annoyingly charming as he opened his arms for a hug, and you stepped in. Joe watched the way your body moved toward him, like it was muscle memory, like nothing had ever gone wrong between the two of you.

Ben’s arms fully wrapped around you completely. Not a quick hug, not a polite pat on the shoulder. No, this was a slow, familiar pull. His hands settling too comfortably at your waist—too confidently—with his fingers pressing into your skin like they’d been there a hundred times before.

And then they moved lower. Just barely. But far more than Joe would’ve wanted. His fingertips grazed the exact sliver of skin Joe had touched earlier. The space between your jeans and your shirt. The skin Joe had traced under the table tonight. The skin that had warmed beneath his touch like it missed him, too. The spot that made you shift slightly closer, press your thigh against his, and squeeze his hand just a little tighter.

It was nothing, really. But to Joe, moments like that meant everything.

Because now Ben had touched it too. Casually. Thoughtlessly—like he still had the right.

Joe‘s hand curled tighter under the table before he stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw twitched, and he looked away. He didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t not see it.

Ebon raised a brow from across the table, clocking everything immediately. Ayo didn't say a word, but she didn’t need to. She was equally as surprised and equally as uncomfortable as he was.

Ben finally pulled back, but his hand didn’t leave your waist. It lingered. It stayed. Like he didn’t want the moment to end for him. And you…just rested your hand so easily on his arm. Like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t just scraped every raw nerve Joe had. And then Ben glanced down. It was subtle. It was so fucking subtle. 

But the half-second glance of his eyes to your lips was it. 

Joe felt it like a full-body wave. That sick, tightening pull in his stomach. The clarity that sliced through every second of self-doubt or apology he might’ve offered himself before. Because he wasn’t being crazy. He wasn’t being insecure. This guy still fucking wanted you.

“Sorry,” Ben said, holding a hand up as if he’d only just remembered the rest of the table existed. “Didn’t mean to interrupt dinner. Ayo!” he added, chuckling like this was all a happy accident. “You’re here too!”

“In the flesh,” Ayo said, her voice flat, the corners of her mouth stiff as she forced a smile. Her words were slow, measured, each syllable stretching just enough into the next one. “And you’re here. Who could’ve guessed that?”

Joe didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Not yet. Because right now his chest was burning and his mouth had gone dry, and that little voice in his head was starting to get louder. He was burning holes into Ben’s hand on your waist—at Ben’s hand still on your waist.

And all he could think, as his fingers curled tighter in his pocket, was that he couldn’t stand to watch Ben’s hands on you for one second longer.

It wasn’t like him. And it wasn’t rational at all—not even a little bit. He knew that. You were both adults and you were allowed to have a past. To have old flames and shared history and to stay friends even when the relationship didn’t last. He did.

But knowing that didn’t stop the feeling that slithered through him, coiling beneath his skin— knowing that to Ben…that wasn’t what this was. It didn’t stop the ache that bloomed in his chest or the quiet dread that followed close behind. 

Ben chuckled at something, saying it low—too low for Joe to hear—but whatever it was made your lips curve. It was that smile, that soft, polite smile. Not the one you normally gave Joe, but it was something else. Something tender in a way he hadn’t seen before. Like it was you reaching back in time and putting it on your face.

His eyes darted to Ayo, searching for something, anything, that might tell him what she thought. Did she like Ben? Did she hate him? Was she just sitting there, locked in this awkward silence, waiting for the moment to pass? Because if she liked Ben, even half as much as she seemed to like Joe—

Joe swallowed, his throat drier by the second. He couldn’t read her anymore, and that scared him more than he wanted to admit. Because if Ayo approved of Ben, then who was to say that there couldn’t be a second chance?

Joe looked at Ben. It was all over his face. He could see it in his eyes. The way they lingered on yours, the way he leaned in, like the room was bending around you. Joe knew that look. He’s worn that look every day for the past five months. He wore it on the way here. He wore it walking into the pub. He wore it the second he saw you spinning beneath that lamp, glowing and beautiful, and entirely his. He wore it when he kissed you. And he was still wearing it, even now.

But Ben?

Ben wasn’t looking at you like a memory. He was looking at you like you were still an option. It was the look of someone who was in it, still in it. The look of someone who wanted you, still wanted you.

Joe’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed deep in the pocket of his hoodie, curling and uncurling like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something he’d regret.

He flicked his gaze back to you, trying to read anything on your face. Were you just being polite? Were you genuinely happy to see him? Were you remembering what it used to feel like? Were you thinking about Joe at all? Because you hadn’t looked back at him.

Not once.

Not since Ben walked in. Not since Ben touched you like he still owned the excuse to. Not since Joe let go of you for the first time all night. And now his hand was empty. And he didn’t know where the fuck to put it. 

Joe raised two fingers at the server walking by. “I’ll have another,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he covered his mouth with his hand—partially to signal, partially to stop himself from staring at Ben’s hand still parked on your waist.

He shouldn’t care this much. He knew that. He knew you weren’t his to own or cage or fucking claim. But God—he just wanted to touch you again. His fingers twitched, now resting on the table, inching closer to your glass like it might steady him, but it didn’t.

It wasn’t enough.

Because Ben was still standing too close. Because Ben’s hand had slipped up to help you adjust the sleeve of your top. Because Joe’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding behind the press of his hand, because he knew how it would look if he interrupted. He knew how important this night was. But his restraint was thinning. 

He glanced at Ayo again—watched the way her arms were crossed, how she wasn’t laughing anymore. So maybe she didn’t like Ben. 

Good. 

Okay.

He could cling to that.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the two of you. At the space between you that didn’t exist. He couldn’t ignore the history that felt louder than the music. And worst of all, the way you still hadn’t looked at him.

He shifted in his seat. His knee bounced once, then again. He told it to stop, but it didn’t listen. And then before he could stop himself, his hand found your chair, fingers curling around the back of it like he was reaching for you. Like some part of him couldn’t take the distance anymore. 

“Uh,” Ayo added quickly, clearly sensing the tension. “Yeah, same. Another one for her too.”

“Me too,” Ebon echoed, tapping the rim of the glass. “Appreciate it.” “No problem,” The server nodded and then turned to Ben.  “Are you with her or—”

“Well—” Ben started, hand still not fucking moving.

“No.” 

Joe’s voice snapped before he even fully thought about it. Sharp. Possessive. Fucking final. He didn’t plan it, he didn’t mean to make it so loud, but fuck it—there it was. He couldn’t let Ben say yes. Couldn’t let that word hang in the air like it meant something. Like he still had a shot with you.

Ben’s eyes flicked briefly to Joe’s, a slow, almost knowing glance. 

“Right, mate?” Joe pressed, the edge in his voice almost daring Ben to try to contradict him.

You glanced over, calm but firm, breaking the tension. Your voice was smooth as you turned to the server. “He’s just saying hi,” you said. “I’m sure his group’s around here somewhere.”

Joe felt the quiet reclaiming of space. You weren’t being rude, but you were establishing some type of boundary. And for the first time in what felt like a very long five minutes, Joe could breathe again. Your words reminded him of what he’d been telling himself before Ben showed up. You were with him. 

“Yeah, if Patty-boy ever gets here,” Ben chuckled, meeting Joe’s gaze with a cool smirk before glancing back down at you. “You know how he is.”

“Pat’s coming?” You asked, your voice lifting with surprise—warmth, maybe a flicker of recognition. Of course, you knew Pat. You must have. You and Ben were together for nearly three years. Of course, you knew his friends. Maybe you still did. Maybe you still kept in touch. 

Ben finally—finally— pulled his hand away from your waist, brushing a smile off his face like he wanted to hide it. His eyes flicked toward Joe, and there was almost a spark—almost a challenge. Like he noticed the way Joe had been watching you, the way Joe was being protective. “Yeah, he’s going to flip when he sees you. He’s always saying you’re “the one who got away”, so this might just add fuel to the fire.”

Joe felt heat prickling at his skin. Not anger exactly, but more just a tightening around his chest because Ben knew. Ben could tell, and he wasn’t backing down. Because what the fuck did he expect you to say to that?

“Oh,” you stammered. “I–uh–well…is it just Pat tonight?”

Ben licked his lips, eyes sliding away from yours, but not before catching Joe’s eye again. That faint fucking smirk still lingering as he pretended he was thinking of all the ones joining him tonight. “Pat, Enzo, Michael, Marcus, and Willy.”

“Oh,” you repeated, with a little more ease. “So it’s the boys,” you laughed softly, like it was some private inside joke between you two—one Joe had no access to.

Ben nodded, eyes still soft but calculating, like you were still his whole world, and like he was silently marking his territory. “Yeah. Which means I should probably let you go before we spend all night talking about you.”

Joe’s jaw clenched. The message wasn’t lost on him, and it clearly wasn’t lost on you either.

“Are they all like Pat?” You asked lightly.

Joe’s stomach twisted…were you curious? He didn’t want to think you were—but the alcohol, Ben’s challenge, and the sinking pit in his gut made his thoughts blurry.

You never talked about Ben, and he’s never wanted to ask. Maybe because he didn’t want to know. Maybe because the two of you got such little time with each other that you rarely spent it talking about past loves. Or maybe because he knew that if he ever got this close to it, he’d do exactly this.

Ben’s voice cut through the thick air, casual but a little loaded. “Are you asking if Marcus is still mad at you?”

You shrugged, eyes on your drink. “Just wondering if I should sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Ben chuckled, his smirk returning, and pointed directly at Joe before he looked back down at you. “Please.. You know I’d step in if Marcus got out of line.”

Joe’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like how Ben said that—like it was still his place. Like he still had a role to play in anything regarding you. Like it was a given that he’d be the one to step in for you.

You let out a laugh. “Thank you but I’m pretty sure I can handle your brother.”

And that should’ve been it. You made it pretty clear that you didn’t need him. But Ben’s hand found your arm again under the guise of reassurance.

Joe saw it for what it was. An excuse. A reminder. A subtle little claim.

“He’s just still salty about the proposal falling apart,” Ben added, glancing at Ayo now—his tone too smooth to be innocent. There was history there now. History that Joe had never heard about, triangulating between the three of you. “I mean…you get it, right?”

Joe’s mouth tightened around the edge of his nearly empty glass—only a few droplets of water left from the melting ice.

Proposal.

He felt a crack behind his ribs. He remembered rumors of it back then, but he never realized they were real until now. He never asked about it, never pried. He told himself it didn’t matter because obviously, whatever happened was over. But it mattered now. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder how serious you two were.

Did Ben really propose?

Did you almost say yes? 

His mind spun. Not just from jealousy, but from the ache of realizing that he almost never even had you. That there was a high chance, an unbelievably high chance, that the last five months—no, fuck it, the last year and a half—could’ve so easily not existed at all. That all along you could’ve been someone else’s.

You almost were.

“Wow. We’re doing this now?” Ayo laughed, but there was zero humor in it. “In front of everyone?

Joe’s eyes snapped to her, then to you. You were shifting now, clearly uncomfortable, clearly catching up to the weight of what Ben had just said. Your fingers slipped behind your back, tucking into the pockets of your jeans like you were trying to ground yourself. You looked between Ayo and Ben, and then toward Joe.

And that was when Ben finally seemed to get it. 

That it wasn’t just Joe who had feelings for you. But that maybe—just maybe—you had them back. He glanced at Joe, just for a second, but it was enough. A flicker of something sharp, something territorial. A calculation. An acknowledgement of what this night had become. Of what he thought he could make this night be—if he played it right.

Ben took a step back. “That’s not how I meant it,” he started, his voice lowered as he tried smoothing out the tension. “I didn’t come here to cause a scene. I came here because I missed you.” He looked at you now, fully and intently. “So give me a call, alright? We can catch up where it’s just us." His eyes flicked toward Joe and Ayo.

Joe’s stomach dropped. No. Fuck no. 

“Um,” your voice came out soft. “What if we just talk outside for a second?”

Joe’s breath hitched. Because why?

Why not here, in front of him, in front of the table, where things stayed real and visible and safe?

He wanted to believe it was just you being kind. Just doing damage control for an awkward run-in neither of you had planned. But just ten minutes ago, he’d never felt more sure about anything in his entire life—and the next he was hanging on by a thread. 

Was it closure? Was there still something there?

Ben nodded, too quickly. “Yeah,” he said, more out of formality because he already knew the answer. “That works.” Then, as if on cue, he turned to the table with that charming fucking smile. “It was nice to see you guys.”

He shook Ebon’s hand with casual confidence, then turned to Joe, arm already extended, smirk already in place. Because he knew what he was doing. Because he knew if Joe didn’t take it, he’d look like the good guy. 

But Joe didn’t move. 

He couldn’t fucking stand it. 

The way Ben was just pretending that he didn’t know. The way he was still putting on that smug grin like he had any right to be near you. Like this wasn’t a line being crossed. Like he wasn’t looking Joe dead in the eye while doing it.

Joe stared at the outstretched hand, jaw clenched tight, fingers curling against his knee. And then he saw your face. 

The way you looked at him—not panicked at all, but cautious. Apologetic, even, and a little unsure. Like you knew exactly what this looked like, and you were trying to keep him steady while everything inside of him wavered until he could get to talk to you.

God, he hated that. Hated that you were the one trying to manage the tension. That you were the one holding everything together while he sat there coming undone.

So he took it. Not too hard. Not too long. 

“Yeah,” Joe said, his voice flat. “You too.”

Ben turned to you then, shrugging out of his jacket with all the subtlety of someone flexing. “It’s a little chilly out there—”

He doesn’t fucking quit, does he? Joe thought, and before he even realized it, he was standing.

In one clean motion, his hoodie came off, leaving him in just a crisp white t-shirt, thin enough for the air to bite at his skin, tight enough for Ebon to let out a playful “damn” under his breath.

“Here,” Joe said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. He handed you the hoodie before Ben could even get his denim jacket off his shoulders.

His fingers gripped the hoodie harder because he could handle a lot of shit. He could handle Ben showing up. He could handle Ben’s hands on your waist. He could handle him looking at you like that—like the past wasn’t over. He could even handle you walking out that door with him. But what he couldn’t handle? 

Was your ex’s jacket on your body. Was Ben’s clothes against your skin.

Not tonight. Not after every good thing that had just happened. Not after that kiss. Not after what you said. Not after what he almost said. Not after Ben was searching for any fucking excuse to keep touching you.

You looked up at him, surprised but smiling. Your fingers brushed for just a moment when you went to grab his hoodie, and there it was. That same feeling when time and everything just slowed down.

You put it on right there. Your arms slipped into the sleeves, and then the fabric came up over your head, your hair catching for just a second before falling into place. The hoodie swallowed you just a bit, like it was made to be worn by him and you, and Joe couldn’t look away. Something primal, something possessive, and something completely wrecked inside of Joe lit up.

Ben noticed. Of course he did.

Joe caught the subtle shift in his face—the brief glance, the small twitch of his jaw before he masked it with that same smirk. But it wasn’t the same anymore. And frankly, Joe couldn’t care less about what Ben was thinking. 

Because he fucking loved you.

He loved seeing something of his on you. Loved that you didn’t even hesitate. Loved that Ben saw it. Even if Joe couldn’t follow you outside, you were still walking out in something that belonged to him. You pulled it up over your head without a second thought—and Joe fucking loved that you did it in front of him. That you did it in front of Ben.

He exhaled—slow and shaky. His jaw still tight, his chest still burning, but he was more grounded now.

“Thanks,” you murmured, as you adjusted the hem at your waist.

“Of course,” Joe nodded, his voice low. He flicked his eyes up to Ben, just for a second, just long enough, before he let you go.

The table fell quiet. Not awkward…just…heavy. Thick with everything no one could say out loud. They all watched as you disappeared through the door. Ben followed close behind, his hand hovering at your back like nothing had changed. Like he still thought he had a chance after all of it.

Joe’s jaw ticked as he looked away and caught the girl at the far booth, already halfway to being viral. Her eyes were wide, fingers clutching her phone, subtly turning it toward the door.

His stomach twisted. But before she could angle the camera, Ayo leaned forward, her voice loud and sharp. “They’re not back together,” she called out. “Put your phone away.”

The girl blinked, startled, and slowly lowered her phone.

Joe’s eyes snapped toward Ayo. His chest cracked open with gratitude and relief. He didn’t know how to thank her, not just for that, but for how she reacted to everything else that had happened tonight.

Ebon let out a breath, muttering quietly.

Joe didn’t say anything. He just stared at the door, wishing it would open again. Like maybe you’d come back through it, shrugging Ben off. Like maybe you’d never gone at all. Like maybe Ben had never fucking shown up.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked quietly, not looking at her. Regret was already there by the time the words left his mouth.

“Are you an idiot?” Ayo snapped before she could stop herself. And then she winced, instantly backpedaling with a hand over her eyes. “Okay—okay. That was too far. I’m sorry. Tonight’s been chaos, and I get it. And genuinely…” She gestured toward the door. “That fucking sucked.”

Joe huffed once, almost a laugh. But it didn’t get much farther than the bottom of his empty glass.

Ayo tried again. “And by the way?” She pointed at him, her tone lighter now, clearly trying to help his mood. “I’ve only seen one person take off a hoodie with that much unspoken testosterone behind it, and it was fucking Captain America.”

Ebon snorted, and Joe let out a breathless laugh. He shook his head, fingers still tracing the rim of his glass. But something eased in his chest. No wonder you loved her so much.

The server returned with fresh drinks, and his eyes flicked back to the door as he took a sip, feeling the warm sting crawl down his throat. “I honestly don’t even know what I’m feeling.”

Ayo exhaled. “Of course you don’t. Ben walks in like no time has passed, calls her the one who got away, talks about Marcus’s stupid idea like it’s some cute memory—and now she’s out there trying to make sure everyone’s okay.”

Of course, you were. You always did. It hit him how often you did that. How often you stepped in, softened the blow, swept up the mess left behind by everyone else’s shit. Maybe he’d gotten used to it, maybe they all had. But it wasn’t fair, and he felt like shit for piling more onto it tonight.

“She’s probably out there trying to make him feel better,” Ayo added, quieter now. “That’s how their relationship always worked. She was the fucking sun and always had to apologize for it.” Her lips twisted. “It’s been two years, you’d think he would’ve moved on by now.”

Joe’s jaw flexed. God, he hated that. Hated the thought of you out there softening your voice, comforting Ben like it was your job. Hated that you were so used to holding everything together that you didn’t even question it anymore. And worst of all, he hated that he couldn’t even blame Ben for not being over you. Because he knew he wouldn’t be.

It would take a lot longer than two years for Joseph Quinn to get over you. Honestly, if anything ever happened, he didn’t think he ever would.

Ayo kept going, her voice getting sharper like tonight made her crack open, and she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Like everything she’s ever wanted to yell at Ben was bubbling up to the surface. “It’s why she never seriously dates anymore,” she said. “Why she never let herself be like she was tonight.”

Joe blinked. His throat went dry. Ayo clearly knew so much more than what she was saying—but now it was spilling out, completely unfiltered.

“And I’m sorry—but fuck Marcus,” she snapped, her hands slicing through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about that dude. You think she wanted that proposal he was planning? At a football game? That was his idea of romance. Because Ben loves football. And she loved Ben. Fucking idiot.”

Loved.

That word hit Joe like a blow to the ribs. 

So you had been in love before. 

Once.

Would you even let yourself do it again?

Joe’s stomach twisted, but only for a moment, because as fast as it came, it gave way to something else. A quiet, grounding sort of peace. Because he knew you. He knew you didn’t want something loud or public. He hasn’t even asked…and he just knew. Even without Ayo saying anything.

Your love wasn’t fireworks—of course, it felt like that sometimes. But it was steadier. It was slow-burning and constant. Like candlelight.

That’s how he’d do it, if he ever got the chance.

The pub from your first unofficial date. The same one where you had your first kiss. There’d be candles everywhere. 

He’d have your closest friends and family tucked away in the back—maybe hiding in the kitchen while they put the final touches on your favorite cake—but before anyone else got to see you, before anyone else got to know your answer, it’d just be you and him. Alone. Together.

Ayo shook her head, still steaming from earlier. “So, of course, I let it slip. I told her Ben was planning to propose. I told her Marcus was in on it and they were gonna do it at the next Rams game. And yeah, it freaked her out. Because she couldn’t see it anymore.”

She paused, jaw tight. Like she was watching it all over again. “It was after that day,” Ayo said quietly, “that I promised myself I’d never let her get that far into something without saying how I really felt.”

“Ayo,” Ebon started gently, maybe trying to ease her back down. 

But she wasn’t done.

“No, because I fucked up too,” Ayo said, turning toward Ebon now. “You remember what you said? That first time she brought Ben to set?”

Ebon nodded, bringing his drink up to his lips before exhaling. “I said they were acting.”

“Exactly,” Ayo pointed at him. “You said it felt like they were just going through lines. And I didn’t believe you. It had already been like two years, and I didn’t want to admit that you were right.”

Ebon huffed out a laugh, remembering. Joe had never known about any of this. He knew you’d known Ebon from back then—through Ayo, through the events you showed up together—but not like this. Not like Ebon had known this past version of you.

“Yeah,” Ebon said. “Wasn’t anything like this.”

Joe blinked. His pulse picked up again. 

This.

Whatever this was—whatever he meant—he wanted to know. For sure. For certain. He looked between them. “Like what?”

Ayo sighed, dragging her nails lightly against her glass. “I mean…” She took a breath, then a long sip of her drink. “It’s not really my place. But you two—” she nodded at Joe and the now-empty seat beside him. “Man. I’d go to fucking bat for you.”

Joe’s lip twitched, slowly curling into a smile. Was that…her version of approval? Did he just win over the most important person in your life?

“Really?” he asked. Half-skeptical, half hopeful.

Ayo shrugged, a little glint in her eye. “You’re like…fine or whatever.”

Coming from Ayo, that was basically the highest compliment he could get. 

Joe let out a quiet snort, some of the tightness in his chest loosening, even if it didn’t fully let go until you got back. “You’re alright too, I guess,” he said, lifting his glass for another sip. “Don’t know why I was so nervous.” “Oh, no, man—you were right to be nervous,” Ebon grinned, laughing as he put his hand on Ayo’s shoulder and shook her.

“I'm not that bad,” Ayo laughed, feigning offense and swatting Ebon’s hand away. 

And for a second, it was easy again. The tension dipped, and the mood lightened. And then the door opened. The laughter didn’t stop…but Joe’s did.

A group of guys strolled in—laughing, loud, and confident, like they owned the night. Each one looked like they were crafted in a lab, like they had been in the industry for a while. He recognized a couple of them and had even run into them at events before. Back then, there was always something about them that Joe never bothered to waste his time learning their names. And back then, Joe was still a little new to the industry, so they never really bothered either.

The blonde one was pointing toward the door just as it swung shut behind him, saying something over his shoulder.

“The one with curly bob is Marcus,” Ayo said, tone flat. “Fucking asshole. For the record, I was always vocal about my hate toward Marcus.”

Of course these were Ben’s friends.

Everything about your relationship with Ben looked picture-perfect. From the outside, it probably was. Charming guy with the big friend group, and the big gestures, and the big plans. The guy who had America’s Sweetheart on his arm and never let anyone forget. The guy who took your accolades and accomplishments as his own. 

Joe clocked Marcus instantly. The quiet one, hovering just behind the louder ones. He didn’t seem shy; he just seemed a bit calculated. The kind of guy who didn’t have to speak to control the room. If this was the older brother—the original blueprint—the one who moved through the world like he’d already won something, no wonder Ben was such a golden retriever.

Joe’s jaw ticked as his eyes darted back to the door. You were still outside. Still talking to your ex. And probably about Marcus now, too, who most likely already said something patronizing, something wrapped in a smile with a hand on your shoulder.

Joe reached for his drink, fingers tightening around the glass. What were you talking about? Was Ben having to comfort you now? Or were you comforting him again, picking up the pieces, or reassuring him that he was better than his older brother?

He hated how fast his mind could turn on him. How easily it painted pictures that he didn’t want to see; Ben’s hand on your waist, your smile when you saw him, and that fucking jacket moment.

He drummed his fingers against his glass. He couldn’t even blame you—and that was the worst part. Ben didn't actually seem like a bad guy. He seemed like a nice guy. The kind of man every mother adores. He was thoughtful, and familiar, and safe.

Joe pressed his lips together. Sure, Ben could work on his friends, but still—he hated that the two of you had history. Hated that it wasn’t even his place to hate it.

You weren’t a possession. He knew that. But god, he didn’t want to just be a prequel to your actual love story. He didn’t want to be a footnote. He wanted to be it.

The glass tilted in his hand as he finished what was left, the alcohol burning down his throat without even registering. He flicked his eyes back to the door. 

Still nothing.

Fuck, how long has it been?

“Maybe I should go out there,” Joe said suddenly, mostly to himself, but loud enough that the whole table heard it.

Ayo didn’t even look up. “Don’t.”

Joe glanced at her. “Just to make sure she’s alright.”

“She is alright,” Ayo said gently. “She just doesn’t like letting people down. That doesn’t mean she’s holding onto anything.”

“She’s not with him, man,” Ebon added, his tone calm and steady and exactly what Joe needed to hear. “I know tonight got messy, but you gotta trust her.”

Joe nodded once. If you could call it a nod. And his eyes flicked to the door again. Just in time to see it open. 

You stepped back inside, arms crossed over your chest. You were smiling, and for a split second, he braced for impact again. Braced himself to see Ben’s hand still on your waist, guiding you back like he was the one in control.

But it wasn’t.

Ben’s hands were buried in his coat pockets. His posture relaxed, head tilted slightly toward you as he spoke. Still familiar. Still annoyingly easy. But less…possessive. Less hopeful—maybe.

And then came the hug. Brief. Quick. Polite. A little too formal. Still, Joe tensed until Ben let go.

He turned toward the table and gave Ayo and Ebon a small wave, then turned back to Joe. And just before walking off, tapped the table beside Joe’s glass. “Take care of her, yeah?”

Joe blinked. “Uh…” His mind scrambled to catch up. What was happening? Was this some kind of weird test? Or did you actually tell Ben about the two of you?

Ben already started stepping back.

“Yeah,” Joe said, his voice firmer now. “Of course, mate.”

And he meant it. God, did he fucking mean it. 

You waved goodbye to Ben but didn’t immediately sit back down. You stood there for a second too long, like you didn’t quite know what to do next. You didn’t look at Joe. Didn’t look at Ayo. Didn’t even look at Ebon, who was probably the safest option at this table. You just scanned the pub like you were trying to find something solid to hold onto.

“I uh…” you started, your voice quiet. “I have to pee, so I’ll be right back.”

Joe watched you go, that familiar hollow blooming in his chest again. But it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t jealousy or the insecurity he felt earlier. It was something quieter. Something deeper. It was watching the person you love protect themselves after being hit by something only they could feel—something only they could fully understand.

He didn’t know what happened out there. But he knew it rattled you. And now? Now he just needed to be the one who made you feel safe again.

Ayo and Ebon were both looking at him—brows raised and eyes expectant.

“What?” Joe asked, still a bit dazed from Ben's whiplash.

Ayo nodded her chin in the direction of the bathrooms. “Go.”

---

Thanks for reading! I'm not sure how I want to start part 3 (the readers pov). Should I start it from the top? Should I start it from when they go outside or when Joe meets her in the hallway? Let me know if you have a preference. :)

He hadn’t seen you in nearly a week, despite being on the same press tour, which somehow made missing you even worse. Knowing that if he left a room, you were likely entering it next. Or visa versa. But since you weren’t part of the main cast and you played the Silver Surfer instead, you two had completely opposite schedules. Not only that, you were in between filming for your next movie—so any break you had meant that you were recording lines, memorizing scenes, or doing character work. 

He admired that. 

He loved how much you loved your job. How much you loved doing what you do. 

But fuck…he missed you. 

You two had talked last night, your voices low and tired over the phone. Him curled up beneath a mess of blankets in his London flat, and you stretched out on the bed of your hotel room that the studio provided. He pictured you so clearly last night. One leg out over the sheets, the long t-shirt you packed for sleepwear because it took up less space in your luggage, and the sleepy-time tea beside you that stopped steaming a while ago.

You wanted to see each other. Of course you did. You were only five months into your relationship, though. It wasn’t nearly long enough to go public, but it certainly was deep enough to feel it whenever the other wasn’t around. And the two of you were very much still in the middle of the honeymoon phase. Where every laugh, every glance, every touch, felt like you were on fire. 

But you were both exhausted.

His call times for the junkets had been brutal with 7am starts, harsh lighting, and the unrelenting scrutiny of the cameras and internet. Which had already decided he looked tired. Unwell. Distant. Bored. Rude. Angry. You name it, he’s been getting it. So, like the responsible adults you occasionally pretended to be, you agreed to sleep alone while you were in London. 

But still, he missed you.

Last night, you told him you were taking a break from responsibilities so you could be with Ayo today. She was one of your best friends, and since your role in the film—while incredibly important—was smaller, you weren’t scheduled for anything today. Ayo, meanwhile, was in town filming something else entirely and also had the very rare day off. 

He could picture the two of you now. It sounded like Ayo was outside on Ebon’s call. Were the two of you on a walk? Were you sitting in a park drinking coffee, eating a chocolate croissant that you picked up from a cafe? Either way, Ayo had said she was standing, so he could probably guess whether you were too. 

But that wasn’t really the point. 

He really just wanted to hear your voice again.

“So, Joe,” the host asked, pulling him back into the room. “Who are we calling?”

Joe smiled. Just the mere thought of your name gracing his lips made his chest feel light and unbearably tight. It was ridiculous, really. How something as simple as saying your name could stir that warm tension just lingering beneath his ribs.

How the idea of hinting at your relationship, of pulling back the curtain just a little and letting the world know that there was something more between you two—that you didn’t just work together, but chose each other outside of it—made his pulse quicken. It was risky. But it was also kinda unbelievably thrilling? He wondered what you’d say, what you'd think, when you saw his name on your phone. 

“Well,” he started, dragging out the word. “I was going to call my friend Barry, but now I think I may cheat a little at this game.”

He flashed a sheepish grin toward the host and couldn’t help but laugh, nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he brought his hand up to cover it, rubbing at his lip in a subtle attempt to steady himself. 

Your contact photo lit up his screen—a slightly grainy black and white shot of you two at a pub, taken long after Fantastic Four had wrapped.

It was from that night, though. The night when everything shifted. The night you two finally saw each other after months of hardly any contact. The night when quiet glances turned into longing confessions. The night when you finally admitted how often you thought about him. The night when he finally stopped pretending not to feel the same. 

His thumb hovered over the call button, the image of you two smiling nearly pulled him out of this interview. His arm slung over your shoulder, your face half-buried in his chest from laughing too hard, his face a couple inches above your head laughing at the same joke. He loved this picture almost as much as he loved you. 

And he did love you. 

He just hasn’t said it yet. Part of him felt it was too soon, but every inch of him knew it was the truth. Maybe that's why he wanted to call you.

Ebon burst out laughing, “Oh, of course you are.” And the whole room chuckled along with him.

Joe laughed too, turning his phone down so the cameras wouldn’t catch the photo as he raised his hands in faux protest, his grin never leaving his face. “I happen to know that our very own Shalla-Bal, the very lovely Miss Y/N Y/L//N, is with Ayo now.”

His voice softened just slightly when he said your name. Most wouldn’t notice—but Ebon did.

Ebon let out another laugh, one tinged with the benefit of knowing a little about your relationship. He didn't know much, but he knew some. “Oh, really?” He teased, like any big brother would.

Like Joe said, he knew this would be risky. 

Joe smirked, but didn’t deny it. “Really,” he said with a nod, settling back into his seat like he was trying to play it cool, though he could feel the heat spreading throughout his face as he fiddled with his phone on the desk. “So if Ayo was standing, I think it’s very likely that she may be too.”

The host clapped their hands together, practically bouncing in their chair for somehow scoring an impromptu interview with three of the stars instead of just two. “I am so excited to get the new and improved Silver Surfer on here—let’s go. Are you ready Joe? What do you say, Ebon, sitting or standing?”

Ebon laughed, shaking his head. The two of you were semi-close too—nowhere near his tight bond with Ayo, but you two have known each other for a while. Industry events, mutual friends, long hours on set, it was enough to build an easy solid rapport.

“I think Miss Y/L/N is way too smart for this show,” Ebon said, eyes twinkling with mischief, voice on the edge of knowing. “And if she knows Joe as well as I think she does...I bet she’s sitting. Just to throw him off.”

The room cracked up again, and Joe could really only roll his eyes and laugh, because truthfully, that sounded exactly like something you’d do. Joe chuckled under his breath, his thumb hovering over the call button. He shook his head, half amused, half bracing himself. "She might just kill me for this," he muttered.

And pressed the button. 

The time it took to answer the call was much shorter than it had been for Ayo. Almost like you were expecting it. Which made him unbelievably happy.

You answered the call, and the room was instantly filled with the sound of laughter—yours and Ayo’s tangled together in a kind of warmth that made everyone else smile and laugh too but made him feel like he was taking a breath for the first time all day. 

God, he fucking loved your laugh. 

He didn’t even try to hide the smile that spread across his face. He couldn’t. Not when it hit him all at once that you knew. That you knew he was going to do this. That you picked up before the second ring because you knew he’d call. That you wanted him to call. That you wanted him. It was silly, he knew that. How much he was just jumping at any confirmation that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

But it was all he had.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Quinn,” you said, your voice smooth with just enough playfulness to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

There was a pause as you took a breath, your words barely cutting through Ayo’s laughter in the background. She was full-on howling now, chanting, “We knew it! We knew it!” like she had just won a bet. 

Joe let out a soft, involuntary laugh, head tilting slightly as he imagined the curl of your mouth, the playful glint in your eye. God, he wished he could see you.

“Hello, darling,” he replied, steadying his voice as best he could. “Are we sitting down or standing up?” he asked, his eyes flicking up toward the camera with a raised brow as they all awaited your answer.

He was pretending to be extremely composed, even though his heart was still hammering. Was darling too much? He didn’t mean to say it, but it had just slipped out. He expected you to answer the phone, but he didn’t expect you to answer the phone with “Hello, Mr. Quinn.”

Mr. Quinn. 

Christ. 

The way you said it. That did something to him. Awoken something inside of him that made him want to see you even more. Stirred something feral and aching while he was stuck behind a desk.

Ayo snatched the phone from your hands, taking breaths between laughs. “Listen, you need to understand—we knew you were gonna call next. So we’ve had her sitting, standing, sitting again, standing again for like a full two minutes. She’s dizzy, man.”

“It was quite cruel actually,” you laughed. “Imagine you didn’t call and I did all that work for nothing.”

Joe smiled. He pictured it in his head so clearly, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the image of you doing this in public. He didn’t really like the paparazzi, but he almost hoped someone had caught it. Just for him. Just to see you being you.

“You’re unbelievable,” Joe replied, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Almost breathy in the way he said it. Soft and genuine like he was in awe of you. Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, he added. “I owe you a drink after this don’t I?”

“Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Quinn,” you chuckled, drawing it out and saying it again like you hadn’t already said it once. Like it wasn’t already echoing in his head.

Joe laughed, eyes flicking toward the camera, trying to ground himself. But, honestly, the room had disappeared. It was just you and him. Talking on the phone like you always did. Like the outside world didn’t matter.

He couldn’t pretend to be somebody else with you—he couldn’t pretend to be something else with you.

Everyone could see it on set. The chemistry between you and him. The chemistry that made Johnny Storm and Shalla-Bal feel like something bigger, something real, something that the writers didn’t even fully plan for. It lit up the screen.

And yet…you both denied it. Over and over, you two denied it to everyone. For the longest time, you two were just friends. Coworkers. Nothing more. 

But that was never true.

Not really.

“You know, love,” Joe replied. “Mr. Quinn is dangerously formal for someone who’s seen me eat cold pasta from the fridge at 3am.” 

“You’re just not in on the bit,” Ayo cut in. “Neither is Mr. Moss-Bachrach.”

“Well,” Ebon laughed, “I’d like to know why we’re all being so formal.” He raised a finger in protest, “And Miss Y/L/N, I have to ask—why didn’t you think I’d call you? Am I not on Joe’s level with you? That kinda hurts Y/N. Deeply. I’m scared for life now.”

Joe could hear your grin through the phone. “Come on, Mr. Moss-Bachrach. You call, I answer—no theatrics, that's the level of friendship we have. Deep. Emotional. Grounded. Joe calls, and I gotta act like I’m in a period drama.”

“It’s because he’s British," Ayo chimed in. “Makes everything more Pride and Prejudice.”

“To answer the original question, though, Joe…” his name slipped through your voice on the phone. It hit him, drawing his attention right back to his phone on the desk. Somehow, hearing his name like that, so naturally, so intimately familiar, was better than this Mr. Quinn bit you’d been pulling.

The room had paused, waiting for you to continue. He could feel the silent tension between you and him. No one else seemed to notice. They were all so oblivious that it was two lovers on the phone. Playing a game, toying a line, seeing who could flirt harder without getting caught. Letting words slip out. 

Darling.

Love.

Mr. Quinn.

Tones and inflections that only you two shared with each other. 

“What can you picture me doing?” You asked. A question so casual, so normal in this context, and almost innocent. 

But not to him. 

Not with your voice like that. 

Not when you’ve asked those same six words in a completely different context. He figured you knew exactly what you were doing. And he knew he was in trouble...that he had no shot at winning this game.

Joe’s lips parted slightly, but no answer came out right away. How could he turn it around before you two accidentally let your relationship slip out during this interview? The line was thin and he could feel it tightening beneath him with every word that passed between you two. 

“Before I answer, darling…” he said, his voice steady yet strained like he was trying not to smile. “Is there photographic evidence of your current state of being?”

“My current state of being?” you repeated, laughing. “Yes. Yes, Ayo does, in fact, have the whole thing on video. So proof can absolutely be provided, should anyone accuse me of playing favorites.”

“It’s just—” Ayo grabbed the phone again. “You see after we knew your bet…we made a bet of our own—on what you and Ebon would bet. And there’s a platter of wings on the line. So, the stakes are really high, man.”

Joe narrowed his eyes, leaning in to speak into the microphone. “You’re telling me, that me and Ebon are now part of two bets right now? One we weren’t even aware of?”

“You’re absolutely part of two bets,” Ayo said matter-of-factly. “Welcome to being loved, Joseph.”

That made him pause. 

What would the odds be that you and Ayo were talking about him before Ebon even called? He knew Ayo was one of the first to even know about your relationship. But is she also the first to know that you…love him? 

Do you love him? 

Did Ayo let it slip out or is it just playful banter during a radio game? It was four actors on the phone. Four people trained to spin meaning out of nothing. To control the narrative. To keep secrets. Four people that knew how to work a room and put on a show.

But…what if you did love him?

Ebon was already laughing, dragging Joe out of his thoughts. “I should’ve warned you,” he said, shaking his head. “Betting with Ayo always involves food at some point.”

The interviewer, who had clearly lost the plot somewhere between the first Mr. Quinn and the platter of wings, finally tried to cut back in. “Okay, okay, so to recap—this was supposed to be a simple game of "are they sitting down or standing up”, and now we have wings, wagers, and what sounds like an open invitation to dinner for the entire room, yeah?”

“Sounds about right,” you and Ayo said together.

“Put Americans in London, and we’re bound to end up craving something fried and terrible, while taking over your interview while we’re at it.” You chuckled.

“Americans take over a lot, unfortunately,” Ayo muttered.

“Right on,” The host chuckled. “Well, if we’re all getting wings later…. Mr. Quinn, would you please answer the question.”

Joe smiled. It was ridiculous, really. How, even through the phone, you could command an entire room without even really trying. How just the sound of your voice had pulled him back from the fog he’d been in all morning. 

And it was all because he called you. 

All because it was your voice on the phone. Your laughs. Your words. You.

He cleared his throat, slipping his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them, a small grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I was under the impression that I might catch you off guard. So, if Ayo was standing, I figured you might be standing as well. Did I get that right, darling?”

And then silence. Not just from you and Ayo, but the entire room. There was a sudden weight in the air. Wings were on the line. The shift in his voice hadn’t gone unnoticed—and he was sure, it especially hadn’t gone unnoticed by you.

Then finally, Ebon cleared his throat. “And I knew you were too smart for him,” he said, glancing at Joe with a smirk and leaning back in his chair. “So, I bet you’d be sitting down. Prepping for this exact moment, because that’s the kind of evil genius you are.”

You let out a sharp cackle. “Ebon, you know me so well, don’t you?” 

Joe smiled at the sound. Relief and anticipation twisting in his chest as he waited, holding his breath without realizing it. You took a deep inhale and Joe took one right along with you.

“To answer the question that has gone on for far too long,” You said, drawing it out just enough. “I am, in fact—surprisingly, against all odds—standing up.”

The entire room erupted into cheers. Ebon started clapping. Joe jumped from his chair, fists in the air like he had just won a championship. There was something about being right—really right—that made him feel almost giddy. Because it wasn’t just a guess. It meant he knew you. That even with Ayo and all your tricks, even through the chaos, and the cameras…he knew you. 

“AND–” Ayo cut in, groaning. “I was wrong. So I officially owe Y/N a platter of wings. Which isn’t fair. 'Cause I’m the one who just did a night shoot.”

The room burst into laughter, settling down just enough for the host to lean toward Joe’s phone with a grin. “Alright, Y/N, what kind of wings are we talking?”

“I mean, you can’t go wrong with buffalo,” You said. “Right, Ebon?”

Ebon nodded, holding up a solitary fist. “Damn right, Y/N. That’s my girl.” 

Joe smiled despite himself. That phrase my girl made something flicker in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy—far from it, actually. He knew what Ebon meant. The whole cast had this found-family vibe, and you and Ebon always clicked like some kind of uncle and niece. But still, hearing someone else get to call you that without the tabloids running wild and exploding it into a full investigation on your relationship made something twitch under Joe’s ribs.

He briefly wondered if the two of you should’ve remained friends. If the media and your lives would eventually rip you two away from each other. He wondered what would happen if the two of you never went public about your relationship. Would that save it? Or would it end it? How much are you going to be dragged once his fans find out about it? How much is he going to be dragged because he wasn’t Harry Styles or Will Poulter? 

But for right now, he could hold onto the fact that at least privately, and at least between your friends…you were his. Completely his.

Then Ebon leaned forward, that signature grin spreading across his face. A grin that meant he was about to cause some trouble. “Before we let you and Ayo run loose in London, though, I’ve got one question.”

Joe sat up slightly, eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and suspicion.

“Oh boy,” You and Ayo both laughed through the phone.

“Should I be worried, Joseph?” You asked, teasing.

Joe glanced from the phone over to Ebon, mouth slightly agape, wanting to answer quickly to calm your worry if your teasing tone was simply just a cover.

“Uhhh…not sure. I feel like I should be.” He chuckled dryly. “Are you going to ask to crash their wing night? Because you lost. If anyone gets to go, it’s me. The winner.” He added a bit of sass to make it extremely clear he was joking, but also to potentially redirect anything that could be on Ebon’s agenda.

Ebon snorted. “No. No…though, depending on how she answers, I might have to.”

“Alright, I’m ready.” You said, full of mock bravery.

Joe leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Ebon. He hated how much his heart was skipping over a stupid question. Over you. This wasn’t scripted. None of this was. And when it came to you, the unscripted moments always stayed with him the longest.

He tried to keep it playful on the surface—a laugh in his voice, an eyebrow arch, his fingers resting against his face, but internally he was bracing himself. Sure, it was just banter, but it was a tightrope walk in front of cameras. In front of friends, fans, and the press.

And you were balancing on it with him. One word at a time. One laugh at a time. 

And the truth was…as nervous as he was for this question, he was still very happy that he called you. That he was balancing this with you.

Ebon leaned closer in. “Who do you miss more: me or Joe?”

There was a beat of silence, one just long enough to make it clear you were enjoying dragging this out. “You. Obviously,” you said, laughing like it was the easiest answer in the world.

Joe raised an eyebrow, lips parting in an exaggerated offense before they curled into a smirk. You and Joe knew exactly how to dance that line. How to work the room and reel it back before it gave too much away. 

“Wow,” Joe said, his voice dipped in dry sarcasm—the kind the internet was still struggling to grasp. “I’m wounded, Y/N. Absolutely gutted.”

“I mean, I saw you a couple days ago,” You shot back. “Ebon, I haven’t seen for two weeks, and frankly, that’s the worst thing Marvel has ever done to me.”

Ebon put a hand to his chest. “I mean…everyone heard that right? She misses me. I win. Interview’s over. We can all go home.”

Ayo groaned dramatically over the phone, “Don’t inflate his ego–please? We just got him to chill.”

Joe laughed, shaking his head. “No one’s going home, mate. I’m still processing my heartbreak over here.”

The interviewer, who had clearly been enjoying the chaos, leaned forward with a grin. “Okay, okay—before we spiral into a Marvel custody battle…let’s bring it back just for a second. Y/N, mind if I ask you a question?”

“Is it like Ebon’s?” You laughed, adding jokingly. “Also, I thought I wasn’t on the schedule today?”

The host laughed, “No no it’s actually about the film. There’s been a lot of talk about the chemistry between Johnny Storm and Shalla-Bal. That there’s just this beat that’s lived in whenever the two of your characters are on screen. How did the two of you approach building that sort of dynamic where it’s like—there’s not really anything between these two characters but there’s…something.”

You and Joe both paused. Both of you probably should’ve expected this question but yet neither of you had been fully prepared for it. In fact, the studio granted your wishes on not doing any press together, purely so you wouldn’t have to do this question. 

“Well, you see, I’m in love with Miss Ayo Edebiri right now,” You said, your tone as casual as ever. “So the chemistry you’re seeing is just all of that love…redirected onto Mr. Johnny Storm.”

Ayo snorted. “Oh, shut up!”

Joe smiled into the back of his hand, shaking his head. Amazed at how well you were at working the room and redirected comments so you and Joe could stay grounded. Private. Together. “Right, exactly. So Johnny was just a vessel, really. A glorified love proxy.”

“Exactly,” you laughed. “The bones of a man. The spirit of Ayo. There was talk of giving Johnny Storm an Irish accent just to try to make my job a little easier.”

The host laughed along with the room, then leaned in again, not quite letting either of you off the hook. “Okay, fair enough. But seriously, there’s something really intimate about the way the two of you play those roles. Like, there’s history between these characters that have none. Was that in the script? Or something that came up during rehearsal?”

For a second, no one spoke. The laughter faded, waiting for the two of you to say something, because if there was nothing between you two, it shouldn’t be a hard thing to answer. But the question had hit just close enough to throw you both off. Not even Ebon really knew how to turn this around.

Joe cast a glance at his publicist, who wore an expression he couldn’t fully read. Half bemused, half “I warned you.” And she had. He did bring this on himself.

Joe let out a slow breath through his mouth, then smiled and offered a small shrug. “I think we were lucky,” he said. “Sometimes you meet someone and the rhythm just…works, you know? And we were fortunate because there weren’t any chemistry tests before we were cast, so it was either going to be there or it wasn’t. And for us, it was.”

Joe paused. It was the full truth. It was there for him the second you both walked into the room for the table read. The second you both walked on set wearing the ridiculous motion-capture suit and he was in his costume. It was there in between every moment that you two had together. 

“And from then on,” Joe continued. “It was about trusting it. Letting that connection guide the characters, and just…letting it speak for itself.”

Your voice followed right behind his, soft and warm. “Yeah, exactly. Sometimes things don’t need to be forced or written in. There were moments, especially later in the film—no spoilers—where Shalla-Bal is curious about Johnny. And whether that curiosity is romantic, platonic, or something more existential…it added layers. It gave both characters a depth that wasn’t necessarily in the script but was present in the silence between them. 

Joe listened to you as you spoke. Listened to the way your voice held just enough restraint, but that something in your voice that was similar to his. Like you wanted to say more, but knew that you couldn’t. Or that you both didn’t want to say more. For everyone else in the room, your answers probably sounded extremely stereotypical. The type of actor-y answers that people love. But he heard it. The hesitation. The careful calibration of how much truth you can give.

God, you were so good at this.

Joe felt the words under his ribs again. You were actually his. You were this person that he could be himself around, he could be honest with. You helped to calm him down. You were such a pro in this industry, and he was lucky enough just to get to know you, but now that he actually gets to be with you? It was terrifying, and the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

Maybe it would’ve been easier, though, if there had been a chemistry test. Then you two could’ve just blamed it on the producers and the directors doing their job. But what you two had was real. It was raw. And it was unplanned. 

Joe blinked, realizing the room was still holding its breath as the silence started quickly tipping from thoughtful into awkward.

“Wow,” Ayo cut in, no doubt by what Joe can imagine you silently urging her to say something to break the tension on the other side. “That was so beautiful. Someone write that down and put it in a documentary about acting.”

The room burst out laughing, and Joe finally let out a breath. “Should’ve saved that for the Blu-ray commentary,” he joked. “Do they still do that?”

“Yeah,” you chimed in, “Marvel’s going to kill us for giving that up for free, so we might want to get off the phone before we let any more trade secrets out.”

“Like how The Thing and Shalla-Bal are actually the villains of Avengers: Doomsday?” Ebon joked.

“Sorry, there’s currently a red dot from a sniper about a block away from me, and I’m going through a tunnel and losing service—bye!” You said in a rushed, exaggerated tone before the call ended.

Everyone in the room erupted into fresh laughter at the insanity that was Marvel. 

Joe was still grinning when he looked over at Ebon. “You just got her hunted by Kevin Feige now, I hope you know that.”

Ebon held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you started it. I just wanted wings. Now we’ve leaked a future plotline and Y/N’s dodging snipers in London.”

“I’d watch that movie,” The host interjected, trying to gain any control on this interview that had spun wildly out of control. “And that, folks, is what happens when you try asking a simple question to celebrities: '“'Are you sitting down or standing up?”, Joseph Quinn, Ebon Moss-Bachrach, thank you both for being here. Fantastic Four: First Steps hits theaters around the world July 25th!”

Around him, the room buzzed. Handshakes exchanged, publicists talking to publicists, someone started asking about lighting for the next setup, and Ebon was still grinning, shaking his head as he pushed in his chair.

Joe was desperate to check his phone, knowing without a doubt that there was a message from you on it. Something snarky if he had to guess. Or if it was radio silence, he knew he’d have to call you as soon as they were out of the building. 

“You are a risky son-of-a-bitch you know that?” Ebon laughed, grabbing Joe by the shoulders as they made their way out. “She’s gonna eat you alive for that.”

Joe let out a long breath, half a groan, half a laugh. “Yeah… that did not go how I pictured it.”

But honestly? He wouldn’t change a thing. The whole chaotic mess was so perfectly you, and that made it one of his favorite interviews he’d ever done.

As soon as they turned the corner and ducked out of sight from the cameras, Joe pulled his phone out from his pocket, which had been burning a hole in there for the entire time.

Two New Messages

Y/N:

I’m never answering a call from you during press week ever again.  You’re lucky I think you’re cute.

Joe couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth, wider than anything the cameras caught during the interview. One that made his chest warm and his stomach knot all at once. He typed back quickly, thumb moving before his brain fully caught up.

Joe:

So dramatic.  You thrived in that interview and you know it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then came back. 

Y/N:

Are you gonna admit I saved your ass back there?

Joe laughed under his breath, glancing around to make sure no one was watching him look like a lovesick idiot in the hallway while Ebon chatted with the studio’s publicist about the next interview block.

Joe:

You really did. You’re amazing to watch, really.

He paused and then typed out I love you. Not to send it, but just to see it written out. Just to feel it. Then, as quickly as he typed it, he deleted it and watched your typing bubble pop back up.

Y/N:

Yeah, I’m pretty amazing  You are too, you know. You really pulled it back around. I do fully expect to hear a dramatic retelling of all this later tonight, by the way.  In person. 

Joe was still smiling when Ebon nudged him in the ribs, eyebrows raised. “She text you?”

He laughed and tucked the phone back into his back pocket. “Yeah,” Joe said. “Seeing her tonight.”

“So you can flirt in person like a normal person and not during an interview?” Ebon rolled his eyes as he took a swig of his water bottle.