death by a thousand cuts

pairing joe burrow x ex-girlfriend!reader

summary after two years of something that burned too bright to last, joe left baton rouge for the draft and you both pretended that was the end. the late night calls said otherwise… so did the visits… and so did the silence that eventually replaced them both.

now a week on south padre has you trapped under the same roof, and you can already feel yourself slipping again. everyone is taking bets on whether you’ll kill each other or end up in the same bed. smart money’s on both.

meet your spring breakers

─ justin & peyton ─ malik & eliana ─ ja’marr & eva ─ joe & reader

follow along

day one you could have warned me, but then again, so could i day two let’s not ruin this by being honest day three this is how it starts, isn’t it? day four and there you were, like you’d been waiting day five ruin me, i’ll let you day six collide, burn, repeat day seven okay, this is where i leave you

Monday started with a flight that still feels dreamlike days later. Not the cramped commercial kind where you'd be squeezed into a middle seat between strangers, but a private plane Joe chartered. The car ride to the small private airport had been normal enough, his hand warm on your thigh and your favorite playlist filling the empty spaces. But when he pulled into the lot and you saw the sleek jet waiting on the tarmac, something in your chest seized up. You stayed in the car a beat too long after he killed the engine, staring at the pilot clearly waiting near the stairs.

Joe noticed immediately, the way he always does. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through as he leaned in, reminding you that the pilot was paid very well to mind his own business. Joe's hand stayed in yours walking across the tarmac after that, squeezing reassurance into your palm. Even when you climbed those stairs, he kept his body close behind as a silent nudge forward.

The interior of the plane stole whatever breath you'd managed to keep. Leather seats that looked more like those extravagant armchairs with actual legroom, and windows that weren't the tiny portholes you were used to. You spent that flight curled up in the oversized seat watching the clouds turn shades of orange and pink as the sun set somewhere over the Midwest, while Joe worked on his laptop for part of it, glasses perched on his nose in that way that made him look unfairly attractive.

Somewhere over the mountains, lulled by the engine's hum and him, you dozed off. By the time you woke, the sky outside had gone deep purple and he was looking at you with this soft expression that made your stomach flip.

Landing, you immediately noticed the sleek Porsche waiting under the silver airport lights, no doubt for the two of you. Your head shot over to Joe only to see him striding quicker at the sight, a grin covering his face, boyish excitement breaking through his usual composure as he ran his hand along the hood with obvious appreciation. Before settling into the driver's seat, he still made sure to open your door first, as always. The drive to the house was quiet in the best way, comfortable silence filled by Joe pointing out landmarks or you gasping at particularly beautiful views. Both of you watched through tinted windows as the landscape changed from sprawling airport to coastal paradise.

Tuesday was even better. Pure, uninterrupted time with each other that felt like a luxury in itself. The pool at the house was infinity style, edge disappearing into the view of the ocean beyond when you looked at it just right, and you spent most of the day there with the sun warming your skin, the water keeping you cool, and Joe looking at you like you were the best thing he'd ever seen. He'd been in the pool first, already waist-deep when you emerged from the house in your bikini, still adjusting the straps shyly. The way his eyes tracked made your skin flush warmer than the California heat could account for.

Slipping into the water, you gasped slightly at the temperature, though he took it upon himself to pull you into his embrace. His hands landed on your waist and your arms draped over his shoulders while the water lapped around you both, creating this cocoon where nothing else existed.

Everything started innocently enough—gentle kisses and playful touches, the little things you've grown addicted to over the past months. But then his mouth moved lower, finding that spot that made you let out the little noises he loved hearing, and suddenly you were pressed against the pool wall with his body flush against yours.

Then, his phone started ringing. Loud and insistent from where it sat on one of the lounge chairs, making you each jolt.

Joe groaned into your shoulder, the sound tickling against your skin. He pressed closer like you alone could make the world disappear, telling you to ignore it. You were more than happy to comply, especially as his hands slid lower, the grip on your hips tightening in a way that made heat pool in your lower stomach.

The ringing stopped as soon as his mouth found yours once again. And then it started again. Same tone, same insistent buzzing that refused to be ignored.

When he looked at you after finally pulling away, you saw the reluctance written all over his face, the apology in his frown and the way his eyes lingered on your mouth. He heaved himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, water trickling off his shoulders and back in rivulets that caught the sunlight. Out of the water, his expression changed as soon as he looked at the screen.

You watched his whole body tense in that shift from content to alert, the way he got during games when something went wrong. He walked further away and into the house, leaving you floating in the pool alone, wondering what or who could make him look like that.

Part of you worried this was the part where reality crept back in and the bubble you'd been existing in finally popped.

The next evening, after a long day together, you stood in the kitchen making a salad while Joe worked on grilled cheeses at the stove. The doors to the deck were open, letting in the sound of waves you still couldn't believe you got to hear in real life. Your knife paused halfway through cutting some peppers as you stared out at the darkening waters.

"I just can't get over how pretty it is. I've never seen the ocean in person before."

Joe went quiet in that way he did sometimes where you couldn't tell if he was thinking or just listening. When you eventually glanced over, he was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Soft, maybe. Fond. It made your chest feel warm.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious with your rambling.

He shook his head, that small smile playing at his lips. "Nothing. Just listening."

"I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?" You laughed lightly, ducking your head as you continued with the peppers.

"No." The firmness in his voice surprised you, and when you looked up, there was seriousness in his eyes. Tender yet unshakeable. "I like hearing you talk about it. I like that you're here."

Not just I like having you here or I'm glad you came, but 'I like that you're here'.

The next morning, this morning, you woke to the feeling of lips pressing along the side of your head. Joe's arm draped over your waist, his front against your back as his thumb traces lazy circles on your hip bone where your shirt has ridden up during the night.

Twilight filters through the thin curtains in soft rays, painting everything in shades of cream, and for a moment you lay there pretending to be asleep so you can savor it. This quiet familiarity. The way he touches you like he has all the time in the world and nothing better to do with it than make sure you know he's there.

"Mmm," you hum, still half asleep and burrowing deeper into the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Early," he murmurs against your temple, voice raspy with sleep in a way that does unfair things to your insides. His lips find your ear, then your shoulder, each kiss more persistent than the last. "Gotta get up."

With your eyes firmly closed, you protest. "Nuh-uh. Gotta sleep."

His laugh is quiet, more a huff than anything, as his fingers splay wide. "C'mon. Got something planned." That makes you crack one eye open, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is a mess, sticking up in about five different directions, and there's a small crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks soft and rumpled, yet so impossibly good.

"Planned?"

"Mhm." He presses another kiss to your shoulder, lingering there this time. His hand moves across your stomach, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs. "Trust me?"

You sigh dramatically, hoping not to show how truly easy it is for him to win you over, because you'd already been giving in anyways. "This better be worth losing sleep over."

"It will be," he promises with a certainty in his voice that makes you trust him wholeheartedly.

Only a couple hours later, you've somehow found yourself standing on a private dock, staring at a sleek Marex boat that looks like it costs more than your entire college tuition. It's got a sunbathing area at the front, plush seating all around, and even a little kitchen decorated with a small dining table. Joe had loaded various items onto it—a cooler that looked heavy, tote bags of what has to be groceries, and some other miscellaneous items.

You're now struggling to keep the amusement down as you watch him turn the key in the ignition for what has to be the third time while the engine makes another unpromising sound.

"Are you positive you know how to drive a boat?"

Joe's head snaps toward you, and despite the annoyance that should be there, he's fighting a smile. "Yes, I know how to drive a boat."

"Because it's not starting."

"I can see that, thank you." He turns the key again, and this time the engine finally turns over, sputtering to life with a rumble that vibrates through the deck beneath your feet. Joe's grin is immediate as his head snaps back. "See? Told you."

"Mmhm," you hum, settling in the seat beside him. The cushions are so pristinely white, it makes you nervous even sitting on them. "Very convincing."

"Have my boating license and everything," he moves to the rope sprawled across the deck. His movements are confident now, practiced, and you watch as he works. Muscular biceps flex from under his sleeves as he tugs the rope, coiling it with surprising precision. "Ty lets me borrow this thing whenever I'm out here. We're good."

"Ty," you repeat, testing the name. "One of your friends?"

"Yeah. Played with him in college." Setting the (now neatly tucked) rope off to the side, he moves back to the wheel, one hand resting on it as he looks back at you. He's got Cartier sunglasses on, but you notice him still squinting through them.

Once you nod, the engine roars louder as he eases the boat away from the dock, and then you're cutting through the water with surprising smoothness. You watch the shoreline grow smaller behind you, houses and cliffs and palm trees shrinking into a postcard version of themselves.

Maybe that's what this week has been, you think as you watch the coastline blur into memory. Not an escape from your real life, but a glimpse of what life could actually be. There's no need to hide here—you're just existing without having to justify it.

"C'mere," he calls over the sound of the engine and wind, and you don't hesitate. Crossing the small distance, he guides you onto his lap, an arm wrapping around your waist to steady you as the boat rocks over a wave. You settle against him, back to his chest, and his hand finds its place on your hip. "Pretty, isn't it?" he asks with his voice close to your ear now, and you hear the smile in it.

You lean back, head tipping to look at him. The sun is turning his hair blonder at the tips, catching in his eyes through the tops of his sunglasses and making them look impossibly blue. Like the water, but warmer. Home, if home was a person.

"It's perfect." His own smile widens and he presses a kiss to your temple, turning his attention back to the water ahead. His hand stays on your hip, thumb brushing back and forth in a rhythm that matches the waves, and you let yourself lean into him fully.

Watching California slip away, it fades until there's nothing around you but ocean and sky and the overwhelming feeling that you could stay in this moment forever. The water deepens from turquoise to sapphire to something almost navy, and you find yourself mesmerized by the way the color shifts with the depth.

Eventually he cuts the engine, and the sudden quiet is almost jarring. All that's left is the lap of water against the hull and the cry of gulls somewhere overhead. The boat rocks gently, finding its rhythm with the waves.

"This good with you?" he's already for the anchor. "Currents not really too strong out here yet." You nod, unable to find words for how good this is. How unreal it feels to be floating in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a Thursday afternoon while the rest of the world grinds through their workday. It has to be past noon by now, the sun high and turning everything it touches into liquid gold. There's not another boat in sight, not even a distant speck on the horizon. Just endless blue in every direction.

Slipping out of your sandals, you sit on the edge of the decking, feet dipping into the water. Behind you, Joe secures the anchor and does some other things that look to be important, but you couldn't be bothered to ask. You watch the way his swim trunks sit on his hips, the old tan lines from practice and new ones from vacation melting into each other across his skin.

You peer down at the water, watching the way the sunlight filters through, turning everything a glowing color near the surface before it darkens into depths you can't see. Part of you wants to be in it, to feel that vastness around you, but another part hesitates. You're in the middle of the ocean. That's not exactly like hopping in a pool.

"Is it okay to get in?" you wonder, looking over as he settles beside you. "Like, is it safe out here?"

Joe follows your gaze to the water, his expression shifting to something more careful. "I mean... it's the ocean, Daisy. 'Nd we're pretty far out."

"But the current's basically nothing, right? Said so yourself."

"Yeah, but—" He pauses, lips thinning into an unimpressed line. "I don't know. Maybe we should just stay on the boat."

"Joe." You bump your shoulder against his. "Come on. Just for a minute? We'll stay close."

He looks at you, then back at the water, weighing it. You can see the protectiveness there, the calculation happening behind his eyes. Finally, he sighs. "Fine. Just for a minute. And we stay right next to the boat. I'm serious."

"Deal," you grin while standing and peeling off your shorts and his oversized Ben-gals shirt you'd thrown on earlier. Your bikini underneath is similar to the one from Tuesday, only black this time, simple triangles that leave very little to the imagination.

You catch him watching, lips parted, and suddenly you're aware of every inch of yourself. "You're staring," you mutter, trying to sound light.

"Can you blame me?" he teases with a grin, taking one lasting look as he folds his sunglasses and sets them to the side. Standing, he pulls his own shirt over his head, revealing the expanse of his chest. You watch the fabric catch on his shoulders, the way his hair gets mussed when he tugs it free.

Joe jumps in first, hitting the water with a splash that sends droplets scattering like crystals in the sunlight. When he surfaces, he's gasping and shaking water from his hair like a dog, and the sight makes you laugh. He treads water, pushing his hair back from his face before looking up at your figure still standing on the boat.

"Change your mind yet?"

There's something hopeful within the question, like maybe he's wishing you'll just say yes and forget the whole thing. Instead, you jump without a second thought, the shock stealing your breath as you plunge under. It's far different from the pool, the salt of it tingling against your eyes and coating your tongue. When you surface, gasping and laughing, Joe's already right there with his hands immediately finding you.

"You were supposed to ease in," he tuts with protective concern written all over his face as he pulls you closer, making sure you're steady.

"Where's the fun in that?" you manage between breaths, still grinning.

He shakes his head but you catch the smile tugging at his lips. "Stay close to me," he instructs, leaving no room for any alternative routes.

And he really, really means it. For the next however long you're in the water, Joe keeps one hand on you at all times—on your waist, your arm, anywhere he can maintain contact. When you float on your back, his hands splay across your lower back. When you tread water, his fingers link with yours. Even when you're just bobbing there, letting the gentle swells rock you, he stays within arm's reach, positioning himself between you and the open ocean like a barrier.

You don't mind. If anything, it makes you feel safe enough to actually enjoy it. You're able to tilt your head back and stare at that impossible blue sky, taste the salt on your lips, feel the vastness of the Pacific holding you up; all while Joe holds you close. At some point you right yourself, and his hands adjust as you do. Draping your arms over his shoulders, you let the water hold you both as you float there together.

"Okay," Joe says eventually, his voice gone soft. "That's probably enough." You nod, already feeling your fingers starting to prune and a little too dizzy. He helps you back to the boat ladder, one hand on your lower back as you climb up, and you're both dripping, leaving wet footprints across the wooden decking.

Joe digs in one of the bags he brought along, pulling a beach towel out and draping it over your shoulders. You hug the fabric tight around you as you watch him pat his damp skin off with another. Next, he spreads a thick blanket across the bow deck where the cushioned sunbathing area sits, the front of the boat offering an unobstructed view of the area surrounding you two. The cooler gets dragged up next, and then he's pulling out multiple containers—sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, cut fruit, vegetables with ranch, a bag of chips, bottles of water so cold they've formed condensation. He sets it all out with more care than necessary, like the presentation matters even though it's just the two of you.

Settling onto the blanket beside him, the sun is already working on drying the salt water into your skin. Sitting cross legged, you both steal grapes from the same container, crunch through carrots, and smile as the other makes an offhanded joke during your lunch he prepared all himself. You don't bother to question any of it too much. All you know is he did this, and he did it for you, and that's more than enough for you.

You're reaching for your water when Joe clears his throat. "So, uh," he starts, then pauses. His fingers find the cap of his own bottle, twisting it back and forth as he's trying to find the right words. "Are yo— I mean, is this," he trails off and you wait, watching him struggle with the words. "Are you having a good time?" he finally gets out. The slight awkwardness in his delivery makes you swoon. "Like, in general? Or today? Both? I just, I wanna make sure you're…"

"Joe," you interrupt, reaching over to still his fidgeting hands with yours. "Yes. This is perfect. You're perfect." He ducks his head, but you catch the way his shoulders relax. "I mean it," you continue, squeezing his fingers. "I don't think I've ever been this happy. And it's not just the house or the ocean or any of this, even though it's all incredible."

He looks up at you then, and there's something in his expression that makes you want to kiss him senseless to let him know that he's it for you. "I just worry sometimes that I'm not—that you're not getting what you need," he admits quietly. "That keeping everything quiet is hurting you."

The words wash over you, shocking you, nearly. Not the words themselves, but the fact that he's the one speaking them. Yes, that was one of the biggest things you struggled with yourself. The fear that came along with it is nearly what ruined the two of you, what almost made this crumble into shambles. He was the one to reassure you though, promise you that it was for the best, and after so many times of pressing that reminder into your own head, it slips from between your lips with ease—just for him this time.

"It's protecting us," you correct. "And out here?" You gesture at the endless ocean surrounding you. "This is what makes it worth it. These moments where it's just us and we don't have to explain anything to anyone."

He nods slowly, seeming to accept that. You wonder for a second if maybe he was testing you, seeing if you were still having doubts yourself. Instead, you change the subject before the moment gets too heavy. "I can't stop thinking about it," you nod out at the water again. "The ocean. It's just, so much bigger than I imagined. And the way it moves, like it's breathing or something. I keep trying to see where it ends but it just keeps going and going."

Joe's quiet for a moment and he's got that thoughtful look on his face.

"You know the ocean covers like seventy-one percent of the Earth's surface?" he offers.

You blink at him. "What?"

"Yeah." He's warming to the topic now, sitting up a little straighter, and you're charmed by this unexpected enthusiasm. "And we've only explored like five percent of it. Maybe less. There's more down there that we haven't seen than we have. Entire mountain ranges, underwater volcanoes, trenches so deep that if you put Everest in them, the peak wouldn't even break the surface."

"How do you know all this?" you ask, eyebrows furrowing with amusement.

He shrugs, a little sheepish. "Dunno. I read a lot during the offseason. Ocean stuff is cool. There's this whole ecosystem around hydrothermal vents in the deep ocean where sunlight never reaches, and the organisms there get their energy from chemicals instead. They think life on Earth might have started there."

"Joseph Lee Burrow," you chide. "Are you a secret ocean nerd?"

"Maybe," he admits, and the tips of his ears go pink. "Is that weird?"

"It's adorable," you tell him, and watch his blush deepen. "Tell me more."

"There's not much more to tell."

"Liar. Come on, what else?"

He considers for a moment, then: "Oh, so most people think the ocean is blue because it reflects the sky, right? But it's actually blue because water absorbs colors in the red part of the light spectrum. So like, if you go deep enough, everything looks blue or green because there's no red light left."

"That's why underwater photos always look so different?"

"Exactly. Unless you bring artificial light." His hand has found its way across the blanket and to your thigh during this explanation, fingers tracing along your sunburnt skin. "Also, the ocean makes its own weather. The heat it absorbs and releases basically drives most of the weather patterns on Earth."

"Had no idea you knew so much about this," you marvel, watching his face as he talks. There's an animation there you don't always get to see, a genuine excitement that makes him look younger, similar to when you saw his initial reaction with the Porsche earlier this week. You like this side of him.

"I like that you love it though," he says quietly. "Like watching you experience things for the first time."

Something in his voice has changed, and when you meet his eyes again, you see the exact moment the conversation shifts. "Joey," you warn, though it comes out teetering on the edge of a silent plea.

"What?" He's all fake innocence, but his eyes have gone as dark as the ocean waters. "'M just sitting here. Talking about the ocean."

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Mhm." His hand slides higher, fingers slipping just barely under the string of your bikini bottoms. "Did you know that ocean water has healing properties? All that salt and minerals. Supposed to be really good for your skin."

"That so?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, struggling to come up with a coherent response when he's pulling this on you.

"Yeah." He leans in closer and you can smell the sunscreen on his skin mixed with salt water. "Anti-inflammatory. Exfoliating. All kinds of benefits."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not," he insists, scooting closer until your knees are touching. "I read it somewhere. Very reputable source."

"And what exactly did this reputable source suggest?"

"Oh, you know. Regular exposure. Making sure you're fully experiencing the benefits." His fingertips press into your hips, the sting of it making your face crinkle. "Being very thorough about it."

Hearing the suggestion evident in his voice, a heat flares inside you. Your conscience pokes through, arguably at the worst time. "We're in the middle of the ocean."

"Exactly." His thumb reaches to trace your bottom lip. "No one around for miles. Just us and all this privacy you were so worried about at the airport."

"I wasn't worried—"

He kisses you, cutting off whatever protest you're about to make. It's slow and deep, tasting like salt and strawberries, his lingering hand tightening its hold in a way that makes heat pool despite the sun already doing its best to set you on fire.

You barely register your own voice as you claim you should finish lunch because Joe’s hands are already there, fingers pressing like he’s anchoring you to the deck rather than considering stopping. The sound of the ocean blends with the rasp in his voice and the heat radiating off his skin; everything feels slow and heavy even though he’s moving with ease. Rising onto his knees, he draws you with him and your body follows without thought, already answering to some magnetic pull. He guides you around until you’re facing the endless blue again—sky and sea indistinguishable, stretching on forever—while his chest comes flush to your back. 

“We should,” his teeth graze over your ear when he finally answers. “Then maybe after,” he continues with a smile in his voice, “we can discuss healing properties in more detail.”

A tremulous laugh leaves you, tipping your head back against his shoulder to give him better access. "You're bad."

"You love it," he says with certainty, and it’s true. You feel it in the way your pulse trips under your skin, in the way your thighs already press together for relief. His mouth follows the curve of your neck, trailing sun‑warmed kisses while an arm winds across your middle and spreads wide against your stomach, holding you upright even as the boat rocks lazily beneath you. The other drifts higher, brushing the edge of your top until you tense, his thumb teasing that thin triangle of fabric as if it’s the last barrier between you and the inevitable. 

Diving in deeper with no regret, he kneads the flesh underneath softly at first, then more firmly until your breath hitches and your nipple peaks against the fabric. He moves behind you too, his hips shifting until the hard line of his arousal presses unmistakably against the curve of your ass. You shudder at the contact, at the idea that he’s more than likely holding himself back. 

His hand leaves your breast and drifts lower, sliding across your belly and under the waistband of your bottoms with an unhurried intent. You inhale sharply while leaning back, opening yourself for him a little more. His fingers find you already slick and waiting for him, and the sound he makes in response is almost more intimate than the touch itself. 

“Jesus,” similar to the last time, his middle finger slips through the mess between your folds, dragging up then back down, only to do it again. He enjoys the tease, playing with something that already belongs to him. “You’re fucking soaked.”

The stretch of his fingers is smooth though it still catches you off guard all the same. An aching fullness that makes your spine curve away from it, a gasp catching in your throat before you can stop it. He slides them in to the last knuckle like he owns the space, like you were made for this. And maybe you were, maybe that’s what all those months of aching glances and half-kept secrets have been leading to. His chest presses tighter to your back, his cock a steady line against your ass that twitches when your cunt flutters helplessly around his fingers.

“Joey,” you don’t even know what you're trying to say, it’s just that his name is the only thing you can remember how to form. You start to turn your head, searching for an answer in his expression, a read, a breath, anything. Though his hand is already there, firm at your jaw, redirecting you back toward the water.

“Nuh-uh.” His voice is tuned lower than before like it’s being dragged out of him against his will. “This’s all you been talking 'bout for days,” he jeers as his breath hits the shell of your ear. “And now you’re bein’ ungrateful?”

There’s no cruelty behind it, but no softness either. Your stomach tightens, everything inside you clenching around the truth of it. His fingers curl, stroking against a spot that makes your thighs shake. The ocean vanishes, the sun disappears, and there’s nothing left in the world but his voice. His hand. The slide of his fingers dragging arousal from your core like he’s gathering his proof. Proof of just how much you want him.

“Here I am,” he moves to hold you steady at your hip as you start to lose your balance. “Middle of the fuckin’ ocean, on a boat, with my fingers stuffin’ this pussy,” he thrusts in again, harder this time. The sounds he's drawing are borderlining humiliation if it were anyone but him, “and you’re tryna complain?”

You don’t even remember what you’d been trying say because all that’s left is what you’re experiencing. The heavy drag of his fingers, the perfect press of his palm as it grinds against your clit, the overwhelming need building and building with no place to go. Your hips twitch against him and the head of his member catches right against the slick mess he’s worked out of you. You arch at the contact, desperate to feel it again, and he exhales like he’s the one being fucked.

Instantly, his fingers push deeper. Slow at first, then faster, fucking you open with his own purpose, searching for something. And when he seems to find it; that spot inside you that makes your legs threaten to truly give out, he doesn’t let up. Head tipping back against his shoulder, eyelids fighting to stay open, the pleasure overtakes whatever feeble hold you still had on coherence.

Every part of you feels flushed and full, and he hasn’t even—god. “You don’t get it,” he rambles. “You really don’t fuckin’ get it.” His hand slides up, palm slipping beneath your ribs to hold you upright, but it’s not just your body he’s steadying, it’s everything else in between. The pressure inside you is unbearable, curled so tight it’s starting to ache, and still he doesn’t stop.

“Think about you all the fuckin’ time,” he admits. “The way you sound. The way you move. The way you feel.” His teeth graze your jaw, not quite lingering like a kiss, but also not searing like a bite. “Can’t get it outta my head.”

Reaching back blindly, your palm skates over his thigh and the flexed muscle beneath it. He jerks, hips pressing forward, and your ass grinds against the thick, damp heat of him again. Even through the fabric, he’s massive, pressed tight between your bodies like it’s hurting him not to sink into you right now.

“Last time,” he grits, “in the car? You were shaking, drippin’ down my hand. Comin’ apart all over me and I still didn’t even touch myself after.” He kisses the edge of your shoulder, this time with teeth catching against the skin. “Laid there all night with you sleeping on me, so hard I couldn’t think straight. Didn’t even breathe too loud cause I didn’t wanna wake you.”

You groan at the memory, at the image of it, and before you can stop yourself, your hand moves further and between your bodies. You find him through the clingy fabric of his swim trunks, pulsing against your palm. His hips jerk into your hand. “You like that, sweetheart?" he wonders out loud. “Like what you do to me?”

His voice sinks even lower, enough that it nearly disappears under the pounding in your ears, lodging itself somewhere way deep where you crave him the most.

“Need you inside me.” You find it hard to imagine a reality where this is where things end again. Where you’re sitting with only his fingers while you have something much more promising pressing insistently against your ass, so close to where you need it. “You feel it, don't you? How bad I need it?”

Joe goes still for half a heartbeat, fingers buried in you but not moving, waiting to make sure he heard you right. Squeezing your hand around his cock, it's only then that his fingers slip from your body with a wet drag that makes you gasp. Before you can even utter his name, he’s twisting you back toward him as he sits down.

Hands sliding up your arms, he guides you to straddle his lap, the smear of your own slick trailing across your body. You don’t even care about the mess or the feeling, too dizzy from the absence of his hand and the memory of him pressed into you. From the hope beating so hard in your chest that this might finally be it.

With your knees on either side of his thighs, sitting over him, he looks up at you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. His fingers hook into the waistband of his swim trunks, knuckles brushing your legs as he tugs at the fabric. “Y’sure about this, Daisy?” 

Nodding before the question fully leaves his mouth, a quivering “yes” catches in your throat as your hands join to help him push the trunks over his thighs. The feel of him against your skin is a brand, every nerve in your body now reaching for him.

Your knees sink into the cushions as you shift upright, needing to see him, and when you do, it’s like every sleepless night, every aching thought and memory you’ve tried to ignore, has been conjured into flesh right in front of you. Thick and flushed, already slick at the tip, resting heavy against his thigh. The sight robs the air from your lungs. Mouth going dry even as it waters, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You never knew you could want something this badly. 

He watches you watch him, something primal and proud flickering behind his irises. “You’re staring,” he rasps, hands squeezing your hips like he wants to leave fingerprints there.

Looking up through your lashes, you feign innocence with a coyness that doesn’t feel like yours at all, borrowed from the version of yourself he’s been teasing out of you for weeks. “Now you know how it feels,” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet and soaking in mischief. “Drives you a little crazy, doesn’t it?”

He groans at that, then laughs, the sound tinged with disbelief and the breath of it breaking against your neck. His hands tug at the damp bows at your hips; one side slips free, then the other, and your bottoms fall away without protest. Forgotten, they join his shorts somewhere behind him. You’re bare now, kneeling over him with nothing between you but the heat radiating off his skin and the open air.

He brushes over your cheek before letting his fingers curl under your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your bottom lip. You part them and he slides two fingers into your mouth. Lips sealing around them, your tongue curling, you taste yourself on his skin. It’s intoxicating. Familiar and new all at once. His pupils darken as you suck them in deeper, and when he pulls them free with a slick pop, his gaze dips to his cock. “Spit,” he says, voice frayed with command. You hesitate just long enough to make his brows lift and his hand hold the base of your neck, tilting your face downward with a pressure that sends a thrill shivering down your spine. “Go on,” he urges.

One hand wraps around the base of him while the other braces yourself on his shoulder. You lean forward, lips parting, and a slow string of spit trails from your tongue, falling onto the head and sliding down the length with already glistening with precum. His stomach jumps beneath your hand.

Breathing mindless profanities, you take your time leaning up, lifting your hips just enough to slide your slick folds over the head of him. Once… then twice, and again. Each pass sets off sparks, your folds swollen and eager, a gliding tease that makes your thighs tremble and your clit throb with the prospect. And then the inevitable happens, the crown of it pushes inside, stretching you so suddenly a sound breaks out of you without warning. It isn’t pain as much as it’s disbelief, the stunning realization that you’re about to take something that may undo you completely.

Joe hisses, hand fisting into you while the other catches behind your thigh. “Don’t do that,” he chastises. “Don’t fucking tease.” But, ignoring him, you continue the same pattern. The tip slips past your entrance before catching on the girth of him, cunt stretching taut around it. Your walls flutter at the intrusion, clenching like it’s already fighting to memorize his shape. “Stop,” he pants. “Quit playin’. Fucking sit.”

He flattens his hand and guides you down until the thick head of him breaches you completely. You cry out as your walls stretch to accommodate him. He’s massive, more than you imagined, more than you think you’ve ever had, and the ache of it is blinding. Each inch feels like it was carved to ruin you. And still, your body opens, adjusting and pulsing at the same time, pulling him deeper.

He watches every second of it, jaw clenched tight like he’s about to lose control any second. “Goddamn,” he blurts. “You feel… fuckin’ tight—shit.” Sinking lower, your hands are clawing into his shoulders, and when your hips finally meet his, it’s like hitting the bottom of something vast. Your breath punches out of your lungs, body not knowing whether to panic or fall apart from the pleasure.

You start slow, lifting your hips an inch, then sinking again, finding a rhythm that lets you breathe. Your cunt flutters with every motion, the stretch as maddening as it is delicious, each drag of him against your inner walls setting off nerves like firecrackers. He groans with every slick roll of your body over his.

For now, he lets you take the lead. One hand strokes your back, the other cups your breast through the damp top, thumb brushing over your nipple. “Look at you,” he says like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Takin’ me so good, baby. Just like that.” You chase after the rhythm with new urgency, feeling yourself grow wetter with every push and pull. His cock presses perfectly against every place inside you that aches, coaxing noises from your mouth like they’re being pulled from your ribs.

Fingers burying into his hair, they tug lightly as your pace builds. He meets your hips with small thrusts of his own now. “This what you wanted, baby?” he asks. “Wanted this cock so bad it made you crazy, huh?”

You gasp, rocking down harder, chasing something you’re close to reaching. “Wanted you,” you affirm. “So bad… couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

His eyes flare, hand slipping up your spine to the knot at the back of your neck. He tugs once and the tie unravels. Your top falls, breasts spilling free into the warm air, nipples hard and sensitive from the friction. His eyes drop and you swear you’ve never seen them, or him, look like this before. Pupils blown and jaw slack like the sight alone has struck him dumb. 

“Tell me more.” Bending, his mouth closes over one nipple with his tongue curling as he sucks you in. His hand cradles the other, thumb circling in soft contrast to the rough edge of his thrusts. The difference unravels you. You falter on his cock, thighs quivering.

Trying your best, your voice still trembles against the wet heat of his mouth. “Think about you all the time,” you manage, breath shaking. “Even when I try not to… wanted this… wanted to feel you—” He sucks harder and your words hitch, hips stuttering.

Shaking his head once, the motion sends a soft puff of air over your skin. His mouth never leaves but his eyes burn into yours like he’s memorizing every word. “Keep talkin’,” he mumbles against the sensitive skin.

“Wanted to see your face when you finally…” your words catch on a moan as his tongue flicks again, “…when you finally fucked me.” Something breaks in him then. He draws a long, lasting suck at your nipple while his hips drive up into you deeper than ever, the heavy ridge of his cock pressing right against the spot that makes your vision blur. 

“Joe…” you choke, the confession torn out of you. “Joe, I’m gonna—” One last pull of his mouth, lips sealing around you like he’s memorizing the taste before he releases you, and in a single motion he flips you onto your back.

Your spine barely hits the towel before he’s inside you again, a single relentless thrust that stretches you open all over, deeper than before, the change in angle letting him reach something he couldn’t before. Your leg is lifted high, thigh pinned to your chest as he pounds into you, muscles in his arms straining with effort, with control that’s rapidly slipping.

Bliss floods through you in a rolling wave, slick and unforgiving, and every time he thrusts back in it’s like he’s wringing more out of you—moans, sobs, high-pitched fragments of his name that don’t even sound like your own voice. And Joe doesn’t slow. If anything, he seems to lose whatever restraint he had left, hips snapping into you with his own rhythm that feels endless, a rhythm that rides out every tremor of your release and builds new ones right behind it. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging down sweat-damp skin, trying to anchor yourself while the boat sways lazily beneath you. The whole world feels tilted, leaving him behind as the only true thing left.

“That’s it,” he bristles, voice a snarl right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me.” The way he says it makes something inside you beg; your hips tilt up, desperate for more, and still, he gives it to you. His pace changes, each thrust angling just a little differently, knocking a helpless cry from you every time. He leans back a fraction, still holding your leg high but his eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to figure where to look first—the rise and fall of your breasts, the flushed marks blooming along your ribs, the slick gleam between your thighs. Sweat beads at his temple, his face held so tight you see the muscles in it jump, and then his gaze catches on your stomach, of all places. He bites his lip hard enough to make it swell.

The hand gripping your thigh slides inward, palm spreading over your belly until his thumb is just above your pelvis, pressing down with careful pressure. “Feel that?” he grits, thumb circling and fingers pressing where you can suddenly feel the blunt head of him inside you. The push makes your vision swim, the sense of him there, impossibly deep, burning behind your navel. “Right here,” he emphasizes with another little push. “You feel that? Right where you wanted it... allll the way inside.” He’s not even talking to you anymore, not really, just spilling words against your skin while his hips buck forward. “Never felt anything as sweet as this pussy.”

You arch into him, a strangled sound clawing from inside you. The slick between you is everywhere now, coating your thighs, sticky and hot, each thrust driving it higher until you’re both drenched. Hand sliding up your own torso like you need something to hold onto, your fingers catch one peaked nipple while rolling it, trying to stay tethered while pleasure keeps cresting. Your other hand clutches his forearm where it pins you down, nails leaving crescent marks in his skin.

Brows drawn and lips parted, with sweat shining across his shoulders, Joe presses harder against your belly like he’s making himself believe it, making himself feel how far inside you he is. “Thought I was doing the right thing,” he muses, almost ashamed. “Thought holding back would keep us safe. Like not fucking you would keep us safe.” His eyes flick up to your face and they’re wild. Glassy and desperate. “But this—you—I never stood a chance.”

Your only answer comes out as a broken moan, body bowing under him as another pulse of pleasure tears through you. It’s too much... It’s everything. Your walls squeeze him tight, a fresh rush of wetness spilling around his cock, and the sound it makes when he drives back in is obscene enough to draw a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“There ya go,” his voice comes undone right alongside his thrusts. “Greedy fuckin’ girl—can’t get enough, can you?” Eyes squeezing shut, his hips grow erratic as his own edge slams into him. Every muscle in his body goes taut, and you can feel him hold it, suspended between restraint and surrender, before it finally breaks. The sound he makes is raw, drug from somewhere he buried deep as he empties into you, hips rolling through the aftershocks like he’s trying to give you every last drop.

The heat of it tips you straight back over. Your breath catches and your spine arches off the deck, a final quick climax tearing through you with a force that steals your breath. Everything spills from you in a rush you can’t control. Your thighs shake violently around him, and still he stays with you, thrusting at a slower pace, murmuring something you can’t make out against your temple.

───

The Porsche hugs the cliffside highway like it was built for this exact stretch of road, engine purring beneath you in a steady thrum you feel in your bones. The world opens up on your right—endless skies bleeding into the sprawl of the city below. The windows are down, both of them, and the wind whips through the car in wild, salt-tinged gusts that taste like that freedom you’ve grown to love out here.

Head resting against the doorframe where the window used to be, half of your face tips into the rush of it all. Eyes closed, you let the late afternoon light paint the inside of your eyelids in shades of amber and rose, warm enough that you can feel it seeping into your cheeks and your neck, also the tops of your shoulders that are probably going to burn later but you can't bring yourself to care.

You're floating. Still floating, maybe. From the boat, from him, from the way he touched you like you were something precious and reverent—entirely his. Your body hums with the aftermath of it all, loose-limbed and languid in a way that makes you feel like you're made of honey, slow and sweet and dripping.

You still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the way he held you through it like he was afraid you'd shatter if he let go. You’re still hearing the way he spoke your name against your temple, over and over, like a song he didn't know all the words to but couldn't stop singing anyway.

The bliss of it settles over you like a second skin, and you let yourself live in it. Drown in it. This moment where nothing else exists.

Gently, his hand finds your thigh with a warmth that cuts through the breeze. His thumb starts tracing idle patterns against your bare skin, the touch so familiar now it feels like muscle memory. It pulls you back from where you were drifting, tethering you to the present, and you turn your head to look at him.

He's already looking at you.

Not at the road like he should be, but at you. His eyes are soft, almost liquid in the sunlight like every wall he keeps up has crumbled and he's not bothering to rebuild them.

Neither of you bother to say anything, suspended in the simple yet devastating moment of this. Turning his head back to the road ahead, his hand tightens around your thigh, just enough where you can feel the pressure of each finger. The corner of his mouth lifts and you feel it then, settling into your ribs with a weight that doesn't feel heavy at all. 

I could love him.

The thought doesn't scare you the way you expected it to. It should, probably. It's too much too fast, too big to fit inside your heart without cracking some ribs. But it doesn't feel like any of that. It sits there like it's been there all along, growing in all the spaces between every time he made you forget why this was supposed to be complicated, every intimate truth born from stolen moments no one else could witness, and most of all, every moment he's looked at you like you're the only thing that matters in a world that demands so much of him.

You could love him.

Maybe you already do.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel for just a second before relaxing again, and you watch the way his mouth works, that telltale tension that means he's feeling something he doesn't know how to say. The thumb on your thigh keeps moving like a monotone countdown to something he doesn’t know how to say. 

He already loves you.

Has for months, maybe longer. Started that first day in the training room when you looked at him like he was just another guy instead of Joe Burrow, and something in him changed. Since you kept surprising him—sharp and unfiltered, completely fearless—making him want to chase after more glimpses of who you really were beneath the version you showed everyone else. Since he realized you weren't just beautiful from across the practice field, but also real in a way that made him want to know every messy, complicated part of you.

It's been sitting there ever since, terrifying in not only its permanence, but also how much it's grown since he's had you up close next to him. He's been carrying it alone, afraid of what it means to want something this much, to give someone the power to wreck him completely if they wanted to.

Maybe that was becoming your favorite thing about him—the way everything fell into place when he was around. Neither of you had to perform or pretend or explain yourselves into exhaustion. You both just knew. When you needed reassurance, he offered it before you had to ask. When he needed you to stop running, you found ways to plant your feet. It wasn't the desperate, grasping kind of understanding that left you feeling drained. It was the kind that made you feel like you could breathe deeper, think clearer, exist more fully in your own skin.

For the first time in weeks, you weren't constantly calculating what you could and couldn't say or do, the relief of that alone was a breath of fresh air.

Yesterday's game had the Bengals playing in Baltimore while you and the rest of the girls went to brunch at a new spot downtown with bottomless mimosas. Everything seemed to settle within that circle too. The chemistry you'd all been working toward for months was finally clicking both in and out of uniform, the sort of comfort that made you remember why you'd wanted to be part of this team in the first place.

Your ankle felt almost a hundred percent for the first time since the injury, no lingering ache when you walked or that painful reminder every time you shifted your weight. Even the rumors about you and Joe died down to being nearly nonexistent, replaced by fresher gossip about someone else's drama that had nothing to do with you.

Then today happened.

The bliss made you forget about the true reality that this week was midterms. And it wasn't like you weren't prepared—you'd been studying more material this past month than ever, working through practice scenarios and review sessions, staying on top of your coursework. Your notes were organized, study schedule mapped out, and you even felt relatively calm about your first exam tomorrow morning.

But what you weren't prepared for were interviews.

This morning, you'd gotten an email from the admissions office of one of your top choice schools. The subject line alone made your heart skip. Staring at your laptop screen for a full minute before opening it, you read through formal language about scheduling and availability that carried this polite enthusiasm which felt both encouraging and terrifying at the same time.

Your first reaction was pure joy. They wanted to interview you. Out of all the applications they received, yours made it to the next round. Someone thought you were worth their time, worth considering for a spot in their program. You texted Joe immediately, a string of barely coherent messages about how you couldn't believe it was actually happening.

But soon enough, your brain caught up to your excitement. When were you supposed to research their program more thoroughly? Practice answering questions about your goals and experience? Figure out what to wear, how to present yourself as someone who belonged in their program? Midterms that felt manageable this morning now seemed impossible when you factored in interview prep on top of everything else.

By the time Joe texted back telling you to come over to celebrate, your excitement curdled into anxiety that sat heavy in your stomach. You'd tried to refuse, claiming you needed to focus on other things now, but Joe wasn't having it.

"One night," he told you over the phone. "You've been working your ass off. Let yourself be proud of it."

That time you didn't push back because, honestly, you didn't want to. It all goes back to the idea that you both know what each other needs, and when they need it.

Sometimes Joe made all the chaos of deadlines and expectations feel conquerable, and other times his presence just dissolved the noise until the world contracted to just the two of you, suspended in a space where nothing else could reach. And right now, with your mind looping worst-case scenarios about the interview and your chest pulled tight with the stress of it all, you needed him.

It isn't long before you find yourself tucked under his arm after eating about half your bodyweight in food. Joe got his chef—yes, he finally admitted to having a chef—to make up a special meal before he got home from practice today, and by the time you arrived, it was all plated at the table and still warm. His arm now hangs over your shoulder and your fingers toy with his hand, using it as a pawn for your nerves. A movie you suggested plays on the screen and your eyes are glued to it, but your mind is stuck in a blank space.

Fingers moving restlessly against his, you're tracing patterns on his palm, tapping against his knuckles, doing anything to keep them busy while your brain starts spinning.

"You're doing it again," Joe says quietly, voice cutting through the ones onscreen.

"Doing what?" You know exactly what he means.

"Disappearing." His thumb brushes across the back of your hand. "Can see you thinking yourself in circles."

You sigh, sinking deeper into his side. "Just can't stop." His fingers close around yours, holding them still in his grip, and the simple pressure helps anchor you to the moment instead of letting your thoughts spiral. The warmth of his palm against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it's enough to pull you back from the edge of wherever your anxiety was trying to take you.

"Right," he says suddenly, reaching for the remote with his free hand. The movie is coming to an end, but not soon enough for either of your sakes. He pauses it, then turns to face you, hand still holding yours. "Come on."

"What?"

Joe smiles at the confusion shadowing your face and tugs your arm lightly. Your body springs up and follows as he leads you out of the room and toward the staircase with uncertainty. You've only been on the second floor of his house once, when he asked you to grab a board game from a room he vaguely described.

This time, he leads you through the upper hallway and past open doorways that reveal new glimpses of his life. A pristine guest bedroom with bedding that looks like it's never been touched. Empty spare rooms. A computer room with unopened Lego sets stacked in the corner.

Everything looks expensive but somehow impersonal like he's let someone else decide how it should look.

At the end of the hall, he flips a light switch and the room illuminates. His bedroom, you realize. The space feels a little more him than the rest of the house; a king-sized bed with rumpled grey sheets, a nightstand cluttered with charging cables and water bottles, clothes draped over a chair in the corner. The walls are mostly bare except for a single framed photo of what looks like his family.

Still holding your hand, he walks through one of two doors and leads you into the bathroom. Decorated with marble everything and a shower that could fit your entire apartment bathroom, it has double vanities stretching along one wall, and in the center of it all, a bathtub that looks more like a small swimming pool. You glance over at Joe, who's suddenly staring off into space like he's second-guessing this whole idea. You squeeze his hand once, drawing his attention back.

"I... I—um," he scratches the back of his head, face scrunching up in a way that's almost endearing. "I remember you saying you like baths to turn your brain off. And I have a bathtub." He gestures around the space as if you haven't already noticed. "But now I'm not sure if this is weird."

A smile finds its way onto your face. He remembered that conversation. He always seems to remember the smallest details. "No," you shake your head. "It's really nice, Joe. But I just don't have any... clothes or anything." You don't want to seem ungrateful—here he is offering you something beyond thoughtful, and you're worried about putting dirty clothes back on after a bath.

Immediately, a sly grin covers his lips and he's the one to shake his head. "Don't have to worry about that," he assures before becoming a little more antsy, swinging your intertwined hands. "Positive though?"

You have your own doubts running through your head. What if this is awkward, what if this leads somewhere you shouldn't go? But it would be nice right now, and the way he's looking at you makes those doubts feel insignificant.

So you nod and Joe springs into action like he's just been waiting for the opportunity to take care of you. He moves around the bathroom with purpose, turning on the faucet and testing the water temperature with his hand, adjusting it until it's just right. The sound of water filling the massive tub echoes off the tiled walls as he reaches into the vanity cabinets.

Pulling out two things, both are Dr. Teal's, one a bottle of bath soap and the other a bag of epsom salt. The water fills quickly, steam beginning to rise from the surface. Joe moves methodically, making sure everything is perfect. Adjusting the temperature again, adding just the right amount of bubbles and salt, even dimming the lights to something softer and more relaxing.

"Towels are here," he grabs out what might be the fluffiest towels you've ever seen and sets them within easy reach. "And..." Pausing, he glances into the bedroom. "I can drop some clothes by the door for when you're done."

"Thank you," you struggle not to fawn over him right now. Joe nods, giving you one last look that's equal parts caring and uncertain before closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Alone in the bathroom, you take a moment to process what just happened all so quickly. The steam is already working its way into your lungs, and you can feel some of the tension leaving your shoulders just from the warm, eucalyptus-scented air. You undress slowly, folding your clothes with more care than usual before setting them on the counter. You tie your hair back with a spare hair tie you're grateful to have around your wrist.

Your fingertips break the surface of the water first, a tentative test of heat that sends a shiver up your arm despite the warmth. The porcelain edge bites cold against your palms as you grip it, lowering yourself in inch by inch. The heat wraps around your ankles first, then your calves, your thighs, climbing your body like liquid silk until it reaches your ribs and forces the air from your lungs in one long, shuddering exhale.

Something inside your chest just... releases. Your shoulders drop so fast you feel dizzy with it, and for a moment you sit there stunned by the absence of tension you'd been carrying like a second skin.

The epsom salt makes the water feel smooth against your skin and the bubbles create a barrier of privacy that makes you feel comfortable, safe even, in the closed room. For the first time all day, your mind goes quiet. Letting your head fall back against the edge of the tub, you close your eyes.

After a few minutes of blissful quiet, footsteps thunk on the other side of the door. They pause like he's thinking about something, then pick up again. The sound of something being lifted, fabric rustling maybe, and then footsteps moving closer to the door before stopping. Another pause, and the soft sound of something being set down.

Your eyebrows pull together as you study the shadows drifting at the bottom of the door, trying to piece together what's happening on the other side.

"Joe?"

The footsteps stop completely.,then a slightly flustered: "Yeah? You okay?"

"Mhm." You shift in the water, bubbles rearranging themselves around you. "What are you doing?"

"Getting your clothes," comes his response through the door, vague enough to make you all the more curious.

You draw your knees up to your chest, bubbles dancing around as you consider your next words. The privacy they provide gives you confidence you didn't know you had. "You can bring them in here."

What follows is complete silence on the other side of the door for what feels like a full minute. Then, the door slowly opens just wide enough for him to slip through sideways. He looks nervous in a way you rarely see him, eyes fixed somewhere above your head with laser precision like he's afraid that looking anywhere else.

He's holding one of his t-shirts—a soft blue one you recognize from countless nights drifting off to sleep against it—and a pair of his sweats that will probably swallow you whole. But it's what you see in your peripheral vision that makes your heart swell. The chair from the corner of his bedroom now sitting just outside the bathroom door.

"I didn't want to set them on the floor," he explains softer than usual, afraid of disturbing the peaceful atmosphere he'd helped create.

Biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, you watch him place the clean clothes carefully on the countertop next to your folded ones. As if his brain is buffering, he stands there for a moment longer than necessary, trying to process where he is and what he's supposed to do next.

When he seems to remember, he turns back around to the door, but something inside you lurches as the thought of him leaving.

"Can you stay?"

The words tumble out before you can catch them, making him freeze with his hand already reaching for the handle. The way he turns back toward you is almost fearful like he's afraid of what he might see in your face, what you might be asking for. When his eyes meet yours, actually meet them instead of looking just past, you see everything he's trying not to assume written across his features.

"I mean, I came over to be with you." Your fingers find each other under the water, twisting together as the nervous energy needs somewhere to go. "So... be with me?"

With his hand still hovering over the doo handle, his eyes read between the lines of what you're asking like there may be a hidden meaning somewhere. "You sure?" he asks quietly, his voice carrying that same uncertainty from earlier when he'd first suggested the bath.

You adjust in the water to face him better, the movement sending ripples across the surface. "I'm sure." He studies your face for another heartbeat, looking for cracks in your certainty, before moving back to the tub.

At first, he stands as if trying to decide the best course of action, ultimately dropping onto the tiled floor in front of the tub. He mirrors your position with his knees drawn up and his hands resting on the porcelain edge. Everything gives way as you watch him get comfortable, sharing the moment with you. He either doesn't care or doesn't think twice about sitting on the hard floor just to be at the same level as you.

The space feels smaller now, but in the best possible way. The steam has created its own little ecosystem, thick and warm and separate from everything else in the world.

Your next breath comes easier than the last one. And the one after that. The knot that's been living between your shoulder blades for hours starts to unravel, thread by thread, until you can't remember what all the fuss was about. All that matters right now is him.

You let your hands surface from the water, bubbles clinging to your fingers like tiny jewels, sliding down your wrists in lazy trails. The air feels cool against your wet skin after the heat of the bath, raising goosebumps along your arms.

Fingers finding his where they rest on the tub's edge, they slot into the spaces between his like they've done it a hundred times before. Water droplets transfer from your skin to his, and you watch as a particularly stubborn bubble works its way down your thumb and onto his knuckle.

He lifts your hand to his face, gazes meeting as he presses his lips to your knuckles. The kiss is just as soft as it is unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to do exactly this. His breath is warm against your skin, and you feel the slight curve of his smile against your fingers.

Little white, fluffy suds dot the tip of his nose as he pulls back. You try to keep your face straight but fail completely, and the laugh that spills out makes him grin wider, which only makes it worse because now he looks ridiculous and sweet, completely unaware.

"You've got a little..." you manage through your giggles, reaching up with your thumb to wipe the bubbles away. He's leaning toward you, drawn by the movement, and your wet fingers find his cheek to hold the side of his face while he meets you halfway.

When his lips touch yours, they taste like something so uniquely him that you've never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. Your second hand comes up out of the water to hold the other side of his face, and you feel him smile against your mouth before the kiss deepens slightly—still gentle, but more intentional.

Everything else melts like it was never there to begin with. The interview anxiety that brought you here, the stress that's been eating you alive all day, even the warm water encasing you—it all fades until there's only this. Joe's hands cupping your face gently. The way he kisses you like you're something precious, something worth savoring. The quiet intimacy of this moment you've created together in the steam with bubbles and faint light painting your space in gold.

WEEK 7 - WEDNESDAY

Ivy’s laugh rings out across the open floor as the two of you and Maliyah stood in a corner. Maliyah was dropping constant comments about Megan being all over Jake from practice squad, again, finding it a little ironic given what happened between you and Joe. Or was it Jacob now? You couldn’t be sure. Their words blurred together, punctuated by exaggerated hand gestures and little bursts of laughter. 

You're doing your best to listen. Really, you are.

But your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the banquet room where Joe stands next to the silent auction tables, dressed in a button-up tucked into tailored slacks, a pristine belt catching the light whenever he moves. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, showing off his lingering summer tan. He looks good. Really good.

Though it's not him specifically who keeps catching your eye.

It's Stephanie, glued to his side since basically the moment she walked in. Her manicured hand lands on his forearm every time she laughs, white nails bright against the dark fabric.

And Joe... Joe's not moving away.

Some months ago, watching girls flatter Joe was just part of being around someone famous. Annoying, but manageable. Now, it feels like watching someone else touch what's yours, and the possessiveness catches you off guard with its intensity. You know what those hands feel like against your skin, know the way he kisses you like you're the only person who matters.

Maybe you're the one in the wrong here. It's not like you two are official—could never be official. The organization made that crystal clear. He has every right to let some pretty girl hang off his arm at the charity banquet, as long as that girl isn't you.

But if he's spending his evenings with you, texting you between classes with inside jokes that make you smile like an idiot, calling you after away games just to “hear your voice”, then what the hell is this? Some sick kind of joke?

The worst part isn't just watching her touch him, it's that you have no right to care. You've been living this double life where you get to have him in private, but the only thing you get to have in public is pretending he means nothing. Tonight, watching Stephanie try to claim that spot while you stand there acting like you don't care, the unfairness of it all eats at you.

Your stomach starts to turn, and suddenly the glass of champagne you're holding for show is making it worse. You wish you hadn't taken a pill before coming, but you thought you were being smart, figuring the heels have a chance of making your ankle ache. A nice buzz right now is what you really need, because then maybe your eyes wouldn't be glued to what feels like watching a car crash in slow motion.

When would he even have time for her when you're at his place most nights? But then again, they work in the same spaces all day. Maybe she's been in all the spaces between your stolen moments, filling gaps you didn't even know existed.

The room suddenly feels too hot, too bright, and too full of people pretending to care about whatever charity this benefits while they're secretly playing their social games. The chandelier lights are harsh against your eyes, made worse by the medication making everything slightly surreal around the edges. You wish you could be one of them instead of the person living a secret double life who has to watch the consequences play out in real time.

"Anyways," Maliyah huffs an exaggerated sigh, cutting through the haze in your mind. "Coach hasn't been happy with her lately, especially since the whole... picture thing."

Your brows furrow and your head tilts. You haven't heard any of this.

Ivy snorts another laugh and you can't help but be envious of her tipsiness. She pulls her glass to her lips again, pausing before drinking. "Yeah, doubt she'll even make it through tryouts next year."

"Who?" you ask, eyes darting between both of them as you try to piece together the puzzle.

Maliyah squints, staring you down. "Knew you weren't listening," she sing-songs. Her eyes are too knowing, and you hope she hasn't noticed where your attention was. "Megan."

So it was her. The last couple weeks during practice she'd seemed quieter, keeping more to her group than usual instead of spreading her particular brand of poison throughout the squad. You'd assumed it was nerves from the season ramping up, or maybe something personal. What you didn't think was that it had anything to do with Coach Williams finally losing patience with her.

"Oh," you nod lightly, eyes drifting back across the room almost against your will. There's a slight look of discomfort on Joe's face. Jaw tighter than usual, smile not quite reaching his eyes—but it doesn't ease the jealousy brewing in your chest.

You're not sure how much more of this you can watch. Everything that made you feel special feels stupid now, watching this go down while you have to pretend not to exist in his life.

"I need some air," you blurt suddenly. "Too many people." Scrunching your face up to sell the excuse, you set your champagne glass on the nearest table with more force than necessary, the crystal ringing mutedly against the white tablecloth.

You push through the crowd toward the exit. Heels click against expensive mosaic tiles as you navigate around couples posing for photos and groups of donors writing checks with too many zeros. The hallway beyond the banquet doors is blessedly quiet, your footsteps echoing off walls lined with expensive art.

Halfway down the corridor toward the main entrance, desperate for cold air and space to breathe and maybe five minutes where you don't have to watch another woman touch the guy you're falling for, you nearly collide with someone coming around the corner.

Solid hands land on your shoulders, steadying you before you crash into what feels like a brick wall of muscle. Looking up, you're met with Dax's calming brown eyes, kind and knowing in a way that makes your throat tighten with unexpected emotion. You haven't seen much of him since team photos, just glimpses in passing, cordial nods in busy hallways.

His mouth curves into a gentle grin. "Where you going, speed racer?" he asks warmly, hands squeezing your shoulders affectionately. "There a fire I need to be worried about?"

Your face burns because why did you have to be so obvious about your escape? Though, there's no judgment in his expression, just genuine concern wrapped with that brotherly sort of tease.

"Just needed some air," you deflect with a shrug, trying to sound casual even despite your voice coming out breathless. "You know how these things can be."

Dax nods knowingly, hands still heavy on your shoulders. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. These charity things can be—" He stops mid-sentence, attention suddenly caught by something over your shoulder. His expression shifts, brightening as his mouth curves into a wider smile. He tilts his head up, looking past you toward the banquet entrance. "Hey brother," he calls out warmly, one hand lifting from your shoulder in a wave.

Your stomach drops, turning to follow his gaze, gut feeling telling you what you'll find before you see it. Over your shoulder Joe appears, walking toward you both with that easy confidence he carries everywhere. Notably alone. No Stephanie hanging off his arm as of right now.

Dax's hands both fall from your shoulders as Joe steps up beside you, close enough it your pulse stutter despite everything. The two men dap each other up while you've gone perfectly still, every muscle locked in place. Inside you're fidgeting, heart hammering against your ribs, fingers twitching at your sides with the urge to either reach for him or run away.

The most contradictory feeling—having him this close when part of you craves his presence like oxygen while another part feels sick at the thought of him right now.

"What's good, man?" Joe asks Dax, but there's something underneath it.

"Just trying to make sure this one doesn't bolt on us," Dax grins, gesturing toward you. "She was about to make a run for it."

"Was not," you protest weakly, though your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

Joe's eyes flick to you, studying your face with that intense focus that makes you feel exposed. You know he can read between your lines. "Everything alright?"

"Just needed some air," you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest in what you hope will calm the buzzing throughout your body.

"Charity events, man," Dax shakes his head with a laugh. "All that schmoozing and shit. Makes you want to hide in the bathroom for an hour."

As if on cue, clicking echoes across the tiles as someone pops out from behind the door next to you. You recognize the brunette as Priscilla, Dax's wife, who you've only met a handful of times.

Her smile is as warm and friendly as you recall, lighting up when she spots the three of you. She falls under Dax's arm, settling herself under his embrace easily. It makes your chest twist all over again because of how easily they're allowed to just be.

Priscilla greets you, then Joe, asking how the season is going for you two. You're able to manage some small talk, although you're itching to get away.

Luckily, it isn't long before the two excuse themselves, everyone wishing each other the luck they need to get through the last half of the night. They head back toward the ballroom, Dax's hand resting protectively on the small of his wife's back, leaving you and Joe standing in the now too-quiet hallway. You turn on your heel and head for the exit with an urgent purpose.

You need air, real air, and space to think without his presence scrambling your thoughts.

But of course, he follows. His footsteps behind you are calmer than your own, more measured but carrying that same persistence. The sounds echo as you push through the heavy glass doors. The building has a walkway that curves around the side where it holds more privacy, away from the valet station and the main entrance where people might see. You follow it without thinking, just needing to get away from the suffocating pretense of everything inside.

You're maybe fifty feet around that corner when a hand catches your arm, spinning you with gentle but insistent pressure. Joe looms over you in the dim lighting from the building's floodlights, face half in shadow but eyes brewing with something that makes your breath catch.

This close, you can pick up on the tight set of his jaw, the way his nostrils flare, all like he's trying to control himself. That fire in his eyes—frustration mixed with something darker, more possessive—sends heat spiraling through you despite every rational reason you have to be angry with him.

"The fuck was that about?" The words come out accusatory in a way that makes your skin prickle.

It sobers you instantly, cutting through the fog. "What was what about?" You jerk your arm free from his grip, taking a step back.

Joe's eyes narrow. "Dax, you running out of there, his hands all on you." His voice cuts like gravel, pitched low so no one could hear if they happened to wander outside.

You can't help but laugh, the sound sharp and incredulous in the night air. "Are you serious right now? That's what you're hung up on? Dax putting his hands on my shoulders when Stephanie's been glued to your side all night?"

Joe's head falls back and he lets out a long breath that might be disappointment or frustration or both. When he looks at you again, there's pleading in his expression. "It wasn't like that."

"It looked exactly like that," you shoot back, voice pitching higher. "Do you know what it's like standing there while I have to watch her—" The word stalls, sour on your tongue. "—lay her hands all over you?"

"You know she doesn't matter to me." The words come out clipped, matter-of-fact like it should be obvious.

"Do I?" The vulnerability in your voice catches you off guard. "Because from where I was standing, you looked perfectly fine letting her hang all over you."

Silence stretches between you, breeze humming with crickets and distant traffic. His chest rises and falls like he's swallowing everything he wants to say and can't. He steps closer, crowding your space until your back brushes a stone pillar.

"You think I wanted her hands on me?" His voice is better controlled now, but there's an edge underneath that makes your pulse jump. "You think I didn't notice you watching? That I wasn't thinking about getting you alone the entire time?"

You want to believe him. God, you want to. But the images of Stephanie's hands on him are burned into your memory. "You didn't stop her," you speak smaller than you meant, a crack in your armor exposed.

Something shifts in his face then. The hard lines around his jaw loosen, the fire in his eyes dims into something that looks dangerously close to regret. He opens his mouth, but voices drift down the walkway, laughter that's coming from neither of you bouncing against the stone walls. His head jerks up, gaze flicking over your shoulder toward the hotel doors.

Instinctively, you shrink into yourself, pulse hammering as the group of people walk the other way, voices carrying drunken conversations. The seconds stretch like hours. You feel his shoulders tense over yours, the held breath between you as loud as it is quiet.

Eventually the voices fade, swallowed by the night. Only then does Joe look back down at you, eyes still blazing but stripped of jealousy and replaced by something steadier.

"You're it," he says quietly, a vow he's forcing you to hear. "I can't say it in there. I can't show it in there. But don't you dare stand here and tell me you don't know what you are to me."

Your breath catches. You should feel reassured, but the jealousy still burns deep, fighting back. "How am I supposed to know? You looked fine letting her touch you."

His nostrils flare once, expression twisting. "You're unbelievable." He shakes his head like he can't believe what he's hearing. "You really think I want anyone else touching me after you? After knowing what it's like to have you?"

The words hit square in the chest, sending heat straight through you despite your anger. This is how he gets you—cutting straight through your defenses with that controlled intensity, making you remember exactly what you mean to each other when no one else is watching.

"Then why—"

"Because I have to." The admission comes out harsh, frustrated. "I can't touch you in there—I can't even look at you too long without risking both our asses. "

The fight drains out of you at the honesty in his voice, the way he's looking at you like you should understand what he can't say outright. That every bit of distance he maintains in public is to protect what you have in private.

"You think this is easy for me?" he continues. "Watching other guys talk to you, touch you, while I have to stand there like it means nothing?"

He's crowding you without actually touching and it's worse this way. Being pulled in by his presence alone, by the weight of words he can't take back once they're spoken out loud. "Dax was just being nice."

"I don't care." He says flatly. "Nice or not, it drove me crazy watching some other guy's hands on you."

You should call him out for the double standard, but standing here caught between his burning stare and the wall at your back, you realize you don't want to. The jealousy and the protectiveness—it mirrors exactly what you felt watching Stephanie with him.

"You're insane," you whisper, but there's nothing callous about it.

"Then what does that make you?" His mouth curves, that familiar control sliding back into place. "Getting this worked up over me standing next to someone who means nothing to me?"

There it is—that way he has of turning everything back on you, making you admit things you didn't mean to reveal. And despite knowing the game, you find yourself falling into the familiar rhythm of it.

"Tell me again how Stephanie matters to me," he presses, voice almost mocking, carrying that edge of certainty that means he already knows he's won. You open your mouth but nothing comes, because he's right, and the slow smile that spreads across his face tells you he knows it.

He watches the realization flicker across yours, savoring the look of it. "That's what I thought."

Your chest rises in shaky bursts, the fight draining out of you and leaving something hotter, more desperate in its wake. You hate how easily he dismantles your anger, how he can strip away every logical argument until you're left with nothing. You hate that you're standing here, pressed against stone, letting him win another round of this game you can never seem to quit.

And most of all, you hate how much you still want him despite everything—maybe because of everything.

The familiar pull starts in your chest, that gravitational force that always brings you back to him no matter how many times you try to resist. You feel it happening again now, the quiet snap of whatever resolve you'd managed to build, and you're already sliding back into his orbit before you can stop yourself.

"C'mere," he guides with a throaty rasp to it. It's not a request in either of your minds, and it undoes the last thread of your resistance.

Your feet move before your brain can catch up, closing the small distance left between you until you're close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you can't remember why you were fighting this in the first place.

When his mouth crashes against yours, it tastes like winning and surrendering all at once. The kiss feels full of everything he's been holding back all night but finally doesn't have to. His hands slide, cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jawline as he tilts your head exactly where he wants it. You melt into him completely, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

He kisses you like he's trying to erase every doubt you had, proving a point with his lips that his words couldn't quite reach. And god help you, it's working.

Every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, it makes the jealousy fade until all that's left is the certainty that this—you and him, hidden away in the shadows—is the only thing that matters.

WEEK 8 - SUNDAY

The metal of Joe’s car is cool against your back, a straight line of cold that slips through your shirt, but all you really register is the heat of him pressing you there. His mouth crashes against yours with desperate hunger and you find yourself arching back, hands flying up to frame his face as he devours you with a ferocity that makes your head spin. The bitter taste of defeat still lingers on his tongue and you can taste the frustration on his lips. His mouth moves against yours with a desperation that feels different tonight in all the right ways.

Fingers digging into your hips with bruising intensity, he holds you against him like he's afraid you might disappear. The security lights cast long, tired shadows across the asphalt, the air smelling faintly of rubber and rain. Everyone else is gone, having abandoned this place hours ago, but you'd both lingered around until you were the only ones left, just so you could leave together. 

That's what this was supposed to be—a simple meetup after everyone was gone, a quiet ride to his place where you'd maybe fall asleep on his couch again like you had a couple times recently. It was still new, waking up to find his arm draped over you and neither of you mentioning it afterward, but it was becoming your new normal. 

This wasn't part of that plan.

But you're not fighting it. How could you when you've spent weeks catching yourself staring at his hands across rooms, imagining if they’d feel the same way they did that one night on his couch? When you've replayed that phone call from Denver over and over, his voice dripping with something you still crave to this day, as you both gave in to something you couldn't take back. 

Especially not when you've woken up from dreams that left you restless and aching, dreams where his mouth was exactly where it is now and his control had finally snapped the way it has tonight.

The months of having just pieces of him—heated moments that ended before they could go further, stolen touches that left you yearning for more—have only made this hunger grow. Sometimes you wonder if it would be easier not knowing what he sounds like when he's losing control, not having the feeling of his cock pressed against you burned into your memory. But then he touches you like this, and you realize having half of him is both torture and salvation, because it means you know exactly what you're craving.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you out there, Daisy." he breathes against your neck. "Even when everything was falling 'part, kept looking for you." He presses closer and your head lulls back.

Tonight's defeat had stripped away every layer of his usual control. You could feel it in the way his hands moved—no longer the calculated, methodical touch you'd grown accustomed to, but something borderline needy. The loss had been brutal. Watching him take hit after hit while everything fell apart around him, and now all that pent-up frustration has to go somewhere.

His mouth finds your neck and you realize this is what happens when Joe Burrow stops caring about consequences. The boundaries he always maintained, the measured way he used to guide every interaction between you, all of it had crumbled along with the fourth quarter. Tonight he wasn't the composed quarterback who weighed every decision, he was just a man who needed to feel something other than the loss, and you were the only thing that could give that to him.

"Needed this," he mouths against your pulse, voice roughened with the effort of holding himself together. "Needed you."

Joe’s hands lock onto your waist, sliding lower until his palms cup the backs of your thighs. He fists the flesh hard enough to make you gasp, dragging you flush against him. Forcing your sex onto the thick ridge straining beneath his sweats, the friction is brutal and immediate, tearing a noise from you before you can stop it.

One hand snaps to your jaw, turning your face as his mouth claims the other side of your throat. His teeth scrape, tongue chasing the sting, and every caress feeling more like staking a claim than true comfort. His grip only tightens when your knees buckle, and with one sharp groan, he breaks from your neck long enough to wrench the back door open. You barely catch your breath before he’s shoving you inside, following behind immediately, his weight driving you back against the seat.

Scrambling to orient yourself, he doesn’t give you the chance before his hands are on you again. He hauls you into his lap until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his hips. The car rocks with the force of it, the smell of leather and lingering sweat thick around you. Joe’s mouth crashes against yours again, more unforgiving this time while his hands drink the shape of you in. One fists in your hair, the other dragging down your back until he’s clutching your ass again, pressing you into his lap.

Groaning at the sound you let out, the vibration of it hums against your lips before he tears away. Already panting, his forehead presses to yours while his hand slides lower, up and under your shirt, fingertips slipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“Do you want this?” the question is sanded down to everything menacing. The car feels smaller with it, windows fogging like the two of you are the only warm thing left in the world.

“Are we even supposed to?” The words are honest and inadequate at once, because even as you say them your hips search for him again, chasing the pressure you can’t pretend you don’t want. 

Joe’s mouth curves humorlessly. “I don’t care what we’re supposed to do.” The mocking bite in his tone makes your stomach twist, heat crawling higher when his hand stills just inside of your shorts. 

You shift instinctively and he throbs against you. The pulse of it makes your thighs tremble, ache between them carnally undeniable. “I care about what you want,” Joe's thumb drags just over the lacy edge of your underwear, so close to where you need him the most. “So tell me.”

The answer sticks in your throat, strangled by the heat coiling in your belly. Every nerve sparks where his thumb drags, grazing the lace but never quite giving in. You rock once more into him, the movement shameless, and it earns you a sharp breath through his teeth. His forehead presses harder to yours, eyes locked like he’ll drag the words straight out of your chest if you don’t give them up yourself. Every inch of him crowds you until there’s nowhere to go but forward.

Nails biting into the fabric, you fist his hoodie in both hands, body answering where your mouth won’t. You grind down harder, rubbing yourself against the hard line between his thighs until he snarls and his grip turns punishing on your hips.

“Say it.” He urges, thumb ghosting along the curve of your hipbone, slipping beneath the lace to trace soft skin, maddeningly close without fully giving what you need. 

The touch makes you jolt, a startled gasp slipping out as you seek after the pleasure he’s still holding back on giving you. “I want it,” you choke out, pressing yourself further into his touch. “Need you. Please, Joe.”

His lips brush yours, curved in something smug, “that’s better.” His voice is grating, dragging down your spine like he’s savoring the way you cracked, storing it away to use against you later. But instead of giving what you’ve begged for, his fingers linger in their same spot, dipping the slightest bit lower only to retreat back again.

It’s the worst kind of tease, cruel in a way that leaves your brows pinched and your breath stumbling. You’d thought he was desperate—thought the loss and the hunger made him reckless—but now it’s clear he likes you best like this, under his hand while he controls exactly how far you get to fall. The car rocks faintly with each of your pointless moves, fogged glass boxing in every whine you can’t hold back.

“Listen to you,” Joe murmurs against your mouth, teeth grazing your lower lip before he bites down sharp enough to sting. His breath hitches like the taste of your pain feeds him, before soothing it with a slow sweep of his tongue like he did earlier. “Falling apart and I’ve barely touched you. You really this worked up for me, Daisy?”

Trying to force yourself further into him, his grip tightens, holding you just hovering over him. His middle finger dips lower, finally grazing your entrance and collecting your slick with a shameless swipe. Thinking that this is finally the moment he gives in, you let out a sigh. But then his hand slides back up again, smearing against your clit without pressure and pulling away entirely. By this point, the heat pooling in your stomach feels like a hole so deep, it could swallow you whole.

“More,” the plea scrapes from your throat, hoarse with need, but he doesn’t give in. If anything, he seems to enjoy it, mouth pressing to your jaw as his fingers make another slow pass. Never giving enough, only proving that this is the game he was truly looking forward to winning.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Wanna hear it. Just needa’ know you’re dripping for me.” His thumb resumes its lazy circles over your hipbone, intentionally far from where your body is burning for him.

“You know I am,” you whisper. One of your hands slips from his hoodie, sliding down to wrap around his wrist. Guiding him lower with trembling insistence, you press his hand back between your thighs where you’ve wanted him all along, and the whole time he lets you. It’s like he was waiting for you to do it yourself. Your head falls, dropping against the solid warmth of his neck as his fingers finally sink in. The stretch steals the air from your lungs, body seizing around him with a noise you can’t hold back.

Joe moans into your hair, his jaw tight as your walls clamp down around his fingers. “Fuck, sweetheart…” His voice cracks as he swallows. “So tight 'nd warm. Been waiting to feel you like this." Fingers working deeper, he stretches you slowly, curling just enough to make your thighs shake on either side of him. His pace is intentional, every thrust a little firmer, every drag a little slower like he’s learning you all over again from the inside out. You bury your face further into his neck, gasping against his skin as the pleasure builds.

Not liking that, Joe's other hand clamps your jaw, tilting your head back up to him. His eyes catch yours immediately, “look at me.”

For a heartbeat you can’t breathe, because this is the thing you’ve imagined a hundred different ways, in a hundred different restless nights. And none of them come close. His fingers are real now; thick, rough pads sliding through your soaking heat in ways you’ve only ever dreamed of. 

Your lashes flutter shut under the weight, but you force them open. You’re terrified that if you slip too far into the haze you’ll wake up alone with nothing to satisfy the heat under your skin like you always do. You need to see him. Memorize the sharp set of his face, the sweat-damp curls sticking to his skull, the way his pupils blow wide as he feels you for the first time. Proof this isn’t a dream.

Just as the coil in your stomach starts to wind tight, his fingers slip out. The loss makes you gasp, hips bucking forward with nothing to meet. He looks half undone himself, chest heaving and lips parted like he’s hanging by a thread. “Need to see you,” he says under his breath, wet fingers lifting to brush over your swollen lips, pressing until they slip inside. “Gonna let me see your pretty little pussy, baby?”

You nod frantically, mouth wrapping around the taste of yourself, shame and heat tying together until they curl altogether in one. He licks his own lips at the sight, pulling his hand free just long enough for both of you to fumble at your shorts. You work them down in clumsy unison, panties tangled with them until the bundle hooks around one ankle, leaving your bottom half bare in his lap.

Joe wastes no time spreading your legs over himself again, palm landing on your sternum and pressing you back until your spine curves against the center console. The angle forces your gaze straight to where his eyes are already locked on your glistening core. You’re feverish and clenching around nothing, juices already coating the insides of your thighs as your heels press into the leather seat. His jaw ticks as he takes you in, the sight alone enough to make his cock twitch under its confinements. 

You’re able to spot the moment an idea begins brewing behind his eyes, tongue running across his teeth as he thinks it through. His eyes meet yours before darting back as if he can’t bear the idea of looking away for too long. Mouth working in circles, his lips part and then he spits. The wet drop lands right on your swollen clit, lazily gliding down your slit. Flinching at the feeling, you find yourself once again chasing for a release you can’t find.

“Fuck,” he growls, watching it drip as his fingers slide back in. With the new angle, they're able to reach deeper, pressing tighter once they curl inside you. You gasp at the new sensation, knees moving to press together until he parts them himself.

He pulls his fingers from you, taking them into his mouth with an obscene sound that makes your stomach twist. “Could live off this,” he sneers as he drags them free from his lips, reaching for you. His grip wraps around your jaw, tugging you forward. Your mind has a short second to realize where he’s going with this next, spitting into your gaping mouth, holding your chin pinned so your jaw stays slack. 

“There you go,” Joe praises, lips curling into a wicked smirk as he watches it roll down the back of your throat. Guiding you down, he presses until you’re laid out, every inch of you spread open for him again. One hand stays heavy on your chest, kneading your tit from over the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb rolling your nipple until it stiffens under his palm. The other dives back down, fingers plunging into your dripping core with relentless force. The combination makes your body bow, a high-pitched sound catching in your throat as your hips jerk up to meet every thrust.

“Look at you,” he chuckles, holding you pinned with one palm while the other works you raw. “Soaked all over me, tits in my hand, pussy still begging like she can’t get ‘nough.” His thumb finds your clit, pressing down as his fingers flex, snapping his wrist over and over until you’re writhing over him. 

The pressure snaps suddenly, your vision blacking out for the briefest of seconds. A cry tears from your throat as your orgasm slams into you. Thighs quivering around his hand, your nails claw at his arm as wave after wave drags you under. Joe doesn’t let up, watching every twitch of your body, every spasm of your cunt with a predator’s focus, smirk deepening as he helps ride you through it.

“Can’t believe you ever doubted it was you, honey,” he taunts. His hand slithers from your chest to your neck, easing you upright even as he keeps working into you. The angle changes, sharper and crueler, and you gasp, a sob escaping because your body’s already reached its limits. Joe’s grip on you loosens, thumb brushing the underside of your jaw as his forehead presses to yours again. His fingers don’t slow but his voice changes, coaxing you just past the edge.

“That’s it,” he breathes, the words sweet against your lips. “Y'can take it.” The heel of his hand drags mean patterns over your clit. “Know it’s a lot, but I’ve got you.”

Your fingers reach for him, body twitching with every thrust, but his gaze steadies you, eyes locked on yours like he’ll carry you through it himself if he has to. His tone softens even further, a glimpse of approval underneath the surface. “So fuckin’ good for me. Just gotta see it again.”

The pleasure builds once more, your body breaking under the contradiction of his ruthless pace and tender words. Your peak tears through you quicker this time, cries muffled against his lips as the last aftershocks shudder out, your walls fluttering weakly around his fingers.

When his fingers finally slip free, dragging arousal from your core, the sudden emptiness makes you hiss at the loss. You collapse, pressing into his shoulder, breath coming fast and uneven as the last bits of ecstasy ripple through you.

It’s only then that you notice the thick weight of him, still straining adamantly against his pants. Your gaze flicks down, heat blooming all over again. “Joe…” you murmur, his name breaking on your lips as your hand lifts, tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He shakes his head immediately, throat tight as he swallows. “Not worried about that.” You can’t help but wonder if he’s having to convince himself of the words as much as you. Part of you wants to push for more, but the other knows he has his reasons for not going there yet. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb sweeping across your flushed skin before he leans in, kissing you leisurely, the heat from minutes ago cooling into something softer.

When he pulls back, his breath mingles with yours. “You wanna sleep over at my place tonight?” he asks, the rough edge in his voice smoothed out, leaving just him in his entirety.

Your lips part on a shaky laugh, relief threading through the exhaustion in your chest. “Yeah,” you mumble, nodding as your fingers curl tighter in his hair. “Yeah, I do.”

WEEK 9 - SATURDAY

You’ve been keeping track without meaning to: five nights at Joe’s this week, two at your own, and somehow that ratio doesn’t feel strange to you anymore.

The thought crosses your mind as you close your laptop with a satisfying click, turning to shove it back in your backpack sitting beside you on the couch. His living room has become as familiar as your own—maybe even more so considering you know exactly which floorboard likes to creak near the kitchen and that the fridge never fully latches shut at first. 

You’ve just finished the last of your assignments for not only this week, but next as well, working ahead so you could have the entirety of your bye week off. It’s worked out nearly perfect for you this year: no labs or in person exams, just a couple papers and review sheets you could knock out early. And now, having it all finally done, the weight that lifts from your shoulders is massive. 

At the beginning of the week you made sure Joe knew your plan so that he wouldn’t be a distraction. Ever the gentleman, he obliged and was there to motivate you. Even on the nights where all you felt like doing was sinking into his bed while continuing working your way through the Star Wars trilogy, he reminded you just how determined you were to have the week free. Though, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do with all that time. Probably catch up on sleep. Maybe see your family for once. 

The zipper on your bag slides shut and you catch Joe’s head perking up out of the corner of your eye. He’s been busy on his own laptop, reviewing some last minute things before his game tomorrow against the Vikings. As you look over, he’s got the beginnings of a smile curling at his lips. 

“All finished?” he asks, tone wary as if he doesn’t want to show too much excitement just yet. But when you shoot your own grin back with a nod, his smile gleams. “There ya go. Good job.” His right hand shoots out, squeezing your leg in recognition, and the gesture sends butterflies swarming through your chest. The full weight of his affection never fails to make you feel smitten, even over something so mundane. 

“Thanks,” you say, heat creeping into your cheeks. Stretching your arms above your head until something in your shoulders cracks, you let out a satisfied sigh. “So ready to do absolutely nothing for a week.” 

Sinking into the corner of the couch, you turn your body to face him better. That’s when you notice how his smile flickers, then fades completely. “Right, right.” He busies himself with his laptop again, fingers suddenly moving across the keyboard with a renewed intensity. 

He’s distracting himself, you realize. The sudden shift throws you off completely—he was just excited for you, celebrating, and now it feels like he’s building a wall between you brick by brick. You gulp, shrinking into yourself as you try to press the words into your head again, the ones you’ve been repeating like a mantra lately.

He cares about you.

He wants you.

He chooses you.

“What are you planning for bye week?” The words push past the lump forming in your throat. You force them out before you can spiral, finding yourself stuck in that deep hole of self-doubt you’ve been trying so hard to climb out of. Joe has reassured you more times than necessary—there’s no point in looking too far into something that doesn’t exist. 

But asa his hands freeze on the keyboard, eyes glossing over like he’s somewhere else entirely, that familiar worry fogs over you like a dark cloud rolling in. He shrugs, one hand coming up to the back of his neck in a telltale gesture that means he’s uncomfortable. “Dunno,” he purses his lips while refusing to look over. “Usually rent a house somewhere, get away for a while.” 

You can’t recall the last time he was this dismissive with you. Not seriously, at least. Your chest tightens. “Where?”

“Booked it before the season even started,” he prefaces and you watch as he shuts his laptop, placing it on the coffee table in front of him. Even as he settles back into his spot on the couch, he faces forward instead of you. “California.”

Oh.

At worst, you were thinking maybe a couple hours away. One of those Hocking Hills luxury cabins you and your friends thought about renting last summer, maybe a house on the lake. Somewhere where the distance wouldn’t feel immeasurable. But you’d forgotten, just for a moment, who Joe really is. Sure, a simple man at his core, humble in ways many others wouldn’t be. But he also has money and access to luxuries you can't even dream of, certainly not ones you can find in Ohio of all places. With those resources at his fingertips, who wouldn't take advantage?

“That sounds nice,” you mutter dully. You can hear the disappointment in your own voice even as you try to hide it. 

“Yeah,” Joe sounds about as enthusiastic as you feel. There’s a pause, heavy and awkward, before he turns his head and catches your eyes. “What about you?” 

Your answer feels insignificant now, almost embarrassing in comparison to his. You spent the whole week working your ass off so you could what… sleep? Watch TV? The contrast between his plans and yours has never felt more stark.

“Mmmm,” you hum, pretending to think about it even though you already know. Your fingers start fiddling with each other in your lap, a nervous habit you can’t seem to break. “Guess I should visit my family. My mom’s been complaining that the only time she ever sees me anymore is on TV.” A sheepish shame colors you as you say it, the guilt of neglecting your family suddenly weighing on you.

Joe cracks a smile at that but it doesn't reach his eyes. There's sadness lingering there, something resigned, and it makes your heart clench painfully in your chest.

Silence settles between you then, thick and uncomfortable in a way that feels completely foreign in this space. His living room, where you've learned every quirk and imperfection, where you've spent more nights than you can count, suddenly feels cavernous. You're both sitting on the same couch, close enough you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to, but there might as well be miles between you. The realization creeps in slowly, then all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs—you won't see him for an entire week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

It shouldn't matter this much, you've gone longer without seeing people you care about, people you love. But sitting here, watching him stare at nothing in particular, you can feel the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

You've gotten used to this. To him. The way his presence has woven itself into your daily routine so seamlessly that you didn't notice it happening until now, when you're about to lose it for a week. You've gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of his breathing, stealing his clothes and finding them in your laundry, the way he always makes sure there's coffee ready when you wake up on the nights you stay over, even though he doesn't drink it himself. You’ve gotten used to being wanted, chosen, and being someone's priority. The thought of losing that, even for a week, feels sickening.

For now you need something, anything, to break the tension before it swallows you both whole. Your eyes land on the sideboard sitting on the wall closest to you. You’ve walked past the piece of furniture dozens of times, noticing but never really asking about the multiple records displayed within.

Now feels like as good a time as any to change that. 

“You collect vinyls?” pushing yourself from the couch, your voice sounds forced but Joe doesn't call you on it. You're grateful for that, at least.

“Yeah,” he replies from behind. You hear him shift, cotton fabric of his clothes rustling against the chenille of the couch. “Started in high school when I got my first record player for Christmas one year. Haven’t added much to it lately though.”

Crouching in front of the collection, your fingers trail over the spines with a dedicated sort of focus, taking note of his music taste. Kid Cudi. Tame Impala. Mac Miller. Some Future. Your hand stops on something that doesn't quite fit with the rest—a worn album with Édith Piaf's name, stark and dramatic against the sea surrounding it. It stands out like a sore thumb, this French chanteuse nestled between The Rolling Stones and Tom Petty. You pull it out carefully, turning it over in your hands with curiosity. The comforting, although somewhat sickening, feeling of nostalgia washes over you instantly.

“Oh my god,” glancing back at him over your shoulder, you try for a smile, hopefully something to lighten the mood, to bring you back to where you were before the whole California thing came up. "Édith Piaf is—" 

Joe’s head snaps toward you so fast you swear you hear his own neck crack with the movement. His eyes lock onto yours like you’ve just shared earth-shattering, detrimental news, and you watch as color floods his face. Red creeps from his neck up his face like spilled wine, touching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks away just as quickly, pulling the throw pillow next to him into his lap, tugging at a loose thread.

“What?” you question with the record still in your hands. Your head tilts, trying to place his reaction. 

“Nothing,” he sputters quickly, the word coated in defense. 

“Joey,” having to bite your cheek to hide your smile, you stand slowly. “You just turned the color of a tomato. What’s going on?” 

“I didn’t—” stopping himself, his face sets and he won’t dare to meet your eyes again. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay, now I definitely know something’s up,” with the vinyl still carefully cradled in your hands, you move towards the side of the couch again. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head, him working up the nerve to say what he’s holding back. 

His fingers restlessly drum against the pillow, an anxious rhythm he can’t shake, before he lets a harsh breath out through his nose. The words tumble out all at once like he’s trying to get through them before he loses the courage completely. “I saw you dancing to one of her songs before.” “What?" your eyebrows furrow, a feeling of dread washing over you. "When?”

“I dunno,” he repeats for the second time tonight, groaning as his shoulders bow in. “Your rookie year.” Shrugging then like he’s already spilled it all, he continues, “think you thought you were alone in the studios. It was pretty late.”

The memory surfaces slow at first, hazy around the edges, before it hits you all at once. But not just one memory, multiple.

Staying late in the facility long after you finished practicing with Ivy, long after Megan left by herself, until you were the last one left. The studio was empty and quiet, spare for Édith Piaf’s melodious voice bouncing off the walls. You ran through that choreo over and over until your legs shook and lungs burned, until sweat soaked through your clothes and your reflection in the mirror became a blur.

Your solo. The piece you'd fallen in love with the moment you first heard Piaf's voice, the one that felt like it was written for your body, for the way you moved. You were practicing it when your ACL tore and it haunted you through surgery and physical therapy, all those dark nights when you wondered if you'd ever feel confident in your own body again. You'd been determined to push yourself through and master that dance even when every cell in your body was screaming at you to stop, to choose something easier, something safer. But all you needed was to prove to yourself that you wouldn't fear dancing again, and above all all, you wouldn't let that injury define you.

You kept running it not just until you got it perfect, but until the fear was gone and until you could move through those same steps that had betrayed you once without your heart racing or your knee feeling like it might give out at any second. And if something went wrong while doing that same routine, if your body failed you again, then maybe it was just fate. It'd be your sign that you were never meant to come back from it. But you just had to know. You had to try.

Heat creeps up your neck at the thought of him seeing you like that, fighting your own demons in an empty dance studio. "You were watching me?" It comes out softer than you intend, more curious than accusatory. You're not angry, just surprised. "How many times?"

"I—" Joe's face somehow gets even redder. "A few. I wasn't trying to be creepy, I swear. I was just—I was leaving the training room and I heard the music coming from the studio the first time. And then I..." He trails off, and when he finally drags his eyes up to meet yours, there's something so real there that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You were so determined. You'd run through it, and I could tell you were exhausted, but you'd just start it over again. I didn't understand why that song, why that dance, but I could see how much it mattered to you. And it just—when I thought of that song I thought of you."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest, a skip and a stutter and a flip all at once. The air feels thinner suddenly, harder to pull into your lungs. He saw you. Not just once, but multiple times. Saw you at your most determined, most vulnerable, fighting to reclaim something that had been taken from you, and it only drew him further in? 

"That was years ago."

"I know," his voice makes your throat go tight. He's admitting to something bigger than just buying any stupid album. "I know you probably think I'm crazy, but I couldn't stop thinking about you."

You stare at him then, really look at him, and suddenly you're seeing a completely different version of Joe than the one you thought you knew. The timeline you'd constructed in your head, the one where this all started a few months ago, it's crumbling and reshaping itself into something that stretches back further than you ever imagined.

He's been paying attention all along. He bought a vinyl record that didn't fit with the rest of his collection because it reminded him of a girl dancing alone in an empty studio. The revelation sits heavy in your heart, rewiring everything you thought you knew about how this started, about when this started, about how long you've mattered to him without even knowing it.

The collection of Édith Piaf's best hits sits heavier in your hands now, weighted with the meaning you didn’t know it carried. Something that had seemed so out of place mere minutes ago was never music for him. It was you, for you.

The vinyl seamlessly slips out of its sleeve and onto your fingertips as you step toward the turntable. Lowering the needle, you reach for the skip lever and press two, four, six times—moving past the opening tracks to find the one that's been living in your bones for years. Static fills the space at first, and then the smooth melody fills the room.

Non, rein de rien… Non, je ne regrette rien…

After years of hearing them echo around your mind, the words translate seamlessly: No, nothing at all... No, I regret nothing. The words wash over you, and suddenly you're drowning in it. Old emotions and new ones tangle together in your chest until you can't tell them apart anymore—the fear and the triumph, the pain and the healing, and underneath it all; the strange, overwhelming feeling that Joe saw all of it without you knowing.

A light touch on your hand makes you jump, eyes flying open. You hadn't even realized you'd closed them. Joe's standing beside you now, and you’re not sure when he stood up. His fingers brush against yours, tentative and questioning. A gentle smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. Your hand turns in his, fingers lacing together, and you take one step back, then another. 

Joe's eyebrows raise, confusion flickering across his face, but he follows anyways. You raise your joined hands between you, the other finding his shoulder, and his hovers uncertainly for a moment before settling on your waist.

"I don't—" he starts, but you're already pulling him with you into the rhythm of the song.

He's hesitant at first, unsure and letting you lead him through the space between the couch and the TV. His movements are stiff like he's afraid of stepping on your toes or doing something wrong. But then you squeeze his hand, catching his eye with a playful smile, and it relaxes him. His grip on your waist tightens slightly and suddenly he's matching your steps and anticipating your movements, following your lead like he was born to do it.

"Didn't know you could dance," you tease, and the grin that spreads across his face is almost boyish.

"I can't," he protests, but he's spinning you as he says it, pulling you back in closer than before. "You're just a good teacher."

"Liar," you laugh, and it feels good to laugh and let the heaviness of earlier dissolve into something lighter. "You've been holding out on me."

"Maybe I just needed the right partner." The way he's looking at you, eyes twinkling with adoration, makes your head swim. You let him spin you again, and when you come back to him this time, there's barely any space left between your bodies. The song swells around you, Piaf's voice climbing higher. You're both breathless now, grinning at each other like idiots, and moving together like you've done this a thousand times before. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, steadying and keeping you close. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, tying yourself to him.

The song ends, needle crackling as it moves to the next automatically, but neither of you move. You stay there, swaying slightly even in the silence, while wrapped up in each other. And for the first time since the conversation about the bye week started, since he said the word California and made your stomach drop, that tight feeling in your chest finally loosens, letting go. Joe's voice is the one to break the quiet, barely above a whisper. "Come with me."

Pulling back just enough to look up at him, the vulnerability in his expression steals your breath. "What?"

"To California." His hand tightens on your back like he's afraid you'll pull away. "Come with me."

Your heart stutters, tripping over itself. "Joe—"

"I'm serious." His eyes search yours, blue and earnest and unguarded in a way that makes your chest physically ache. "I don't want to go a week without seeing you. I can't—" He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want to."

"You already booked everything," you point out weakly even as hope flutters dangerously in your chest like something with wings. Even as every part of you is screaming yes, yes, yes so loud you're surprised he can't hear it.

"So?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, tentative but real and so achingly hopeful it makes you want to cry. "There's room. There's always room. Please. Just—come with me."

You should think about this more. Consider what it means, what it says about where this is going, whether you're moving too fast or jumping in too deep. Your family is expecting you and your mom will be disappointed. You haven't been home in months and this was supposed to be your chance to fix that, to be a good daughter for once. All the logical concerns that should be running through your head right now, the responsible adult thoughts that should be pumping the brakes on this. But standing here, swaying to the echo of a song he bought because it reminded him of you, with his eyes looking at you like you're the only thing in the entire world that matters—none of it matters. The distance you've been trying to maintain, the space between wanting him and needing him, has already collapsed. You've already fallen, letting yourself need this, need him, and you're so tired of pretending otherwise.

"Okay," you whisper, and the word feels like jumping off a cliff. Like free fall. Like flying.

Joe's entire face transforms, breaking into a smile so wide and genuine it makes him look younger and lighter at the same time. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You can't help but smile back, grin matching his, splitting your face in half. "I'll come."

He pulls you close again, crushing you against his chest. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and you can feel his heart racing against your cheek. The two of you stand there, breathing each other in, letting the enormity of what you just agreed upon settle over you both.

Last night, Joe had texted you—actually texted, not a DM on Instagram—asking if you'd be interested in coming over to his place after the game. You'd stared at the message long enough to be thankful your read receipts weren't on, enough time to make you want to message Drew and ask her what you were supposed to say, how you should interpret that.

But you'd been shot back down to reality the second you remembered the very predicament at hand.

By acknowledging you didn't want your time with him to be over after that one time, you realized you'd sacrificed half your mental being. It felt worth it though, agreeing to live this double sort of life in exchange for more moments like this. It's the way he's always looking out for you above all else. That's what made you agree to seeing him again.

And what girl wouldn't give up possibly half her sanity in exchange for more nights spent with him? Tall, confident, charismatic Joe.

"Defense was solid tonight," Joe calls from the kitchen. You hear him moving around, probably grabbing water or something to eat, burnt out himself from not only the game, but everything else afterwards. His voice carries that postgame satisfaction, loose and content in just being. "Gave me actual time in the pocket for once."

"Miracle of miracles," you call back, scrolling through your phone without really seeing what's on the screen. The Bengals' Instagram stories pop up next—shots from before the game, during the game, score counts, and after the game celebrations. The very last story is a picture of Joe from his postgame presser, a smile bright on his flushed face. The sprawling letters below share the caption: "that's my qb!" You fight the urge not to scoff a laugh because that was something undoubtedly posted, or at least approved by Stephanie. "Was starting to think you enjoyed getting sacked."

"Very funny." There's the sound of the fridge opening and closing, then ice clinking against metal. "You know what else looked solid tonight?"

Sick of the social media faces and shenanigans for the night, your phone hits the couch cushions face down and you turn to peek over the back of it, trying to catch sight of Joe in the kitchen. "Your ego?"

"You." It's out of thin air he appears in the doorway, water bottle in hand, that insufferable grin already spreading across his face. And despite everything, you can't help the warmth that spreads through you, because of course he'd have something like that ready. "Had me distracted for a minute there."

At work, he's all business, shoulders squared and jaw set like he's constantly bracing for the next hit. But here, while you’re with him at least, it’s like he can finally breathe without worrying about who's watching.

"Just a minute?"

"Okay, maybe longer than a minute." Leaning against the doorframe, he takes a slow sip of water, and the sight of it makes your own mouth feel ten times drier all of a sudden. After the game, the stadium had been all hustle and bustle, the way it always is after the first of the season. Tonight, after a win nonetheless, was no exception. Everyone was rushing to get out of there as soon as possible, making plans for later, while you settled on lingering around well after everyone else left.

"Especially during third quarter. Pretty sure half the stadium was watching you instead of the game."

"Only half?" Suddenly restless under his gaze, you find yourself stretching your legs out as if that’ll draw his attention elsewhere.

Joe presses his lips together, furrowing his eyebrows as his head tilts side to side, mulling the idea around in his head a little longer. You enjoy this—it feels easy with him, natural despite the circumstances of this…despite not even knowing what this is. "At least half. Only one that really mattered was me though."

"If you say so." Exhaling a huff of air, you stand and walk around the couch. "You're a great host," you add sarcastically, eyeing Joe who still leans against the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room, specifically his water bottle.

As if he can read your mind, or rather your eyesight, he straightens up without hesitation, a sheepish look spreading across his face. "Sorry."

You reach out for the water, but your hands are still buzzing from the medication, wrists weaker at the joints, and careful isn't careful enough because the metal is slipping from your fingertips in an instant. There's an awkward fumble of hands, your heart dropping because how embarrassing would that be, but then Joe manages to grab the bottle just in time with a chuckle.

"Strike three, Bambi."

Your cheeks flush harder at the ridiculous nickname, and you struggle to gather yourself as he's handing you the water again. This time, he waits to unwrap his own fingers from around the metal until you've got it tight in your grip. "What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, finally taking a sip of water.

"You've got to be just about the clumsiest person I know," he says with a smile on his face, contradicting every one of his accusatory words. The water tastes perfect, cold and exactly what you needed, but you pause mid-sip to gape at him.

"Me?"

"Yes, you." Joe eyes you up, giving the most serious look he can muster. "Think I've seen you trip yourself up more times than I can count." You roll your eyes, averting them away from his icy gaze, taking another gulp of water. The ice in the bottom rustles as you finish the rest of it. Wordlessly, he takes it back and turns to the kitchen.

"You probably just can't count," you mutter bitterly while following behind. Pausing by the island, you leaning your lower back against it, watching as he fills the water again.

Joe shakes his head and you can hear muffled laughter. "This a challenge?" He eyes you from over his shoulder, amusement flickering underneath his mock seriousness.

"Only if you make it one," shrugging, a smile tugs at your own lips now.

Joe twists the cap back on and sets the bottle aside on the counter next to the fridge before turning fully. Your fingers curl around the lip of the countertop like maybe it'll keep you safe from drowning under the storm brewing within his eyes. The cool blue that was there before now hides under darker shades of steel.

"I'm up for it," he flashes a quick smile, one that slides over him like that mask he wears so well in front of others, and it makes you proud, the way you're able to recognize it. "See how high you can count."

"Higher than you."

"Oh?" Goosebumps rise across your skin, and you're starting to regret going with the shirt with a cut neckline instead of a normal one—your idea of being a little cuter without it showing. The chill of the air conditioning is no help to your current situation, only making you feel smaller, more exposed, under his hovering frame. Your head tilts up to keep an eye on him, wondering what his next move will be, when he surprises you by placing his hands on your waist.

Effortlessly, he lifts you from the solid floor beneath you to the countertop. The marble is cold against your thighs, a shock that makes you gasp softly. This new position puts you almost eye to eye with him, though his height still gives him an unfair advantage. Making room for himself between your legs, he slots his body there like it's where he belongs. His hands slide smoothly from their place on your waist, landing right at your upper thighs.

"Comfortable?" The kitchen lighting catch the carved lines in his face, the way his pupils have blown wide.

"Getting there," your voice wavers slightly. Being this close to him, feeling the heat radiating off his body, having his hands on you like this—it's too much in the best possible way.

"Good." His thumbs trace small circles against your skin through the thin fabric of your shorts. Before you can respond, he's leaning in, one hand moving to cup the back of your neck as his lips find yours. It’s not rushed, more like he’s savoring the right to finally have you this close again, yet the hunger beneath it thrums undeniably.

Just as you start to melt into him, he pulls away, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

"How long?" he asks, voice deeper than before.

You blink, confused and still reeling from the unexpected kiss. "What?"

"Count." The word is barely more than a whisper before his mouth is on yours again.

One.

This time the kiss is deeper, more demanding. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you part for him without thinking, lost in the feel. Your hands find his shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only thing keeping you tethered.

Two.

He tilts your head back, changing the angle, and the kiss becomes hungrier. One of his hands slides up your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through your shirt, while the other tangles in your hair. You try to focus on counting but the numbers slip away like withering smoke.

Three.

Legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in closer, he groans against your mouth. The sound sends heat shooting straight through you, making it impossible to think about anything but the way his body feels pressed against yours, solid and warm and perfect.

Four.

He breaks away from your lips to trail kisses along your jaw, finding a spot makes you gasp. Your grip on his shirt tightens as he works his way down your neck, each press of his lips like a brand against your skin.

Five.

When he pulls back completely, you're both panting. His hair is mussed where your fingers ran through it, lips swollen and eyes lustful. The kitchen feels too small, the air too thick.

"How long?" he asks again, thumb brushing across your bottom lip.

"Five," you manage, voice barely steady. "Five seconds."

He shakes his head, infuriating smirk returning. "That's wrong."

"No, it's not." You try to sound serious, but it comes out breathless instead. "I counted."

"Did you?" Hands still on your thighs, his thumbs draw those maddening circles that make it hard for you to concentrate. "Because I think you lost track."

"I did not lose—"

But he's already moving in again, cutting your protest off as his mouth brushes against yours once more before pulling away. He does it again, and again, leaving you chasing after him each time. "Been thinking about this all night. Having you here, like this."

"During the game?" Your mind stutters, suddenly caught off guard.

"Especially during the game." His fingertips press into you. "Every time I looked over and saw you, made it real hard to concentrate on anything else."

"Sounds like a you problem," you tease, but your voice is breathless, betraying truly how affected you are by his proximity, his touch, his words.

"Is it?" He leans closer again, breath fanning across your cheek. "Because I'm pretty sure you're the one sitting here right now."

You don't have a comeback for that, can't think of anything clever when he's this close and touching you like this. Yes, the medication has everything feeling soft around the edges, but his presence cuts through the haze with startling clarity.

"You came here," he continues, determined. "After I texted you. You could have said no."

"Maybe I should have," though you make no move to pull away.

"But you didn't." His thumb caresses your leg, a simple touch that sends heat spiraling through you. "Why?"

The question hangs between you, demanding honesty you're not sure you're ready to give. But with his hands on you and his eyes searching yours, the truth feels inevitable. This push and pull between the two of you is something you’re coming to better terms with, finding it easier to navigate the right away around each time.

"Because I wanted to see you."

His smile is slow, satisfaction curling around its corners. "There she is."

"There who is?"

"My Bambi girl," he says, that teasing lilt back in his voice. "The one who pretends she doesn't like it but still gets that little crease,” he pauses to bring his hand to your forehead, thumb brushing over the spot between your eyebrows. “Right there every time.

You can't help it, a full smile breaks across your face, the kind that starts small and spreads until you're practically beaming. "Are we gonna do that again?"

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet kitchen. "Mhm, I got allll night," he murmurs, leaning in to close the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like all your new favorite promises and possibilities.

WEEK 2 - THURSDAY

One of the (many) negative aspects of being a part of a national football team: the highs only last a couple days, at best. 

Sunday was perfect—everything you could've hoped for, anything you could've imagined. From the morning, to the game, to what happened at Joe's house after. It felt like something you'd conjured up through your wildest daydreams, a fantasy that was simply only that—only a fantasy.

Staying true to his word, Joe really did have all night. You'd stayed propped up on his kitchen counter for what felt like hours, trading kisses that lingered like victory and bliss. His hands mapped every curve of your face, memorized the way you sighed when he found that spot just below your ear. And he never pushed it further than that. Never tried to peel away your shirt or suggest moving to his bedroom, content to just hold you in the golden light of his kitchen.

That was the only thing that confused you.

Yes, he'd said you had to be careful, that you could be smart about this, but how smart really were the secret meetups? The messages that came through at all hours? The way he looked at you during the game like he was remembering the taste of your mouth?

Around yesterday, you began to wonder if that was his way of justifying this. Maybe it was like the box you were supposed to lock up two weeks ago and throw away, a sort of rationalization that only made sense in your head. Keep it to kissing and it doesn't count as crossing lines. Keep clothes on and it's still professional. Keep it secret and it's not really happening.

Or maybe it was like your injury—which, by the way, isn't looking to be such a stupid justification anymore.

The swelling is nearly nonexistent now, and all you're left with is that bruise from last week, now turning a sickly mix of yellow and green. The remnants of pain are still there, that much is undeniable, but they're quickly soothed and put to rest with the help of another pill. Even now, as you stand in the empty locker room, you're trying to quickly wash down another Tramadol with a sip of electrolytes before the primetime game.

No one else is in here, all too busy on the field before kickoff. Maliyah helped you finish with your hair before you ushered her out, asking her to cover for you so you could "call your mom or something"—some lousy excuse she'd thought better than to call you out for.

The pill sits bitter on your tongue as you fumble with the bottle cap, and you're just managing to swallow it dry when you hear the click and echo of a door slamming shut.

Your heart nearly stops as you shove the prescription bottle under some clothes in your cubby, the plastic hitting metal with a dull thunk that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet space.

"Why're you all alone?"

Whipping around, you come face to face with Joe, fully geared up in his orange uniform. His hair is already damp with sweat from the lingering September heat, dark strands clinging to each other against his forehead. His cheeks carry a red flush you notice immediately, despite having to blink away the hair that's fallen into your eyes from the sudden movement.

"What?" Holding your breath, you wait for things to settle within you so that you're able to act like a normal human again, but your pulse is hammering against your throat. "Why are you here?" It's a reasonable question seeing as this is absolutely the last place Joe needs to be spotted, let alone with you being the only other person in here. One photo, one coach or teammate walking in at the wrong moment, and every so-called “smart” move is all for nothing.

He shrugs, a hand adjusting his chest pad as he steps closer, taking a casual look around like he owns the place. He sort of does, in some way. "Everyone else is outside. Figured I had a few minutes."

"Shouldn't you be outside with everyone else?" you counter, turning back to face your belongings instead of him. Looking at him is only bringing a whole new set of thoughts you can't be having right now to mind; the way his uniform fits, how the pads make his already broad shoulders look impossibly wider, the way the orange brings out the silver in his eyes. "They're probably looking for you." 

Shuffling behind you grows closer—the telltale click of cleats against rubber flooring is enough for you to know he doesn't care about what you have to say. He consumes all your senses, flooding your mind until there's nothing else but him and the space he takes up. You quickly shove the pile of clothes on the shelf into your bag, zipping it closed as if that alone can rid you of the anxious feelings swirling around.

"I can get away for a couple minutes," he presses. When you spin around, you're face to face with him, and it's only now that you realize how much more imposing he looks. His already built two-hundred-some-pound frame is amplified by the protective gear, making him tower over you more than usual.

You can nearly see the adrenaline coursing through his veins, that familiar buzz that comes before stepping onto the field in front of sixty thousand people. It could simply be excitement for tonight's game against the Bills, a matchup that feels like anything could happen. or it could be something else entirely. Something that has to do with finding you alone.

"And you chose to come here," you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. Your own confidence surprises you. Maybe it's the pill settling into your system, maybe it's the fresh makeup and perfectly curled hair framing your face, or maybe it's just him. The way he looks at you like you're the only thing that matters even when he should be focused on the biggest game of the young season.

Joe simply hums in affirmation, taking his time to drink you in. Sure, you two have been around each other before games, crossed paths in hallways and caught glimpses during warm-ups, from sidelines—but never like this. Never this close. 

"You look good in orange," he murmurs, eyes trailing down your figure and back up. "Really good." Your orange two-piece catches the lights the same way his jersey does, the matching colors making you look like you belong together when in reality it's the complete opposite.

“You coming over after the game tonight?” Joe asks after a moment. His tone is measured evenly as if he already knows what your answer is going to be. You wonder why, because the thought hadn’t ever even crossed your mind before he asked.

Although your body perks up at the suggestion, the confusion feels more consuming as you look at him for clarification before you begin assuming things that aren’t true.

"After the game," he repeats, leaning closer until you can smell him, mixed in with the lingering scent of grass and sweat from warm-ups. "Are you coming over?"

It’s tempting to say yes immediately. You wonder if he can smell the desperation rolling off you in waves, because everything to do with him always feels so tempting to you. There’s something in his eyes that you wonder if tonight might be different. Maybe this time he wouldn’t stop at just a kiss.

But then reality comes crashing back in, and you're forced to tear yourself from your imagination. "I can't," you say, the disappointment in your voice mirroring the way you feel—disappointment for being so practical. "I have an exam tomorrow morning. I need to study." By the time you get home, it'll nearly be midnight, and it's just not a good idea.

Joe's eyebrows furrow, reflecting your earlier confusion as if that's the most impractical excuse he's ever heard. "You can study at my place."

The offer is just as tempting as his first, so much so you almost cave. Though in reality, you can't afford a bad grade tomorrow, and you know yourself too well. Not much useful studying would get done with him around, so you shake your head and sigh, "I better not."

Disappointment, maybe frustration, and then understanding screens across his face in waves. He was once a college student too, he knows how it goes. "Okay," his lips thin out into a line. "Next time though, you can come over and study at my place."

Letting out a breath of relief, you're thankful he's not upset with you for turning him down. But it's Joe, Joe who's been nothing but patient and accepting every step of the way, who somehow always knows exactly what to say to make you feel like your choices and opinions matter too.

He leans in closer, pulling you from your thoughts as his voice drops to a whisper that sends goosebumps raising across your bare skin. "But you're looking like this," his words pause, making space for the parts that don't need speaking as he brings his hand to your lower back, tugging you against him, "and telling me I can't have you tonight?" And just like that, you're pulled right back in. Hearing the effect you have on him—a man sought after by thousands, idolized by thousands more—does nothing to calm the thrill running through your own veins. The idea of the power behind it makes you feel bold in an entirely new way.

Until the sound of a door slamming shut cuts you back down to the gravity of your situation. Joe's head is still tucked close to yours, and for a terrifying moment neither of you move.

"Okay," Maliyah's exhausted voice travels through the empty space. "I tried my best, but coach needs you out there." You hear her heels stop abruptly, thankfully nowhere near the two of you, but you only have so long of staying silent before she gets curious and rounds the corner. Joe pulls back and you can see your own panic reflected in his eyes. This is exactly what you were afraid of, exactly the kind of situation that could destroy everything, friend or not.

But instead of backing away, instead of creating distance, he leans in and claims your mouth in a hungry kiss. His hand pushes beneath your skirt, palming over the curve of your ass as his fingers spread possessively to hold you against him. Your hands climb to his neck, clutching at his hair like you could keep him there, lips parting eagerly against his as he makes the world fall away. He answers with a rough bite at your lower lip, then another, before breaking off and stepping back.

Your lungs burn for air as your fingertips ghost across your mouth, the skin still humming from his bite, as you watch him turn toward the second exit—the one that leads to the back halls and tunnel entrance, the one Maliyah won't catch him using.

WEEK 3 - SATURDAY

"Then fuckin' Ja'Marr started going on about some stream sniper?" Joe scoffs on the other end of the line. "Whatever that's supposed to mean."

Hearing him set the phone down, it's followed by the rustle of fabric, likely him getting ready for bed. He'd just gotten off a couple hour flight to Denver for their next game, and had many stories to tell about the restless journey.

​​You got a message right before the plane took off, a picture actually, of him settled in his seat with Ja'Marr sitting in front of him mid-sentence. Right after the photo he told you he was just "setting the scene" for later when he recounted whatever nonsense was being discussed.

And boy, did you hear about the nonsense.

It started with Ja'Marr recounting one of his recent dates while they were on the way to the tarmac, from there traveling into what family drama said date brought up during dinner, which turned into why was someone discussing their familial issues on a first date? That was right when the photo was taken, and you couldn’t help but agree with him on that part. After that, Tee eavesdropped his way in, which Joe thought would be his escape route. Instead, it somehow turned into Joe having to retell Ja'Marr's story because he didn't want to repeat it.

How the conversation spun around to some stream sniper, you're still not entirely sure.

"You sound tired," laughing lightly, you settle deeper into the pillows on your bed. You haven't gotten a chance to see or spend time with him over the past week, sharing only stray text conversations here and there. As much as you hate to admit it, you feel like it's taken a toll on you, not seeing him as often.

It was one of the only promises you'd made to yourself, that you wouldn't grow attached to this, even more him. The logical part of your brain knows that anything further is simply unattainable, and you're determined to keep that in mind from here on out. Just fun, no feelings. But lying here now, listening to his voice and wishing he were closer, that promise feels harder to keep than you'd anticipated.

"I am. Been a long day," he grumbles, his voice getting distant from the speaker like he's walking around.

You pull your phone away from your ear, seeing that it's already nearly eleven o'clock. You're surprised time passed that fast on the call with him. "You should get some sleep."

"I'm trying." He huffs and you can feel the frustration bleeding through his voice. "Just can't... turn my brain off."

You frown to yourself. Of course you know the emotional toll the season stress brings along, but this year it feels more personal to you. The weight of the season that Joe carries on his shoulders seems heavier when you have to hear it in his voice like this.

"What usually helps you relax?" He's louder again—you hear him pick his phone up and the creak of something, either a bed or couch, as he settles.

"I dunno," you try to think quickly. The last time you truly had a moment to relax felt like ages ago. Now, you're so focused on spreading your time between classes, grad school, cheer, and... Joe. You struggle to even recall the last time you saw Drew or called your family, and the thought makes you feel guiltier than you do about the secret you're keeping. You've been so caught up in hiding your whereabouts that you've forgotten about the other half of your life. "Sometimes a bath. Or reading." 

"Were you reading before this?" He's quick to ask, cutting through your spiral of guilt.

"No, just laying here, scrolling through my phone."

"In bed?"

"Yeah..." you reply softly, something in his tone makes you all the more aware of your surroundings. Your sheets suddenly feel feathery against your skin, your apartment too quiet, and bedroom too dark.

His reply comes rushed again, like he's been holding it back this whole time, trying to force it down with other mindless topics but finally can't. "What're you wearing?"

Swallowing tightly, you hold your breath for a second, waiting for him to take back the words. He never does. “Joe…” you sigh, not sure if you’re scolding him or asking him for permission.

“’M turning my brain off,” he says simply. You hear even more rustling from his side, and what sounds like him exhaling in relief. “This okay with you?”

Your eyes flutter shut, caught between your moral high ground and the emotional pull of his voice. You know you should say no, should redirect this conversation back to safer territory. But the truth is you've been thinking about him all week, missing more than just his company, and the distance has only made that ache worse.

"A tank top," you whisper, the words spilling freely. "It's okay."

The pause on the line stretches, and when Joe finally speaks, his tone is different, edged with desperation that makes heat pool in your core. “Bet it’s clinging to you right now. Thin little straps, barely anything between my eyes and your skin.”

Eyes squeezing shut tighter, you try to rid yourself of the images of him—him and you—flashing through your mind like a slideshow. So badly you wish he was here with you and taking the reins. You know you'd do whatever he wanted, whatever he would let happen.

“What else?” he pushes further. You hear the faint slide of fabric again, maybe his shirt coming off, and the thought alone has your thighs pressing together.

“Some shorts,” your fingers brush over the waistband of the thin, skimpy material.

There's a sharp intake of air, the sound enough to make you feel your pulse in places other than your heart. Forcing your hand to your mouth, you hold it there like that alone may will the words away from the back of your tongue. “Wish I could see you in them. Bet they’re barely covering anything right now.”

Body moving before your mind catches up, the same hand is immediately rushing down your stomach until it rests at the waistband again.

“You shouldn’t talk like that."

“Then hang up,” he dares. “But you won’t. You like knowing I’m hard in some hotel bed, thinking about how you look right now. Thinking about what you’d sound like if I touched you.”

You bite your tongue, hand dipping beneath the elastic of your shorts, because he's right. The first brush of your fingers over the damp heat between your thighs makes you gasp, and you know he hears it. Joe chuckles darkly, the phone crackling faintly with the force of his breath.

“That for me, sweetheart?” 

Your throat works around the next sound that wants to escape, but you manage to stutter a simple, “yeah.” It comes out softer than you meant, fragile and feeling it might disappear somewhere in the static separating you.

In response, Joe says your name through a tone that makes your whole body thrum, wishing to hear it again and again. “Been wanting to hear you say that.”

Your fingers still, suddenly shy and all too aware of what you’re doing. You press your palm flat like that'll stop the heat from spreading and the lust clouding your brain. If this goes there again, you're not sure how it'll end. In the middle of your rationalizing, his voice cuts through again, pleading with you: “Don’t stop. Please. Just… keep going, let me hear it."

It awakens that same spark, his words sounding all too well like a siren's song. Your breath hitches as you find yourself slicker than you realized, and the faintest brush against your clit making your whole body tense.

“Talk to me,” he pushes. “Tell me what it feels like.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, embarrassment warring with the way your body arches into your own touch. “Warm,” you sputter, voice breaking into a gasp as you circle again. “Sensitive. I—god, Joe—”

He exhales sharply, a ragged sound that makes more pictures float through your mind. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he sounds astonished, as if he’s talking to himself.

“Wish I was there instead,” the phone shifts in your sweaty palm, heels digging into the mattress beneath you. You don’t trust yourself to keep speaking, but he fills the silence for you. “Wish it was my hand between your legs, not yours. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

A helpless sound tumbles past your lips, sounding halfway between a whimper and a yes. His laugh that follows is prideful, disbelieving over the fact he’s finally got you here.

“Don’t even have to answer,” he says through his teeth as he lets out a noise of his own. “I already know.” The line goes quiet again except for his breathing—harsh and uneven like he’s struggling with more than just words. You imagine him flat on his back in that anonymous hotel bed, sheets creased under his restless shifting, broad chest rising and falling. The mental picture burns hotter when you hear the faint slide of skin on skin, rhythmic and unmistakable.

He’s touching himself. For you, because of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Been thinking about this every time I’ve had you close to me. That little skirt you're always in, those tight shorts you've always got on...how you’d sound if I pushed them down and finally got my hands where they belong.” His voice cracks, making your fingers curl inside you again, desperately trying to reach a spot that suddenly feels untouchable for everyone except him. 

Your thighs squeeze tighter, hips twitching against your own hand. The memory of his body beneath yours on his couch, the way his hips rolled into yours when all you could do was cling to him and take it, it crashes over you so vividly that your body reacts before you can think. The heel of your hand presses harder against your clit, circling quicker, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep quiet.

But Joe hears it, he hears everything.

“That’s it,” he grunts. “Don’t hold back. Need it, baby, need to know what you look like right now.” You turn your face into the pillow, cheeks burning. If he could see you—little camisole twisted from how you writhe, shorts tugged low enough that your hand can slip inside easily, legs trembling against the sheets—you’d die of shame. Yet the thought, the same, makes you wetter, stomach tightening like you’ve been starved of this for far too long.

“Joe,” you plead, barely holding onto his name even though it’s the only thing repeating like a mantra inside your head. “This is—”

“Right,” he cuts in leaving no room for doubt or second guesses. “Feels right. Don’t tell me it doesn’t.”

Your hand falters, guilt flashing like a spark in your heart. But then you hear him pant again, the noise thick with strain, ringing through your ears as if it belongs to you as much as him. It alone diminishes all your remaining resolve as you imagine him with one hand wrapped tightly around himself, his head tipped against the headboard and jaw set but brows furrowed as he’s fighting a losing battle. His chest would likely be flushed pink, a fine sheen glinting across his collarbones and throat, sweat catching at his temples and sliding into his messy hair. If you close your eyes tight enough, you can picture the same wild look in his eyes you’ve caught after a game or a kiss that went too far.

The mental image courses through you until you’re begging helplessly and coming undone. Your body seizes underneath your own hand, convulsing as the tension breaks in hot bursts that leave you gasping into the phone. Your chest rises in shallow bursts, lips parted as though you can’t quite catch the air you need.

For a few fleeting moments, it’s enough, being lost in that sweet seventh heaven. But even through that haze, the relief doesn’t stick. It only fans the need deeper, firing the part of you that knows how much better it would be if it were him undoing you instead. You want his weight pressing you down, his voice coaxing you through it, his body shaking with the same loss of control.

You want him.

Joe's chuckle is smooth, dark velvet, curling around your senses. You catch the slick pull of his hand, the raw scrape of his breathing, every sound dragging you deeper into the fog you swore you wouldn’t fall into. You want more, craving it until it’s almost unbearable, and knowing he’s breaking down right alongside you, only makes it worse. 

“Knew it,” he rasps. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

WEEK 4 - TUESDAY

After practice tonight, Joe practically demanded you come over to his house. You gave in with little to no resistance, seeking his presence as much as he sought after yours. Ever since Saturday night, you've been running on the remaining fumes of bliss that have nothing to do with the Bengals winning Sunday's game. The memory of his voice through the phone keeps surfacing at the most inconvenient moments—during lectures, while getting dressed, in the quiet moments before sleep.

And now, despite him specifically telling you that next time you’d study at his place, you still thought to give him a heads up. He'd said that was fine, he had some studying to get done also.

Which is how you two ended up tangled together on his couch, your head resting against the arm of it while your legs drape over his lap. You've got one of your textbooks open in front of you, sticky notes and pens scattered across the pages while game film plays on the TV screen.

You catch your eyes drifting from the dense paragraphs to him—he looks especially pretty right now. Freshly showered, hair still damp and fluffy, the blue light from the television making his eyes appear almost luminous. There's a concentrated crease between his eyebrows as he watches, one elbow resting on the back of the couch so his head can sit comfortably against his closed fist. Or, your attention travels to the screen itself, where players move in formations that mean little to nothing to you. "So," your eyes squint, trying to decipher some hidden pattern, "your version of studying is watching football?"

Joe chuckles, the vibration of it traveling through your knees where they rest against his front. Your head snaps over, discovering brightness replacing the ultra-focused intensity that covered his eyes moments before. His teeth shine underneath the grin he wears.

"I guess you could say that."

You find yourself smiling under the weight of his attention, the warmth of his presence. You'd spent the past couple days wondering how you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off him the moment you saw him again, yet here you sit comfortably beside him in the most neutral way possible, his body pressed close enough to remind you how fragile neutrality can be.

Maybe that was among the things you liked about him—just like how he didn't push or expect anything sexual from you, he didn't make things feel awkward. There was no lingering tension, no pressure to address what had happened or define what it meant. He simply let you exist in his space, letting you both unfold this naturally without forcing it into boxes or categories. "What're you studying?" His drawl pulls your attention back to the textbook in your lap. For the past twenty minutes, the book has open to the same chapter on clinical reasoning, though you haven't actually absorbed a singular word.

Ever since you started working on your DPT applications, you realized it would be smart to review some core topics again. Graduate schools in this area are especially competitive, and you're not going to take any chances.

"Bit of everything," you shrug Your answer must not satisfy him, because out of the corner of your eye you catch a suspicious smile forming on his face. At the same time, he nudges your leg with his elbow. Shaking your head with a smile of your own, your eyes flit back to him. "I'm not lying. Need to be on top of everything if I'm getting in anywhere."

"Ohhhh, that's right." He straightens up, recognition dawning over him. "You were telling me about that over dinner."

He's right. That first night at dinner you vaguely mentioned graduate school when he asked about your post-graduation plans. You're surprised—and oddly pleased—that he was actually paying enough attention to remember. It's such a small thing, but it somehow matters more than it would have if it were anyone else.

“Doctor of Physical Therapy program—basically PT grad school," you clarify, closing the book and setting it aside. There was no use in pretending you were being productive anymore. "Hopefully starting next fall if I can get in somewhere decent."

"That's a big deal," cocking his head to the side, he looks for more. "You always want to do that?"

Considering the question, you quickly find yourself shriveling back into your shell. Not only do you feel like you're skimming a surface so close to your second biggest secret right now, but you've never really enjoyed sharing the story anyways. People would often press you with questions you didn't have the answers to, making you spiral for days after. That, or they would shower you with pity.

"Sort of. It's complicated."

The film continues playing on the screen but he's clearly more interested in this conversation than what he's supposed to be paying attention to. His hand lands on your calf, squeezing your leg, wordlessly asking you to continue. The openness in his gaze eases the bubble in your throat, because he’s looking at you like your story actually matters to him.

"I tore my ACL in high school," you find yourself explaining. "Ended my dancing career before it really started. Spent a lot of time in physical therapy after that, and I guess I just..." you stall, trying to find the right words. "Liked the idea of helping other people get back to what they love."

His expression softens. "That why you started cheering?"

"Partly. Needed to stay connected to dance somehow, even if it wasn't what I originally planned." You surprise yourself with your honesty. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just trying to prove something to myself."

"Like what?"

"That I still belong in this world,” you take a deep breath, “even if I can't do it the way I thought I would."

Joe is silent for a moment, processing what you've shared. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than usual. "Sounds like you found a way to make it work for you."

"Yeah," you say softly. "I think I did."

The words stretch between you, and you feel something loosening in your chest, a knot of old disappointment and fear that's been there so long you'd forgotten it existed. Sharing this with him feels like exhaling a breath you didn't know you were holding. Joe reaches for the remote and pauses the screen.

"Your turn," you add quickly, nudging his thigh with your foot. "Why football? Besides being ridiculously good at it."

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Started because in Athens, that’s just what you did. Dad coached, my brothers and all my friends played. Was just kinda the air we breathed." His hand squeezes your leg again, loosening to caress the soft skin there. "Stayed because I couldn’t imagine myself without it. Even when I wasn’t playing at Ohio State, I wanted to keep going."

Exhaling a long breath, his gaze stays trained forward but you catch the glimmer in his eyes. "That’s when I knew it wasn’t just theirs anymore, it was mine.”

His honesty surprises you as much as yours. Usually, getting anything real from Joe requires careful footing—waiting for him to offer pieces of himself when he feels like it, or the occasional direct question that he may possibly truthfully answer. There's something addictive about finally getting to see the true face beneath it all.

"Even with all the pressure?" you ask.

"Especially with the pressure," he corrects. "Weird, right? But when everything's on the line, when everyone's watching, that's when it feels most like home."

"I get that. Different context, but I get it."

He finally meets your eyes, and you feel something beyond the physical attraction. It's understanding and recognition, the rare comfort of being truly seen by someone who gets it. Your heart slows to match his breathing, and the walls you’ve built don’t feel quite as necessary anymore.

"So," he says eventually, breaking the moment but not the intimacy hidden behind it, "what happens when you get into your first choice school?"

"Then I probably have a nervous breakdown from the stress," you reply with a smile. "What happens if you make it to playoffs this year?"

"Then I probably have a nervous breakdown from the pressure," he echoes, grinning.

You both laugh and the sound fills his living room with something light and genuine. Your pulse stirs restlessly. It’s the ease of it all that unsettles you, none of it feels staged or measured; it just fits perfectly. And that—how natural it is to be here, like you’ve done it a hundred times before with him—is what scares you most. 

WEEK 5 - FRIDAY

One lunch with Drew is all it took for everything to snap back into place.

Your best friend since freshman year, the girl who stood by your side through all the shitty frat dates and the rebounds from your hometown which always fizzled out before anything truly started. The dates with guys in your class who looked sweet but turned out to be the worst of them all, and now you couldn't even tell her about the guy who's turning out to be the best of them all.

The entire time while working your way through your meal, you had to bite your tongue.

It was the smallest things that would make you think of Joe: Drew showing you a picture of her latest Hinge match, the way the guy at the next table laughed. Maybe the reason for every little thing circling back to him was because you weren't supposed to talk about him.

And then there was the other lie you were living. The one where you kept taking medication for your ankle, where the injury that should have been reported weeks ago still wasn't in any official records. She had no idea about any of it.

Between Joe and the unreported injury and the constant performance underneath it all, it felt like you were losing sight of who you actually were beyond that. Like the girl Drew had known for years was slowly fading away, replaced by someone who could lie without flinching and rationalize every deception.

Even though deep down you knew you were still you, the weight of carrying all these secrets made everything feel out of your control.

That's when you knew you had to end things with Joe. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt like you were drowning in secrets that kept multiplying every day. Everything you couldn't say to Drew, to your coaches, to anyone who mattered in your life, was becoming unbearable.

It felt like if you didn't do something soon, you'd disappear entirely under the pressure.

Joe texted you earlier tonight to come over because his practice ended early tonight. You'd stopped to pick up pizza on the way, the least you could do considering. The empty boxes sit on his coffee table as he works on pulling up a picture of the new defensive coordinator he's been complaining of. 

In your mind, this conversation will be straightforward. You'll explain your reasoning, he'll probably agree it's the most practical way, and you'll both move forward. Clean, mature, and uncomplicated.

"I've been thinking," you force the words out before you lose your nerve.

Joe glances up from his phone, immediately alert to the shift in your tone. "About?"

"Us." Your hands twist together in your lap, a tell you hope he doesn't pick up on.

His expression changes immediately, wariness creeping in to replace the contentment from earlier. Setting his phone aside, he gives his full attention.

"Okay."

"I think we should stop." The words feel misplaced in your mouth, like you're speaking someone else's script. "Just... end whatever this is and go back to how things were before."

He stares at you for a long moment, his face cycling through confusion before settling into something unreadable. "Go back to how things were."

"Yeah. Like, we don't acknowledge each other unless we have to for work stuff. Clean break." 

The silence that follows is deafening. You can practically see him processing the words, trying to reconcile what you're saying with the evening you just shared. When he finally speaks, his voice is about as neutral as you’d imagined, but the words that follow are nothing of the sort. "Why?"

It’s a simple question that catches you completely off guard. You'd rehearsed all the reasons and logical explanations you came up with, but under his direct stare they all feel flimsy. "Because it's getting complicated. All the sneaking around..."

"So we'll be more careful." He states like the solution is obvious, like you're the one overcomplicating something simple.

"Joe, that's not," you shake your head, frustration building because he's supposed to understand and see why this makes sense. "We can’t keep this up forever."

"Says who?" There's an edge creeping in, confusion giving way to something sharper. "Last week you were fine with this. What changed?"

You open your mouth to explain Drew, the web of lies you're caught in, but the words all stick. How do you explain that keeping him secret feels like slowly erasing the best part of your life? "It's just... it's too much."

"Too much what?" He leans forward, studying your face like he's searching for the real answer hidden beneath your fabricated words.

"Too much everything," your voice rises despite the efforts to stay calm. "The secrecy, the stress, having to pretend—"

"Pretend what? That you don't want to be here?" His gesture encompasses the living room where you've spent countless hours, where your presence has become as natural as his own. "Because you seem pretty comfortable to me."

"I just... we can't keep doing this."

"Why not?" Two simple words that cut straight through every excuse you've prepared.

"Because," you stand abruptly, needing movement to contain the restless energy coursing through you. "Because it's complicated."

"You said that already." Joe rises too and you can see the exact moment his patience finally snaps. "Give me something real. Tell me what actually changed."

Pacing towards the window then back, you do it because maybe it'll help you find words that make sense. The truth sits heavy in your chest—that nothing changed except your own fear. "It doesn't matter what changed. What matters is that this needs to end."

"That's not an answer." His voice carries a warning now, he's done with your lies.

"It's the only answer I have," it sounds as weak to your ears as it probably does to his.

"Bullshit." His voice cuts through the air, hitting you head-on. "You're standing in my house asking me to pretend the last few weeks never happened, and you can't even tell me why."

"I don't have to explain myself to you," your chest constricts, tears threatening despite your desperate attempts to maintain control. 

"Yeah, actually, you do." Composure finally cracking, his voice rises as four weeks of careful control dissolve. "You don't get to just decide this is over without giving me a real reason."

It was supposed to be a conversation simple enough to fold away without consequence. You’d readied yourself for that easy way out. Instead, his questions are coming at a faster speed than you imagined, each one peeling back the excuses you thought would hold.

The ground feels shakier with every word he delivers. "I'm not doing this right now," you turn towards the front door like you're fleeing, because that's what feels like the only true way out at this point.

Behind you, Joe's footsteps follow, his voice losing all its anger and turning desperate. "No,” he sighs, “‘cmon, don't leave." 

It takes every ounce of willpower not to listen to his words, not to fall back into him and pretend like nothing had happened, because that's what you want. You wish this were simple and easy. You wish you could be with him without all the fear that's eating you alive.

"You don't have to go," he's close enough that you can now feel the tension radiating from his body.

Your UGGs sit beside his shoes by the front door. You bend to slip on your boot, but his hand closes around your wrist before you can. The touch is gentle but firm, stopping you efficiently. Without a struggle, he turns you and presses your back against the wall, hands coming up to frame your face.

His thumb traces along your jaw, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its edge. "Talk to me." You can see it then, past the anger and frustration, the fear flickering in his blue eyes like he's just as panicked as you feel. "Please."

The plea lingers in the air, loosening something you didn’t realize you were still holding tight. Not because of the way he said it, but because of everything you can see written across his face. He looks at you as if he’s bracing for the worst, and it makes your throat ache with the truth you’ve been holding back.

"I'm scared," you whisper.

The confession slips from your lips like something that's been living in your throat for weeks, because deep down it has been, and the moment the words are out, your lungs burn with the sudden freedom of saying it aloud.

"I know,” he breathes, tension loosening. “Me too.”

Your eyebrows furrow instantly, "you too?"

He nods and the quiet that sits between you feels heavy with all these unspoken truths. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, the movement visible in the column of his neck. It's like watching him gather courage for something he's never said out loud, something that's been sitting in his own chest for weeks, growing with each passing day.

His forehead drops to rest against yours, close enough where you can feel his breath against your lips. "But yo—this," His voice wavers, cracking slightly on the words. "This is worth it to me." His eyes search your face like he's memorizing every detail, like he needs you to understand what he's saying even beneath the words. There's desperation there, but also determination, like he's made a choice that terrifies him but feels just as much inevitable.

"Because you make me happy." The words come easier now, like a dam has finally burst. "Really happy. You don't take my shit, like, at all. When I'm being an ass, you just give me this look and I know I'm caught." You watch him bite the inside of his cheek as if surpassing a smile. "And you're smarter than you give yourself credit for. You see things other people miss." He stops himself like a certain memory is passing through his mind, "you're also clumsy as hell, but somehow it's..."

Heat climbs up your neck, spreading across your cheeks as you process his words. Your head shakes almost involuntarily, bashful under the intensity of his gaze and the sincerity threading through. There's something overwhelming about being seen this clearly, having someone notice the person you are instead of the person you show.

"You don't try to impress me or say what you think I want to hear. You just... are. And when I talk about stuff that actually matters to me, not the bullshit everyone wants to hear, you listen like it's important to you." His voice drops even lower, more serious. "You have this way of looking at me like I'm me. Not Joe Burrow, not the guy everyone expects things from. Just me.”

The last words come out barely above a whisper, and you can see how much the admission costs him. How truly terrifying it must be to lay yourself bare like this, admitting that beneath all the confidence and bravado, he's just as desperate to be seen and accepted as anyone else. His thumbs brush across your cheekbones, catching a tear you hadn't realize had fallen.

"That's what scares me the most." Immediately, another wave of ease washes over him. It's like he was expecting a worse reply, but those words are what he was hoping to hear above all else.

"Then talk to me when you're feeling like this. Don't run from me." There's urgency in his touch, trying to remind you he’s here while not pushing it in case you’ll run again. "If it becomes too much, if you need space or time or whatever—you tell me and we'll figure it out together. But don't just disappear on me." His voice goes thin, fingers trembling. The small, human details make the room tilt. You realize these aren’t just words for him, so you nod once, grounding yourself in this moment to come back to when you start having fears again. 

"Okay," you announce. The tension that's been coiled in his body for the entire conversation finally releases fully, and you watch as his shoulders drop and he seems to remember how to breathe properly. You feel a new understanding that didn't exist before, settle. "It's worth it to me too."

His response is immediate, a smile that starts small and spreads until it transforms his entire face. There's relief there, yes, but also something lighter, something that makes your stomach flutter in an entirely different way than fear.

"Yeah?" there's a hint of that familiar cockiness creeping back into his voice, though it's softer now, carrying more affection rather than arrogance. “Just had to make me work for it first?”

You can't help the small laugh that escapes, even as you're still processing everything. "You're not supposed to be making jokes right now."

"Why not?" His grin widens slightly. "Think I just earned that.”

"Oopies," you roll your eyes cheekily, but you're fighting a smile. "Sorry for ruining your moment." Joe’s expression just barely changes, but you catch the way his eyebrows furrow.

"What did you just say?"

Confused, you think back. "I said sorry for ruining your—"

"No, before that."

"Oops?" you ask, suspicious of the look growing on his face.

"Oopsie daisy," he says slowly, testing how the words sound together. Like he's discovered something ridiculously delightful.

"I did not say oopsie daisy." But he's not listening anymore. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head, the moment an idea takes root and grows into something he's far too pleased with. There's mischief brewing behind his eyes. 

"Daisy," he repeats, and his grin turns charmingly wicked. "That's what you are. My little daisy."

"I am absolutely not your daisy."

"Think about it," he continues, moving his hands to your arms, thumbs brushing gentle circles. "All your little mishaps, the way you stumble into things you probably shouldn't." The excitement in his voice falls off, slowly becoming more tender. "You're clumsy and sweet, my favorite kind of... accident." 

"Not at all," you try your best sound offended but it comes out breathless instead.

"Daisy," he says again, like he's savoring the way it rolls off his tongue. "Yeah, that's definitely sticking."

You duck your head, trying to hide your smile, but he catches your chin gently and tilts your face back up to his. "You like it," he says, not a question but a statement, pleased and all too knowing.

"I do not," you lie, but your voice is too soft, too fond to be convincing.

That injury shattered more than your knee. It took every plan you'd made, every dream you'd built, and washed them away like they were nothing. Before that, you were unstoppable. Varsity dance team captain, competition solos, scouts already taking notice. The full ride to a Division One program felt like your destiny, just a matter of choosing which offer to accept. 

Then came that awful day during nationals prep. The pop when you landed wrong coming out of a grand jeté was so loud your teammates heard it from across the studio floor. Even before the adrenaline wore off and the pain hit, you knew deep down, everything you'd worked for was over.

Dr. Kohn assured you the surgery went well. Clean repair, good prognosis. But rehab alone was a nightmare that stretched on for months, bleeding into the next season, the next year. By the time you were finally cleared, scouts were looking elsewhere and the scholarship offers evaporated. Your teammates moved on, living the life you dreamed of, without you.

On top of everything, your knee never did heal quite right—something Dr. Kohn called "residual laxity." A looseness that made it prone to flare-ups when you pushed too hard. It still bothers you sometimes, especially during long practices or when the weather changes. 

Overall, the injury changed everything. Without the dance scholarship, you had to reimagine your entire path. During those endless months in rehab, you rediscovered your fascination with how the body moves, finding a new one for how it heals and compensates for the damage. That's what led you to physical therapy as a major; if you couldn't be the performer, maybe you could be the one helping the performers. 

You arrived at a compromise that felt like both settling and starting over. When you saw the posting for Ben-Gal tryouts during spring semester your freshman year of college, it felt like a way back into the world you'd lost. Not as the elite dancer you'd dreamt of being, but close enough to still feel that rush you missed.

Now, years later, you're risking this compromise for an injury that should have been reported weeks ago. The irony isn't lost on you—the same knee that ended your original dreams taught you exactly how to work the system in the order of protecting what's left of them.

Dr. Kohn had been understanding about the ongoing discomfort, the flare-ups that came more often than usual with cheering. It wasn't an entire lie to say your old ACL injury was acting up.

You just had to be careful not to mention that the current pain was coming from an entirely different joint.

In your defense, you did try everything else first. Ice until your skin went numb. Compression that left angry red marks on your leg. Elevation that made you feel ​​bedridden, stacked up on pillows like you couldn’t move on your own. The over-the-counter stuff stopped touching the pain two days ago, leaving you with a choice: report the injury and get sidelined indefinitely, or find another way.

The pharmacy had the pills ready within hours.

Hydrocodone for emergencies—three left. Tramadol for the practice—twelve remaining after the dose you'd swallowed before warm-ups. Celecoxib for day-to-day, nearly full, twenty-something pills that could get you through the next few weeks without anyone being the wiser.

You told yourself you would reassess tomorrow, see how you felt, maybe cut back if the pain improved. It seemed reasonable to you. Smart, even.

​​Soap runs down your back in sudsy streams as your mind drifts to practice, replaying the disaster that was the past three hours. Coach Williams had you running drills that would have been challenging on a good day, but the Tramadol did exactly what you'd hoped—dulling the pain in your ankle enough where you could actually participate instead of just getting through.

Sure, there was a slightly disconnected feeling like you were watching yourself perform from a soft distance, but that wasn't necessarily bad. The injury left you more on edge lately, second guessing steps you never thought twice about before. Not today, though. Today the looseness felt almost liberating, your body moving without that constant shadow of caution.

"Higher!" Coach barked as you worked through a series of jumps, her voice cutting through the music like a whip. "I need to see those legs fully extended!"

For the first time in days, you were able to give her what she wanted. The moves that had been agony just yesterday were manageable, your ankle supporting you without that screaming protest that made you want to crumple. You'd pushed through the entire routine, muscles working in harmony instead of fighting against each other.

But, the medication wore off faster than expected. That familiar throb started returning with each landing, a creeping reminder that the relief was only temporary. You found yourself checking the clock, calculating how long until you could reasonably take another pill.

Just one more. Just to get through.

During the brief water break, Ivy looked nearly untouched beside you, her ponytail still crisp, makeup intact. She leaned in slightly, tone careful but lined with concern. "You okay? You seem off today."

You fumbled with your water bottle cap, fingers clumsy and throat dry. The excuse came easily—exhaustion, claiming you'd stayed up too late. It wasn't a total lie, which made it slip out smoother than normal. You were up late, just not with textbooks. You'd been lying in bed wide awake, pulse unsteady, replaying every moment from Joe's house until it felt like your mind was stuck on an endless loop.

The memory should have jolted you—excitement, guilt, longing. But it settled mutely and distant as if it had happened to someone else.

That distance unsettled you more than the memory itself. It made you wonder if something in you was broken, if you'd built Joe up so much in your head that reality could never measure up. His kiss felt desperate, hands sure in their path, but now the details blurred when you tried to hold onto them. The heat you expected to linger dissolved into static.

Though, dwelling on Joe’s absence didn’t (and wouldn’t) change what happened next during practice.

Coach clapped her hands once, the sound bouncing across the room, and the music started again. This was supposed to be your refuge, but suddenly your body decided to betray you with no remorse. A half-beat off here, a sluggish arm there. When the routine hit its most intricate portion—a sharp pivot into a jump—your ankle resorted to its own refuge. For one terrifying moment, you were sure you'd go down completely.

Heat scorched your cheeks even after the initial waves of pain, the weight of imagined eyes heavier than the stumble itself.

The worst of it wasn't the pain, it was how much you let yourself believe in the false promise of those pills. The temporary numbness had tricked you into thinking the injury was manageable, fixable even, when deep down you knew it wasn't. Just an old wound, still fragile and waiting to betray you the second you forgot.

Coach clapped again, louder, and the music rewound. You reset your stance, jaw tight, teeth pressed hard enough that pressure throbbed behind your ears. All you could think about was the bathroom and the pills waiting just a few dozen yards away.

The next run went cleaner, but only because you pulled back, withholding just enough to protect the injury. It felt like cheating, but it was better than falling. You made it through the rest of practice by the sheer force of will, counting down minutes until Coach dismissed you. The satisfaction when she blew her final whistle was joyous—not just because practice was over, but because you could finally take another pill.

The tiles were icy against your back when you first leaned against the wall, a Celecoxib dissolving under your tongue. You've learned over the past couple days to save the stronger pills for when you really need them. With drills finally over, you couldn't justify wasting one just to take the edge off.

Even now, you can feel the medication working through your system. Not the pain relief so much, but that soft, cotton-wrapped feeling that makes everything seem slightly unreal. You blink, realizing you've been standing motionless under the water for longer than intended, your mind wandering. The silence should be comforting—the locker room emptied out, no chatter, no footsteps, just you—but it isn't. It only leaves more space for the things you're trying not to think about.

And, predictably, they all circle back to Joe. 

You haven't heard from him since that night at his house. No texts, no calls, not even one of those little encounters that used to happen before everything got complicated. The quiet gnaws at you, and part of you wonders if he's regretting what happened, if kissing you was just another impulse decision he's now trying to forget.

But each time you remember what week it is. Sunday is the season opener.

Every September since your rookie year, you've witnessed the transformation firsthand. Players become shadows of their off-season selves, hollowed out by pressure and preparation. They walk through the facility like sleepwalkers, every humanizing element temporarily suspended in service of the sport. You've seen guys forget to eat, forget to return texts from girlfriends or wives, overall forget there's a world outside the playbook.

Joe is different though. He doesn't just disappear during the season, part of him emerges like this is when he finally gets to be who he was always meant to be. He sheds whatever version of himself he wears during the off-season like a costume that never quite fit. When other guys look drained, shrinking under the weight of the season, Joe only seems to expand. The pressure feeds him. His focus doesn't strip him down; it builds him outward until the field feels smaller for having to contain him. Watching from the sideline, it’s hard to tell where he ends and the game begins. 

Football consumes him, yes, but he consumes it right back, locked in a battle that somehow leaves him the stronger one every time.

Those are the words you press into your head as you twist the faucet off, the spray sputtering to silence. You pull one of the scratchy cotton towels from the stack, working it over your skin. By the time you smooth moisturizer into your arms and tug your clothes on, they're still tucked in there, working as a steady reminder.

Outside the locker room the hallway stretches ahead. Your bag drags at your shoulder, straps biting into your exhausted frame. The medication is still doing its job, dulling the sharpest edges of pain, but the weakness beneath it lingers—a thin thread tugging at you with each step.

Halfway to the exit, the thread snaps. 

Your ankle tips slightly, barely a wobble, but it steals your balance all the same. Momentum pitches you forward, hands jutting out awkwardly as you fight to stay upright. You lurch over into the wall, palm smacking against painted cinderblock. The sound echoes louder than it should, and you press into the cool surface, grateful no one else was around to see.

Or at least, so you thought.

"Bambi."

The single word makes you jump, spinning so fast your ankle twinges in protest. Joe is striding toward you from the direction of his locker room, and the sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like he just stepped out of his own shower, hair still damp, pushed carelessly back with a few strands clinging stubbornly near his temple. A black shirt clings faintly to the heat still rolling off his skin, paired with dark joggers. It’s effortless—unfair really with how good he looks in something so simple.

Paired with it, he’s got a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, carrying a lightness alongside it that makes your chest flutter. This feels like the version of Joe from before everything gets complicated, before the season starts consuming him. The one who can joke and tease and live without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Bambi?" you echo, voice pitching higher than you meant it to, caught somewhere between disbelief and the quiet thrill of how good it feels to see him.

"What, would you rather I call you Dumbo?" His eyes dance, and suddenly that raging storm that’s been consuming you whole feels immensely calmer, eased purely out of having him nearby again.

Your jaw drops slightly, both at the audacity and the fact that he looks pleased with himself. Of all the things he could have said after days of silence, this is what he leads with?

"You're always tripping over yourself," he adds, closing the distance with a few more steps. The air changes with the addition of his presence alone, the already small hallway feeling smaller as his voice draws closer. "Do I need to start carrying you everywhere?"

His borderline condescending words curl around you until your throat feels tight. For half a second, the only words rising to the surface are only if you want. They lodge there, pressing at the back of your tongue, and you have to force them down. His unflinching gaze pins you in place while your own wavers under the weight of it. The air grows tighter with every second he holds you there, and the memory of his mouth on yours flashes close enough to burn. 

It's too much all at once, a reminder of how easily you could slip back into wanting more.

“No.” The reply scrapes out rougher than you meant, your eyes narrowing to cover the momentary falter. “I never needed your assistance before.”

"What then? You just trying to get my attention?" You open your mouth to say no again, but he cuts you off before you can get the word out. "Cause it's working either way."

And this is the version of Joe you remember from his living room, the one who turns every word into a move you can't predict. His confidence drapes over the moment so effortlessly you can't tell if it's practiced or just stitched into him.

"Oh?" The sound barely escapes, thinner than a breath. You hadn't pictured him appearing here, now, while you're still floating on painkillers and self-doubt.

For days you turned his silence over and over, telling yourself the distance wasn’t personal, just inevitable. Now, hearing proof that you were right, the dilemma you’ve been carrying eases. He wasn’t running from the kiss or from the mistake you feared you’d became.

"I have something for you." His head tips slightly, icy eyes steady as though waiting to see what you'll do with the words. "But you have to come get it if you want it."

"What is it?" Your bag strap slips down your shoulder and you tug it back up.

"Well, I'm not gonna tell you before. Would ruin the surprise."  The sight of his delight sparks that familiar uneasy mix you always feel with him—irritation at how easily he can tug you along, and the part of you that craves the chase anyway. Maybe that's the worst part; not that he knows and you don’t, but that you're already leaning forward, waiting for his next move.

"Where is it?"

"My house."

Every warning bell screeches, every red flag waves high, but your mind scrambles to smooth them over. What's the harm in one more visit? It can't get worse than last time—doing things when you both knew better. And if you've already crossed that line, what's left to lose?

It had felt good too. Dangerous, yes, but good in the way breaking rules always does, especially when the rules were drawn up by people who looked at you like a problem waiting to happen. 

Linda. The internet. 

So maybe that was part of the pull, the reckless little urge to lean into the role they’d written for you, to live up to the expectation just to prove you could survive it.

"Okay." Shuffling your weight around, the movement doesn't send a jolt through your leg for once. You almost miss the absence, it feeling so strange after living with the pain for weeks. "I guess."

“Good.” His smile widens, satisfaction clear. It's like he's already pictured this moment, certain of the path ahead even while you're still stumbling to catch up.

“You remember the way?”

Of course you remember. 

"I think so, but—"

"You can follow me." He turns without waiting, sure of himself in a way that leaves no room for argument. The space seems to fold around his movement, narrowing until there’s only one way forward. 

Not that you would've chosen any other way.

───

Loosely following behind Joe’s Maybach was not how tonight was supposed to end. You told yourself you’d go home, finish the last of your DPT applications, and put Monday night in a box you’d never have to open again. Now that box will have to wait until after tonight. 

One more night, one more slip, and then you'll seal it for good. Shove every Joe Burrow-adjacent thought into it, snap the lid shut, and hurl the key somewhere so far you'll never find it again.

For now though, his own key turns with a soft click and he steps back to hold the door open, tilting his head for you to go first. You duck under his arm, close enough to catch that familiar scent of cedar and soap, and step into the foyer.

The house feels different tonight. Quieter, more lived-in with the lights dimmed to a faint glow from table lamps instead of overhead lighting. Your eyes drift automatically toward the living room, toward the couch, and heat flares inside you at the memory. 

Feeling like a child caught peeking through cracked doors, you turn your attention to the abstract art on the walls instead. Behind you Joe drops his bag beside a grand piano you caught last time you were here, the soft thud echoing in the quiet space. 

Without hesitation, he next kicks off his shoes, the canvas of them hitting the hardwood with soft thuds. You hesitate for half a second, unsure of if you were supposed to also, but he's already moving toward the kitchen, padding in his socks across the polished floors.

You quickly slip out of your own shoes, leaving them beside his. The sight of them paired together looks mismatched, but there’s something about it that feels strangely fitting. You try to ignore that part as you hurry to catch up.

"Hungry?" he calls over his shoulder as you follow behind him, your sock-clad feet silent against the wood. "I've got leftover takeout if you want something."

"Depends," you reply, studying the easy way he moves through his space. "Is it actually takeout, or is it more of that mystery chef situation?"

He glances back with that crooked grin. "You calling me a liar?"

"I'm calling you someone who definitely has a meal service."

"Ouch." But he's laughing as he says it, warmth cutting through the stillness of the house. "What gave it away?"

"Your kitchen was too clean. Nobody cooks a meal like that and doesn't leave a single dish behind."

"Maybe I'm just very tidy."

"Joe." You give him a look that says you're not buying it, and he holds up his hands in surrender.

"Fine. But I can make a mean grilled cheese."

"Now that I'd believe." The kitchen opens up before you, all clean lines and expensive finishes that catch the light. You lean against the island, cool granite solid beneath your palms. Joe moves to the far counter, his Stanley echoing a dull thud as he sets it down and reaches around like he's misplaced something.

He looks perfectly at home here, but what unsettles you is how he makes space for you without hesitation. You never pictured him as the type to feel comfortable with relative strangers in his own space. The thought hadn't crossed your mind Monday night, but now it nags as you stand there.

Your fingers drum against the granite, a nervous rhythm you can't quite stop. "Did you actually have something for me or was this just a ploy to get me back here?"

Joe turns, and the look he gives you holds just long enough to scramble your perception. "You're telling me I need an excuse to get you back here?" 

The question hangs heavy enough that you can feel the weight pressing against your skin. Heat creeps into your face before you can stop it, and you lower your head, letting your hair slip forward as a cover.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" His tone carries the same playful edge like he’s savoring the way you keep circling around him. "That's not very convincing."

"I'm a very suspicious person," you counter, lifting your chin this time, unwilling to let him win the round without a fight. "I don't trust people who offer mysterious surprises."

"Smart." He nods, approval flickering in his eyes before the humor fades, his attention settling on you with an unguarded focus. "But in this case, your suspicion is misplaced."

He holds up what he's been reaching for. A book, worn at the edges with a cover that's seen better days. The title is barely visible in the lighting, but you can make out enough to know it's medical in nature, something regarding sports medicine. Your curiosity piques despite yourself.

"Well," Joe says, grin returning as he holds the book out, "here's my excuse for this time."

You straighten, pushing off from the island to get a better look. The book looks ancient, like it's been passed through dozens of hands, pages soft with use. There's something endearing about how thoroughly worn it is, like someone—many someones—found real value in whatever's written inside.

"What is it?" you ask, stepping closer. The movement brings you into his space, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough to see the way the low light catches the silver flecks in his eyes, the slight stubble that wasn't there Monday night when your nails traced along his jawline.

Joe's expression softens, and for a moment he looks almost uncertain, like he's second-guessing whatever impulse led him to this gesture. "I called Coach Carter," his voice drops hesitantly. "The trainer I told you about? Asked him where he learned all that stuff he taught me."

The concept settles in slowly, each part of it layering over the next. His effort, his intent, the quiet care nestled within every part.

"He went on and on about this book," Joe continues, thumb brushing over the worn cover. "Said he learned half of what he knows from it. Techniques, theory, practical applications—everything. So I thought..." He trails off, shrugging as if it means nothing, but you spot what’s underneath it, a hope he's trying to hide.

"You got it for me?" He nods, holding it out for you to take. Your fingers brush his as you take it, and he waits before letting go, long enough to be certain it won’t slip. 

You flip through a few pages, catching glimpses of detailed diagrams and dense text that makes your academic brain light up with interest. It's exactly the kind of resource you'd kill to have for your program, the kind of book that likely costs a fortune new. And Joe has just... gotten it for you.

"Joe, this is," you look up at him, words failing you. He's watching your reaction as if he's genuinely uncertain whether you'll appreciate what he's done or turn him away. How do you tell someone that this might be one of the most thoughtful gifts you've ever received?

"Thank you," you mumble. “You didn't have to do this for me."

"I wanted to," he says simply. Your fingers tighten around the book's spine because this is the moment, the exact moment, where he should pivot. When that familiar glint should flash in his eyes, when he should say or do something to undercut the weight pressing between you. Your body even braces for it, tension knotting through you, but this time, he doesn’t move.

The absence of it feels foreign, like watching someone speak a language you didn't know they could. Your heart kicks unevenly against your ribs because this sort of quiet vulnerability carries more danger than all his calculated moves combined. When he’s stripping away the strategy, stopping the game you've grown accustomed to losing, what's left is somehow more overwhelming than anything he's done before.

"Come on," Joe breaks the silence, a thankful intrusion for your sake. "Gotta 'preciate it properly."

He heads to the living room, settling onto the couch. You hesitate before following his lead, leaving enough space on the couch where it feels safe but not too much where it feels like an obvious give to the conclusions spinning in your mind. The book falls open across your lap—a safe barrier, something to focus on besides him.

Joe doesn't seem to care about your careful distance. The cushion dips as he slides closer, erasing the space you'd put between you until his thigh brushes yours. Heat radiates through the layers of clothing separating you, and you force your eyes to stay on the page even though the words have turned to meaningless shapes.

Your breathing falls shallow when his fingertips find your back, so light you think you might be imagining it. The touch trails up your spine like a whisper, raising goosebumps despite the warmth pooling low in your stomach. You go perfectly still, caught between leaning into it and pulling away.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through the strands that have fallen forward. He tucks them behind your ear, thumb grazing along the shell of it before his hand drops away completely. The touch is gone as quickly as it came, only making you crave the chase for more.

When you finally look up, he's already watching you.

The realization hits as a small shock, not just that his eyes are on you, but that they've probably been there for longer than you felt. There's something nearly predatory in the way his shoulders have angled themselves toward you, like you've become the only thing in the room worth his attention. The lamplight catches in his hair, throwing faint gold through the soft strands, and you have to force yourself to look away before you get caught staring back.

"Do you remember what you said last time?" His voice cuts through, almost reluctantly like he's testing dangerous waters. There's something careful in the way he asks it, as if he's already bracing for your answer, or maybe for you to bolt entirely.

Your mind immediately starts racing, scrambling through every moment that passed between you in this room, every confession that slipped when your guard was down, every word that crossed lines you'd sworn you wouldn't cross. The problem is that, even in one night, there were so many of those moments, so many times you said or revealed too much when you were supposed to do everything but that.

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to stay steady, not trusting yourself not to give away exactly how much you remember.

"You said you felt like you were going crazy trying to figure me out."

Oh.

The memory crashes back with startling clarity. You had said that, desperation bleeding into every syllable as it slipped free before you could catch it. It was your pleading attempt to make sense of him, to understand why he could make you feel so unsteady with just a mere glance. You remember the way the words hung in the air afterward while you wished for nothing more than the opportunity to take them back.

"Do you still feel that way?" He's leaning forward now and you can see the way his hands have tightened into white-knuckled fists. He looks nervous nervous too, you realize. Maybe even more nervous than you are.

"Yes," you admit, and the honesty scrapes out of you before you can stop it. Again. Always with brutal honesty when it comes to him like he's somehow bypassed all your defenses. "Sometimes."

Turning back to your book quickly, you use it as something solid to focus on when everything else feels like it's spinning wildly out of control. The diagrams swim before your eyes—just lines and arrows that might as well be hieroglyphics for how little sense they're making right now. Your brain can't process a single word on the page when he's sitting so close.

Stillness stretches, and you know you should let it. You should let this pass and pretend it never happened, but there's a question burning in your throat, one that carries the shadow of guilt you know will come after asking it. Wrong, so wrong—the angel on your shoulder hums its warning like a faint melody, one you're already choosing to ignore.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"Which part?"

“About not being able to stop.”

The book trembles slightly in your hands—a betrayal of just how affected you are—and you're on the verge of looking up at him, ready to break this unbearable tension with something, anything. Maybe even an excuse to leave before this goes somewhere you truly can’t come back from this time.

But he takes it upon himself to make the first move. His hand covers yours over the book, and he slowly pries it from your grip. He's giving you every opportunity to stop him, to pull away, to maintain the pretense that this is still innocent.

You don't, you let him take it at his own pace, watching in a trance as he leans to set it on the coffee table. The movement is unhurried like he's still giving you time to change your mind. When he settles back against the couch, the space between you feels both impossibly wide and suffocatingly narrow. Too close and not close enough all at once—a distance you can measure only by how acutely aware you are of him within it.

"It's worse when I don't see you," he admits quietly. "Feels like something's missing." The words etch themselves into you with startling precision, finding all the places you're most vulnerable and settling there like they belong.

"You can't say that."

"I'm not saying it to scare you." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity burning in his eyes. "But I'm not going to lie about it either." Your breath catches as he draws you closer, and you find yourself leaning in without conscious thought. The pull between you feels magnetic, inevitable like fighting it would take more strength than you possess right now.

His breath brushes your cheek hovering just shy of your mouth. The anticipation is almost unbearable—you can feel him there, so close that the space between you crackles with the tension, but he still doesn't close that final distance. He's close enough that you can see the way his pupils have blown wide, the careful control he's maintaining even as his thumb traces the line of your jaw.

When his lips finally graze your jawline, the touch is featherlight, ghostlike in its restraint. It unravels something inside you, the uncertainty of it worse than any definitive action could be. Your eyes flutter closed as he maps a path along your skin, each brush of his plush lips so soft you wonder if you're imagining it.

You should pull away. You know you should. But you find yourself frozen, caught between wanting to lean into him and the voice in your head that's screaming about how wrong this is. The internal war wages silently while he continues his torturous exploration, each soft kiss making it harder to remember why you should resist when it feels so good.

Joe finds a sensitive spot just beneath your ear, one that makes you jolt from the sensation, and he pauses in response. His breath hitches against your skin, and for one heart-stepping moment, you fear he may pull away entirely, that sanity might win for both of you this time, but then his resolve seems to crack. 

His mouth opens against you, tongue tracing patterns that make your spine arch despite yourself. The kisses turn hungry then—more claiming in their path, tinged with guilt and desire in equal measure. When his teeth scrape lightly against your throat, you gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

The noise he makes in response is low and rough, vibrating against your skin. It's approval and need wrapped together, and the realization that you caused it sends a thrill of power through you that's almost dizzying. Joe Burrow, the one who carries himself like nothing can shake him, just made a sound that's pure vulnerability, all because of you. The fact that you could strip away all that controlled confidence and reduce him to something so human, changes every existing dynamic between you.

For the first time, you're not the one scrambling to keep up.

Your head tips back as an offering, a surrender you don't consciously make but can't bring yourself to fight. His mouth works lower, each kiss deeper than the last. Not only is it impossible to miss the hunger building in him with every press of his lips, but it's intoxicating. His kisses become more insistent as if he's trying to memorize the taste of your skin in case you pull away at any moment.

Instinctually, your hand drifts down, fingers finding the solid muscle of his thigh and curling into it like it might save you. The muscles flex beneath your grip—a reminder of his strength, of how close he is, of how much bigger he is than you. And still, somehow, it doesn't feel like enough. Nothing feels close enough when his mouth is working magic against your skin, carving a path that draws you further and further from restraint until all that's left is the ache he's feeding with every wet kiss.

In one fluid motion, his hands find your waist and he drags you into his lap like you’re nothing under his hold. The book is forgotten somewhere on the table, replaced by the hard, urgent reality of him.

His thighs are already spread wide, claiming all the space beneath him, and the second he settles you there, your own legs are forced open around him, body shaped to fit the way he sits. The heat of his chest presses flush against yours, each rise of his breath grinding you closer while the solid weight of his thighs beneath you makes any escape unthinkable. 

You ought to resist. You should at least hesitate and give yourself a moment to think about what this means, what you're doing. But your body has already made the decision for you, and instead you find yourself settling against him. The cotton of your shorts snags faintly on the smooth stretch of his sweats in a way that sends an impulse sparking straight through you.

The kiss that follows comes like a breaking point, inevitable in its own way, like you’ve both been holding your breath since the last time and now neither of you can wait another second. There's nothing tentative in it, no testing of boundaries. It’s full of greed, pure hunger poured straight into your mouth. His hand leaves your waist to frame your jaw, fingers sinking into your scalp as he tilts your head exactly where he wants it. The command in the touch makes your pulse stumble, and when he deepens the kiss you give in without a second though. Lips parting, teeth scraping, tongues colliding—every taste of him so consuming that you almost miss what your own body is doing.

Almost.

It takes several disorienting moments for awareness to creep back in, for you to realize that you're moving. Rocking forward against him in a slow, instinctive rhythm, hips rolling as if they have a will of their own. Each shift brushes you closer to the hard line beneath his pants, there still being a glimmer of space keeping you apart, yet it feels impossible not to chase it. Your body betrays your own principles, leaning into the friction, into him, like there’s nothing else you could do.

The realization should horrify you, snap you back to reality and make you scramble away. Though your body craves more, tipping deeper into his pull with every movement, chasing a high that feels just out of reach. You're lost in it, in the way his breathing turns ragged against your mouth, like he’s been waiting for this—waiting for you—to finally give in.

His hands drop from your face to your waist, fingers digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. The tension in his grip leaves no room for doubt. In one decisive pull, he presses you down against him, closing the space you’d been holding onto as if it alone could make the situation any less damning. The sudden contact is brutal in its relief, exactly what your body has been craving, and it shocks a broken moan from deep inside you.

The sound rips through the quiet, breaking the spell you were both trapped under. You tear your mouth from his, lips swollen and damp, a jarring reminder of the line you just crossed. And still, your body refuses to listen—slick where you ache, craving more than it’s been given.

He chases your mouth the moment you pull away, desperate to close the distance you’ve forced between you. You turn your head, denying him, though your body trembles with the effort. The urge to give in scrapes at every part of your being, begging you to let the gap vanish, and it takes everything you have not to succumb.

“Joe, we can’t,” you breathe, the words unraveling as they leave you. Your head shakes weakly, like you’re asking him to come to his senses for the both of you, because you don’t trust yourself to hold the line. If he let go first, it would be easier—you wouldn’t have to wrestle with his lust and your own. “We can’t do that.”

He goes still, and for a moment you think maybe this is where he stops. Maybe this is the moment he comes back down, drops out of the haze that’s carrying you both too high. But then he shakes his head, eyes shaded with an emotion you’ve never seen from him.

His mouth dips close, breath hot against your neck. “It’s not like we’re actually—” he murmurs. “Clothes are still on. Doesn’t count.” The excuse is paper-thin yet the way he breathes it into your skin makes something cave inside you, leaving you unsteady with the dangerous thought it could be true. It was his words carved a loophole wide enough for the both of you to slip through—if only you let yourself believe it.

What you should do is laugh in his face, call it the flimsiest excuse you’ve ever heard, and climb off his lap before either of you forget yourselves completely. You should be walking toward the door, shaking your head at how close you came to letting it happen.

What really happens is you stay right where you are, every limb strung taut as his hips roll up beneath you, slotting you tighter against him again. The drag of his body against yours is certain, the hard line of him pressing exactly where you’re already aching. The connection rips the breath from your lungs, your head dropping forward as the shock of it ripples through you.

“See?” His voice coaxes its way through your haze. One hand skims from your waist to your lower back, guiding you down, encouraging you to meet him halfway. “Just this. You can give me this.” Your brain claws for footing, for something to hold strong to while your body betrays you with another unconscious roll of your hips. The friction is muted, softened by layers of cotton and fleece, but it’s enough.

You let out a shuddering breath, the word no still clinging to your mouth even as every inch of you answers him with yes. His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail along your jaw, whispering things you can’t quite hold onto, slipping away as fast as they’re spoken. His touch never settles—one hand steady at the small of your back, the other guiding at your hip, luring you into his rhythm, to give in just a little more cause what’s the harm now?

Your hips start to move with his, tentative at first, then surer, each glide heavier than the last. The sounds rise between you, blurred and tangled—your sharp breaths, his low groans rumbling against your throat—until you can’t tell who is falling more undone by each second. The danger of it hovers like smoke at the edges of your thoughts, but his mouth is too close, voice too hot, and all you can do is follow where he leads you.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he rasps, rolling his hips so the thick press of his cock grinds against your heat. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

Thoughts blur to a hiss, reason thinning to an echo beneath the flood of pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging like he’s the only solid thing left to hold onto, even as he’s the one doing all the damage. Each time he drives you down harder, each time his mouth crashes against yours to swallow the cry you swore you wouldn’t give him, the last threads of control slip further from your grasp.

“This is it,” you gasp into his mouth. “After this, it’s over.”

His lips curve against yours, that sharp edge of a grin breaking through as his hands tighten their hold on you. “Keep lying to yourself.”

“It’s true,” you bite back, palms splayed against his chest though you never push away. The protest shudders apart as your hips roll down again, chasing more of him, because deep down you can’t help yourself.

He scoffs, a mocking noise that rumbles out of his chest. “Yeah? Feels pretty true to me.” Hips surging up at the same time, his length pulses forcefully against your slick center, making your knees nearly buckle from where they’re spread over him.

Forcing your eyes up, you’re caught instantly in the molten blue of his gaze. The weight of it is nearly unbearable—he’s drinking in every twitch of your body, every fractured sound that slips out, hoarding them for the moments when you’re not his to touch. Your hips stumble, rhythm faltering as the coil inside you winds too tight to hold, and he feels it. His own movements sharpen, pressing you into himself harder, breath shuddering into your mouth when your whimpers break free despite your best efforts.

Your release crashes through you so hard it knocks you closer into him. Every muscle tightens, your body jerking as your hand fists in his hair, the other wrapped tight around the nape of his neck like it’s keeping you from falling completely under. With each new pass, Joe drags you down tighter against him, grinding your hips through every sharp spasm.

“Atta girl.” Never daring to let go, Joe guides you through it with steady hands. Each slow shift keeps the high burning longer, until you’re limp against him, shaking with the aftershocks. His own breath stumbles against your cheek, gaze lowered to where you two still connect, brows pulled tight as if he’s wrestling with his own something. His mouth parts, eliciting a guttural sound you’ve never gotten the privilege of hearing from him before.

It’s overwhelming—more than overwhelming, almost damaging—because it’s not even sex, and somehow it’s the most consuming orgasm you’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the months of tension, the denial you kept feeding, possibly the sheer wrongness of it. Underneath it all, you know the truth, you know it’s him. 

Him. The way he holds you like he's been starving for permission to touch you this way—hands that have always been measured suddenly greedy in their certainty. Like every moment of restraint has been building to this, every professional boundary a dam that's finally burst. His grip spans your waist with a possessiveness that feels both foreign and inevitable, fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to convince himself you're real, that you're actually here letting him have this.

Him. The way his voice has shed every layer of the polished persona everyone else gets to see, stripped down for you to witness. This isn't the quarterback who gives measured interviews or the guy who deflects with jokes when things get too serious. This is someone who sounds like he's been drowning and you're his first breath of air—urgent, grateful, almost humble in the way he whispers your name like it's something sacred he finally gets to claim.

Him. The way he's looking at you now like you've shattered something fundamental in him, pupils blown wide with an intensity that should terrify you but only makes you feel powerful. Like for once in his life, someone has ripped away his guise and found him worthy underneath it all. The disbelief in his eyes wars with hunger, as if he can't quite fathom that you want him back, that this isn't some elaborate dream his mind conjured to torture him with.

"Joe." Your voice finds him in the aftermath, the only thing able to draw him out. It’s the way you say his name like it's the only word left in your vocabulary that does something to him he's not prepared for. It's not the starstruck way fans say it or the casual way his friends throw it around. This is his name shaped by your lips, softened by what just happened, and it sounds like something he's never heard before but can't wait to hear again and again. 

He can't look away from your face, flushed and glowing in the dim light, lips still parted like you might say it again. The weight of you still settled against him feels like his compass, something he can hold onto when everything else in his life feels temporary.

In the short time since you crashed into his life, you've become his true north in a world that's always spinning too fast, grounding him when he's spent years drifting.

This isn't the first time he's thought about having you like this, but it started long before any physical attraction. When you showed him a side of yourself no one else would've dared to the first time around with him—sharp-tongued and unimpressed, calling him out like his reputation meant nothing to you. That's what ultimately drew him in.

It made him keep coming back for more, chasing glimpses of the real you beneath the costume you wore for everyone else.

He just didn't think it would end up like this despite all his deepest hopes. He didn't foresee it all just... falling into his lap, especially after the scrutiny you faced because of just a mere picture. He couldn't ever imagine you ever looking at him the way you are now, like he's worth the risk of everything you've worked for, every negative thing his presence may or may not bring along.

For years, he's been convinced that wanting something this much was a guarantee he'd lose it, that the universe had a way of taking away anything that mattered before he could really claim it. But even through the fog of your body still pressed against his, reality creeps back in. Your words from earlier haunt his mind: After this, it's over.

"Did you mean it?" His hands are still spanning along your waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your skin because he's trying to memorize the feel of you since this may truly be his last chance to hold you. "What you said before?"

Watching your face closely, he searches for any sign of regret or fear. The rational part of him knows he should want you to say yes, he should want the clean break that would protect you both. But the selfish part—the part that's been starving for this, for you—is terrified you'll pull away.

"...No." Your voice is barely audible, but Joe’s ears pick the sound of it up anyways. Your eyes find his with a new vulnerability that makes his chest ache. "I don't think so." Your voice gets stronger, more certain with each word. "I just don't want this to ruin everything."

The relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost painful. His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to process what you've just given him. Permission. Choice. The thing he's been too afraid to wish for.

"It won't," The promise tastes like it's been found somewhere deep inside him, because even though every part of him is screaming in rejoice, he needs to make sure you're okay first. “We'll be careful. We can be smart about this.”

The light turns green and someone behind you honks, but it takes a moment for the sound to register. Marcel's. You know Marcel's—it's the kind of place that costs more for one dinner than you spend on groceries in a month. The kind of place where you need reservations three weeks out and they don't even list prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

You've never been there, but you've walked past it enough times to know. Floor-to-ceiling windows that glow with warm amber light, servers who make ten times more in tips in one night than you make cheering year ‘round. Every detail designed for couples leaning across small tables, savoring expensive wine and conversations that sound like secrets. 

The worst part of it all is the timing. Last night you'd been home, surrounded by textbooks and an empty trenta americano, cramming for your first major exam while your phone sat silent on your desk. But while you were calculating force vectors and memorizing muscle origins, reviewing flashcards until your eyes burned and the words started blurring together, Joe was apparently having a "very cozy, very romantic" dinner with someone else. 

Someone who wasn't you. Someone who was worth Marcel's.

Common sense says this shouldn’t matter. You and Joe aren't anything—you've exchanged some texts, had one phone call, and shared a few moments in empty rooms. That's not a relationship. That's barely even a friendship. He's free to take whoever he wants to overpriced restaurants, and you're free to not care about it.

Except you do care, and that realization sits sickly in your empty stomach as you navigate through downtown traffic.

Your phone buzzes again. Drew, probably wanting to dissect every word of the blind item, but you can't deal with that conversation right now. Not when you're twenty minutes away from doing something that definitely qualifies as caring way too much about Joe Burrow's dinner plans.

The text that started this whole thing had come through this morning, right after your 8 AM lecture. You'd been walking across campus, coffee in one hand and your bag sliding off your shoulder, when your phone lit up with his name.

joeyb_9 Still having trouble with that ankle?

Simple enough, cordial.

y/n.y/l/n eh

y/n.y/l/n a little

joeyb_9 I could show you the right way to tape it if you want

joeyb_9 Actually show you this time instead of trying to explain over the phone

You stopped walking entirely, causing the student behind you to nearly collide with your back and mutter something about paying attention. His message was an invitation to cross lines that had been drawn specifically to keep you apart. Yet, that didn’t stop you.

y/n.y/l/n where

joeyb_9 Training facility's locked after six. Could do it at my place

And there it was. The line, drawn clearly in the sand, waiting for you to cross it. His place, not some neutral location where you could maintain the pretense that this was purely about your health. His house, where you'd be alone, where boundaries would mean absolutely nothing because you’ve already gone far past them.

y/n.y/l/n idk if that's a good idea

joeyb_9 Why not

Because Linda would add it to her incident report. 

Because my teammates would never look at me the same way. 

Because I'm already in too deep and spending time alone with you in your house will only make it worse. 

Because I can't afford to care about yo— this as much as I already do.

y/n.y/l/n you know why

joeyb_9 I have better supplies at home anyways

joeyb_9 Plus I can make dinner

The mention of dinner stirred up a dangerous sort of warmth within you. What was he trying to accomplish here?

joeyb_9 Unless you're scared

That last message arrived right as you were walking into your lab. The professor was already talking, so you shoved your phone into your bag without responding, but the word "scared" echoed in your head for the entire two-hour session. Scared like this was some sort of joke, him talking like it’s a lighter matter than what it actually feels like to you. By the time you got out, three more messages were waiting.

joeyb_9 That was a joke

joeyb_9 Bad joke

joeyb_9 But the offer stands if you actually want help 

Maybe you were reading into things that weren't there. You could be an adult about this.

y/n.y/l/n what time

joeyb_9 Seven work?

y/n.y/l/n ok

joeyb_9 I'll send you my address

That was eight hours ago. Eight hours to change your mind, to come up with an excuse, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea. Eight hours to think about what Linda would say, what your teammates would think, what the internet would do with this information if it somehow got out.

But you also had eight hours to rationalize this as a medical necessity, for lack of better terms, rather than whatever else it may be. Eight hours to remember how desperately you'd needed this exact help all weekend.

The weekend was the team's official rest period before the season opener on Sunday, which meant no practice, no mandatory conditioning sessions, just seventy-two hours to let your body recover before everything that mattered actually started. Seventy-two hours that you'd spent rotating between your couch and your desk, attempting to retape your ankle every morning and watching it fail by evening.

Your phone stayed frustratingly quiet when it came to the one person you'd been half-hoping to hear from. Each time it buzzed with a notification, your pulse would quicken for half a second before disappointment settled in—another email from school, another message about weekend plans you wouldn’t be attending, another reminder about upcoming assignments. Never the follow up to that one conversation some traitorous part of you kept expecting.

That's what made Joe's text this morning feel like a salvation wrapped in temptation. Because as much as you wanted to pretend this was about something else, your ankle really did need help. And he was the only one who'd managed to make it feel normal again.

And then DeuxMoi had posted about his dinner date, and suddenly the “medical necessity” argument felt a lot less convincing.

The GPS on your phone announces that you've arrived at your destination, and you realize you've been driving on autopilot for the last ten minutes, your body going through the motions while your mind spun in circles. Joe's house sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in one of Ohio’s nicer neighborhoods, the kind where the lawns look professionally maintained and the mailboxes are personalized.

You pull into the driveway and stare up at the house through your windshield. Warm light spills from the windows, and you can see the outline of furniture, artwork on the walls. This is the house of someone who can afford dinner at Marcel’s without checking their bank account first. 

Your phone lights up again with Drew's name, probably wondering why you've gone radio silent, but you flip it face down without looking. You can't handle her right now—her and her inevitable questions about whether you think it's true, whether you're okay, whether this changes anything. Because the honest answer is that you don't know, and you're not okay, and you have no idea what any of this means.

Sitting in your car outside Joe Burrow's house, you're forced to confront some uncomfortable truths about how you ended up here.

The ankle excuse only goes so far. Yes, you've been in pain for days. Yes, his tape job had worked better than anything you ever managed on your own before. Yes, you need proper instructions if you're going to keep participating without making this injury worse. All of that is true.

But it's also true that you could have gone to the team trainers. You could have made an appointment with sports medicine, could have swallowed your pride and admitted that you needed professional help. There were a dozen ways to handle this that didn't involve being alone with Joe in his house, and you dismissed every single one of them.

Deep down, you’ve already know the real truth, the one you've been avoiding endlessly. You wanted to come here. Despite the risks, a part of you had been hoping, waiting, for this invitation.

And now you're sitting outside his house, reading about his date with someone else, wondering if you've completely misread everything. Maybe the phone call hadn't been as changing as you'd thought. Maybe those instances from afar were just your imagination creating meaning where none existed—same with what happened in the dressing room. For all you know, you're just another teammate to him, someone whose injury he's willing to help with because he's a decent person, not because there's anything special about you.

You had let yourself hope regardless of knowing better. 

Checking the time on your phone, you're already late, but you can't seem to make yourself get out of the car. Every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a mistake, that you should text him some excuse and drive home to your pile of homework and your wounded pride. Instead, you grab your purse, check your reflection in the rearview mirror one more time, and walk up to his front door.

Your finger hovers over the doorbell for a long moment, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. Once you ring it, there's no taking this back. Once you step inside his house, you're crossing into uncharted territories. But then, the door is opening before you can ring the bell, and Joe fills the doorway like he was made for it. He’s changed into dark athletic shorts that fit him perfectly and a gray shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the solid lines of his chest beneath it, the thin fabric clinging enough that every shift of muscle is visible when he moves. His hair is slightly mussed like he’s run his hands through it one too many times, each strand falling where it wants, and he smells faintly of cedarwood and soap—clean in a way that still carries the warmth of him underneath.

"Hey," he greets, stepping aside to let you in. You wonder how long he watched you sit in your car, wrestling with your own indecision. The thought makes your body warm as you step past him into the foyer, trying not to think about how pathetic you must have looked out there.

His hardwood floors gleam under the light, polished to the point you catch your own reflection if you glance down. The house is even nicer inside than it looked from the street. Everything is perfectly arranged but not sterile, lived-in but not messy. You keep your eyes moving, anywhere but on him, before finally breaking the silence. “Sorry I’m late,” you manage, catching his expression as you add, “traffic.”

"All good. Was just finishing up." 

Joe leads you through the living room towards the dining room, and you find yourself noting details as you walk, trying to memorize them for later when you're back in your own space and wondering if this really happened. There are random photographs placed here and there—family pictures, team photos, a few that look like they were taken during his college years at LSU. There’s one photo in particular that catches your attention: Joe in his LSU uniform, younger in the face, cheeks still carrying a trace of boyish roundness. He’s holding up a trophy like it weighs nothing, the gleam of it secondary to the expression on his face. His grin is wide and unguarded, the kind of smile that seems to light from the inside out, and you almost don’t recognize him. He looks so happy, so purely joyful. 

You can only imagine the roar of the crowd behind him, the chaos of purple and gold confetti drifting down and decorating the field. This is what success looks like, you think. Not the polished award ceremonies or city-wide parades honoring you, but this; sweat-streaked and euphoric, caught in that split second when every ounce of hard work finally pays off. This is what it means to touch your dreams and know they’re real.

"Your house is beautiful." It’s true, and it gives you something to put into the silence that was getting uncomfortable.

"I’m still getting used to it honestly. Spent so long in dorms and apartments that having this much space feels weird sometimes." There’s a vulnerable quality to his words, a flicker of hesitation that doesn’t belong to the polished image everyone else sees. For a second, it’s easy to picture the kid from Ohio who never imagined standing in a house like this at his age, let alone calling it his. The words hang between you, stripped of the practiced ease he shows the world, leaving someone far more uncertain than you expected.

In the dining room, warm chandelier light casts shadows across cream-colored walls. Joe settles into his chair, leaving you the one across from him where the seat has already been pulled out. You slide into the chair, and the smell hits you first—rosemary and garlic, something rich and buttery that makes your mouth water despite the knot in your stomach.

There’s chicken breast that gleams with perfect diamond grill marks seared into golden skin. Sautéed vegetables arranged in precise clusters, asparagus spears aligned like they’ve been measured, carrots cut into identical lengths. Even the pasta looks divine, each piece coated in what appears to be a butter sauce that catches in the light. 

The chicken cuts apart seamlessly, juices spilling out as you take your first bite. Layers of flavor hit your tongue, and you hum lightly in surprise. Joe can cook? Your eyes glance up, finding him already looking back with his eyebrows raised, waiting for your reaction.

Before giving a final verdict, your fork stabs into the pasta next. More flavors spill through, a welcomed surprise that doesn't match anything you'd expect Joe to make. To you, he's always seemed more like the type to live off grilled chicken and plain rice, broccoli on the side, maybe some seasoning salt if he's feeling risky. Your eyes dart around his kitchen behind him, counters conspicuously bare of any pots or pans you'd expect to see after such an intricate meal.

"You made this?"

Joe’s fork clinks against his plate as he sets it down. “‘Course I did.” His tone is clipped, like he can’t believe you’d even ask, but there’s a flicker in his expression—something caught between pride and defensiveness—that makes you bite back a smile despite everything else at hand.

"Huh." You reach for your water glass, mind wandering. Someone like Joe definitely has a private chef, one who probably comes in a few times a week and stocks his fridge with meals that look exactly like this. The chandelier light catches the condensation on your glass as you take a sip, eyes wandering back to the spotless kitchen. Not even a cutting board in sight.

"It's really good."

His shoulders relax, the tiniest bit of tension falling from them. “Good.”

The conversation that follows is stilled, punctuated by long stretches of silence that feel more weighted than they should. You both comment on the food, mention the weather, ask safe questions about work and school. Your fork moves more than it needs to, cutting pieces smaller and smaller while you search for something safe to say. There's a wall between you that wasn't fully there before, and you're not sure if you're thankful for it, or if it makes you even more nervous. Every neutral topic feels like you're both avoiding something else, though you can't safely name what that something is.

Joe asks about your classes, and you tell him more about your PT program, try to walk him through some of your classes. He listens and asks questions that suggest he's actually paying attention, but it's like part of his mind distracted. His eyes occasionally drift, lingering on his glass, the far corner of the room, the chandelier swaying slightly overhead, before they return to you. He's present, yet there’s that quiet part of him that feels elsewhere, unreachable at the moment. 

"So," you hum, poking at the last bits of food on your plate. "How was your weekend?"

"Just stayed in," he says finally, reaching for his water. His tone is casual, dismissive even, but there's a deliberate quality to it that makes you wonder what he's holding back on saying. "Had some stuff to catch up on."

You nod like that settles it, though the answer sticks uneasily. You’re not about to call him out, not when you don’t even have the right to. The chicken suddenly tastes like cardboard, each bite heavier than the last, but you keep chewing anyway, washing it down with a sip of water that does little to clear the disappointment settling in your chest. Your fork scrapes against the plate as you push food around, more for something to do with your hands than any real appetite.

Joe sets his glass down with a soft thud, then clears the last bite from his plate. The silence that follows presses uncomfortably at the edges, so you lean forward, forcing brightness into your voice. “Here, let me help with these,” you offer, fingers already sliding toward his plate.

His hand covers yours, stilling your movement. "Don't worry about it. I'll deal with them later." His fingers are warm against your knuckles, and you can feel the calluses from years of his career. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up your arm, and you're suddenly noticing the way his thumb brushes across your knuckles before he realizes what he's doing. The touch lasts maybe two seconds too long before he pulls away, standing and gesturing toward the living room. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll grab what we need and be right back."

You hesitate, fingers curling loosely at your side, the ghost of the contact still prickling across your skin. Right. Your ankle. While trying to navigate dinner, you'd forgotten what tonight was actually about. The whole thing that justified you driving to his house to begin with, sitting at his dinner table, and pretending this was all perfectly normal. Your chair legs scrape faintly against the floor as you push back and stand, a sound that feels too sharp in the loaded silence. 

Walking into the living room you notice how shadows stretch across the floors and pool in corners where the warm lighting doesn't reach. Spotless windows line the far wall, glass so clear it seems to erase the boundary between inside and out. Only hints of it are visible: a patio staged with furniture that looks untouched, the pale outline of a pool catching a shimmer of light on its still surface.

You hover near the couch, hands clasped behind your back and posture tight like you’ve been caught somewhere you’re not supposed to be. Everything about the room feels curated and intentional. The sofa alone looks custom, buttery leather shaped into clean lines, probably one of those one of a kind ones. You can't bring yourself to just sink into it like you belong here.

Lost in the view, you almost miss the soft thud of something being set down, the quiet rustle of packaging. When you turn, Joe is arranging various items on the coffee table—medical tape, scissors, and what looks like pre-wrap. 

"You planning to perform surgery?" you ask, nodding toward his collection.

Joe glances up from his arrangement, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. "Just want to do it right this time." Was it not right the first time he did it? He tilts his head toward the couch, tone carrying that quiet authority you've heard countless times from the sidelines, learning silently from afar not to question it. "Sit."

The leather is cool against the back of your legs as you settle onto the edge of the cushion. Joe rises from beside the table only to lower himself into a crouch directly in front of you. The position mirrors that first day on the practice field so perfectly it makes your brain fuzzy—his focused eyes level with yours before dropping to examine your ankle. You force yourself to sit still and breathe evenly, not to pick apart the tilt of his brow or the set of his mouth for meanings that aren’t there.

Extending your leg, your heel comes to rest against the coffee table edge. His hands bracket your calf as his thumbs find the edge of the tape you'd applied that morning. The old tape comes away in strips, leaving your skin slightly red where the adhesive had pulled. Joe's touch becomes even lighter, brushing over the marks with extra care. You clamp down on the thought that it feels gentler than it needs to be, telling yourself he’s just being considerate.

Reaching for the pre-wrap he has pulled out, he unrolls a section. “You need to start using this with how often you're taping it." He holds it in front of you as if you’ve never seen the foam material before. “It’ll keep the tape from tearing up your skin like this." His thumb presses against one of the red lines again, not enough to hurt, just enough to show you like you hadn’t already noticed two days ago.

You nod along anyways, because there’s still something to his way of doing things that you’re unsure of, and you don’t want to push him away before you reach that point of knowledge. Your gaze traces the sure way his hands work. "Where did you learn to do this?"

"My high school trainer. Guy named Mike Carter." He starts wrapping. "I was this cocky sophomore who thought I knew everything. Kept coming to him with half-assed tape jobs that were making things worse."

"Sounds familiar," you murmur, and he huffs out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah, well, Mike got tired of fixing my mistakes. One day he sat me down and said if I was going to keep playing through injuries—which he couldn't stop me from doing—then I better learn to do it right." Joe's hands work steadily as he talks, the pre-wrap creating a smooth barrier against your skin. "Spent hours teaching me. Said it wasn't just about the technique, it was about understanding what your body needs."

"Smart guy."

"The smartest. He probably saved my career before it even started." Joe reaches for the tape now, anchoring it at your midfoot. "Also taught me that taking care of yourself isn't weakness. That was a hard lesson for sixteen-year-old me."

You study his face as he works, noting the slight softening around his eyes when he talks about Mike. There's genuine affection there, respect for someone who clearly made an impact on his younger self. Your conversation pauses as he explains how the tape needs to cross behind your heel then back around to anchor on the other side. Too loose and it won't provide support. Too tight and you cut off circulation. You make sure to remember the way he does it this time—no more questions on too loose, too firm, too… whatever.

"Does it scare you? Getting hurt?" Your question comes after his demonstration, softer than you intended, too caught up in all his words.

His hands pause, tape suspended from where he stopped. When he looks up, there's something raw in his expression, unguarded in a way you rarely see from him. "Terrifies me," he admits quietly. "Every play, every hit, every time I scramble out of the pocket. One wrong step, one bad tackle, and everything changes."

"But you do it anyway."

"But I do it anyway." He continues wrapping as you track each motion, memorizing the way he angles the tape into clean figure-eights around your ankle. "Because being afraid of getting hurt is no way to live. And because this—" he gestures briefly, a sweep that takes in the house, the photographs, the milestones scattered across shelves, his whole career in curated fragments, "—makes the risk worth the reward."

You want to ask if you're worth any risk, if whatever is happening between you is worth the potential consequences. But the words stick in your throat, feeling too vulnerable to voice out loud.

"There," Joe smooths the final strip into place with his palm, firm at first and then lighter, as if setting it just so. "How’s that feel?"

You flex your foot experimentally, testing the support. It's perfect, the support is immediate and noticeable, much better than what you’ve been doing from memory and half-assed instructions. "Like you know what you're doing."

"I should hope so by now." His fingers trace along the edge of the tape, following the lines he's just created with featherlight touches as if checking over his work. It shouldn’t feel special, but it does, at least to you. Especially when his touch slows, skimming instead of pressing, feeling more and more intentional with each pass.

And then he traces higher and higher, fingertips ghosting over your calf. He’s testing you, seeing how far you’ll let him go. Your pulse kicks up and you wonder if he feels it through vibrating your skin. Somewhere between his gentle way about things and the way his eyes kept flicking up to meet yours, this stopped being about the “medical necessity”.

You should thank him and call it a night. Walk away so you can each go back to your normal, respective lives. 

But his hands are so warm and so sure, you can still smell faint traces of his cologne underneath it all, and it makes you want to lean closer. God, when did you become this person? Sitting here with a guy you hardly know, letting this happen. You have a paper due tomorrow and two exams next week—bigger problems that don’t involve Joe Burrow in any way, shape, or form. 

Your brain is cycling through a million thoughts at once. The way your mom always said you’re too smart to waste time on boys who didn't see you. Drew's voice in your head telling you to stop overthinking everything for once in your life. How bad Coach would lose her mind if she knew you were here right now, with Joe. The DeuxMoi post that's been eating at you all evening because what if it's true and you're just some idiot reading into things that aren't there—

"I saw the post," you blurt out.

Joe's hand falls still. "What post?"

"About dinner. At Marcel's."

The space between you tightens with the weight of your admission, humming like a drawn wire. Joe's expression doesn't change, but you catch the tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw shifts.

"And?" he says finally, his voice carefully modulated.

"And nothing. I just... I saw it."

"Did you believe it?"

Your thoughts trip over themselves, scattering into noise you can’t untangle fast enough. "I don't know. Should I?"

"What would it change if you did?"

"I don't know that either."

"Then why bring it up?"

You don't have a good answer for that, at least not one you're willing to share. Because you couldn't stop thinking about it? The idea of you with someone else made me feel sick and it shouldn’t? I needed to know if what I thought was happening between us was actually something or just in my head?

"I couldn't care less about your dating life," you lie, the bite in your tone giving you away instantly.

"Dating life," he repeats, smile tugging wider and amusement flickering in his eyes again, all as if you’ve given him something to toy with. "Is that what you think it was? A date?"

Heat pricks at the back of your neck. He’s twisting your words, stretching them thin just to watch you flinch, and the worst part is that it’s working. "Wasn't it?"

"You tell me. You're the one who seems to have it all figured out."

"I don't have anything figured out," you fire back, latching onto the words before he can stack another assumption on you.

"No? Because you seem pretty convinced I took someone on a romantic dinner last night."

"The post said—"

"The post said a lot of things. Doesn't make them true."

"So it wasn't true?"

"Which part?"

"Any of it. All of it. I don't know." You're getting frustrated with his non-answers, the way he keeps turning your questions back on you like this is some kind of verbal chess match. You’ve heard he likes the real game, that he studies openings and traps just as intently as the way other guys study their film, and right now you feel like he’s using the same strategy on you—nudging you into corners, making you second-guess every move before you’ve even made it. "Were you at Marcel's last night or not?"

"Yeah, I was."

"With someone?"

"With someone."

"Was it a date?" you ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds, how vulnerable.

"What would you do if I said yes?"

He gives nothing more than the bare minimum, each answer neat and contained, but it’s the ease that gets to you—the way he can sit there calm and unbothered while you’re the one fraying at the edges. It pisses you off, makes you want to snap at him just to see if he’ll finally break. And yet, it’s become one of the things you’re drawn to most. That quiet armor, like a puzzle he doles out piece by piece. You’ve come to crave it, not just the steadiness, but the chance that one time you’ll catch him slipping. That you’ll be the one to finally uncurl the edges and see what’s underneath.

"I'd probably leave." It’s half a bluff, half a hope, because you’re not sure you’d actually go, but some part of you wants to believe you could.

"And if I said no?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know," he draws the words out slowly. His other hand comes up, fingers finding the curve of your knee. "That's honest, at least."

Maybe you should let him have his little game, but the way he sits there so sure of himself makes your stomach twist. You don’t want him to have the win again, he doesn’t deserve it again.  “Are you going to answer me?”

"Are you jealous?" His voice is smooth, unhurried, the kind of ease that makes it impossible to tell if he’s joking or not.

"Jealous?"

"Jealous," he repeats with hands shifting higher, both thumbs moving idly against your skin, tracing shapes that send a shiver racing through you. "Of some mystery woman I may or may not have had dinner with."

You can't think straight with his hands on you like this. Can't form a coherent response when he's looking at you like that. "I told you, I don't care about—"

"Right. Your exact words were 'couldn't care less.'" His thumb presses slightly harder, finding a spot that makes you inhale sharply.

The pressure sends a jolt through you, and suddenly you're back in that dressing room sitting on the poorly cushioned bench, back on the field sitting on the bleachers. Whenever something became too serious, whenever the questions got too hard or scratched something too close to the truth, he'd done exactly this. 

It's a pattern. His true strategy. When you get too close to something he doesn't want to discuss, he deflects. And you fall for it every single time, your brain short-circuiting until nothing remains in it but whatever is at hand. He knows exactly what he's doing.

The realization should make you pull away, should make you demand a real answer. Instead, it does something else entirely—sending heat pooling low in your stomach because now you know this isn't accidental. Every touch, every word, every glance is calculated. He's been testing you from the beginning, seeing how far he can push, how much control he can take without you even realizing it.

"So if it doesn't matter, why are we talking about it?"

"Maybe you care more than you want to admit." His hands move higher, fingers dancing along the sensitive skin behind your knees. Your jean shorts feel too restrictive suddenly, the air in the room too thick. "Maybe you don't like the idea of me with someone else."

You can barely breathe, let alone speak. Every nerve in you is focused on his touch, on the way his fingers seem to know exactly where to press to make you forget how to think, how to lie, how to keep anything from spilling out that you don’t want him to hear.

"Maybe," you whisper.

Joe’s eyes darken, the difference subtle but unmistakable. His hands slide up, palms firm against your thighs, fingertips slipping just under the hem of your shorts. The contact is nothing and everything at once—barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle and your breath catch. He doesn’t rush or push, it’s like he’s memorizing the reaction written across your body, and even the smallest of shifts is another answer you didn’t mean to give him. And the worst part—the best part—is that you don’t stop him.

"It wasn't a date." His voice is almost a whisper, but the words hit you all the same. Relief floods through you so quickly it's embarrassing, and you know he can see it in your face. "My publicist was in town.”

You feel stupid for caring, stupider for being so obvious about it. "Oh."

"Oh," he echoes, mocking your breathless tone. His thumbs press harder against your skin, the faint drag of his blunt nails catching as though he wants you to feel every last bit of it. "You really thought I'd invite you over here if I was seeing someone else?"

"I don't know what you'd do."

"No, you don't." His hands spread wide across your thighs, claiming more space. The weight of them is an anchor and storm at once, steadying you while making you want to come apart entirely. You know this is exactly what Linda warned you against, what people would lose their minds over if they knew. But your body has other plans, every part of you tuned to his touch, craving more despite every logical reason to stop.

"You don't know me at all." There's something dangerous in his tone, like he's admitting secrets of his you're not ready to hear.

"Then tell me." 

"Tell you what?"

"Something. Anything." You're pleading now and you hate it, hate how desperate you sound. "I feel like I'm going crazy trying to figure you out."

Joe's laugh is low and rough. "You want to know something about me?" His right hand abandons your thigh, fingers trailing upward, over your ribs, your sternum, your collarbone and up your neck until his thumb brushes along your jawline. "I think you're making a mistake being here."

The words should make you pull away and should snap you back to reality. But instead, they make you lean in closer, waiting for what's to come next. "Why?" 

"Because you're too smart for this." His thumb brushes your bottom lip. "Too smart to get caught up with someone like me."

"Someone like you?"

"Someone who's going to ruin things for you." His thumb presses down, pulling at your lip slightly, watching the way it springs back when he lets go. You’re nearly positive he’s less interested in the touch, than in the proof that you’ll let him. "Someone who's not going to be able to stop."

Your nails dig into the leather beneath you. "Stop what?"

Instead of answering, he does it again—thumb dragging across your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to part your mouth. The gesture is more this time, like he’s savoring it. You see by the change in his eyes, pupils dilating as he watches your reaction this time.

"This is stupid," he murmurs, but his other hand tightens on your thigh, contradicting his words. "You should leave."

"Do you want me to leave?"

The question hangs between you for a heartbeat, two, three. You feel your chest ache from the breath you’re keeping, clinging to the hope he’ll say what you need. “No.”

"Then stop telling me to."

Something new in his face comes to light, breaking past the last bit of restraint he’s been clinging to. His thumb brushes once against your face again, slower this time like he’s making absolutely sure you won’t pull away. The space between you narrows in increments, unbearable in its pace. You’re able to feel his breath on your lips before he even moves, the heat of him this close is enough to make your head swim. Your hands twitch at your sides, desperate to close the distance, but you stay frozen, suspended in that impossible second where you know exactly what’s about to happen and wouldn’t dare to make a run from it.

His hand glides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers digging into the skin there as he pulls you forward. The first brush of his lips is careful, almost tentative, but the restraint doesn’t last. The kiss deepens, gathering force until it overtakes you—hungrier with each little bit you give him as if he’s been swallowing this urge down for far longer than you ever dared let yourself believe.

Your mind blanks, all the circling thoughts that have been gnawing at you fall away in an instant. This is clarity, bright and brutal. You finally understand why every moment, everything to do with Joe Burrow felt like standing too close to the edge of a pit. You melt into him, hands fisting in his shirt like you’ll go under if you don’t hold on. He seizes on the response, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against yours until something between a whimper and a plea slips from you. He groans into your mouth, hands digging into your plush skin.

Without breaking the kiss, Joe shifts backwards, settling on the floor and against the coffee table, pulling you with him. The movement is fluid, practiced, like he's been planning this the whole time. His hands find your hips, guiding you forward until you're straddling his lap, knees on either side of him. The new position changes everything. Heat blooms where your bodies press together, the solid strength of him beneath you making your thoughts pause temporarily to make space for this welcomed intrusion. His hands span across your torso, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric of your shirt.

When you pull apart, you’re both left gasping, breath sharp with the imprint of him. His hair is mussed where your fingers ran through it, lips reddened and swollen, lungs dragging air like he can’t stop chasing you. 

You try to steady yourself, but your thoughts scatter in every which direction. This isn’t just a kiss anymore; it’s a line crossed, a door kicked open. The weight of it presses down insistently, demanding you name it, define it. Is this a one-time slip, something you’ll both pretend never happened tomorrow? Or is this the moment you stop pretending altogether? The silence between you feels dangerous, heavy with possibility, and it claws at you until you can’t take it anymore.

"What happens now?" you accidentally break the silence you swore you’d hold in exchange for an answer.

Joe’s fingers pass along your body, buying himself time. "We don't have to think about that right now." He breathes the words against your skin, each syllable an evasion wrapped in comfort.

"Joe—"

"Right now is enough," he murmurs, pulling you back down to him, lips brushing against yours as he speaks. "Everything else can wait."

And it does wait. The consequences, the meetings, the careful choreography of keeping your distance—all of it dissolves into this moment stretched thin and golden between you. You kiss until your lips feel bruised and your hands shake from grasping ahold of him so tightly. You kiss until the taste of him becomes something you believe you'll carry with you long after tonight. You kiss until the sound of rain starts drumming against the windows, a gentle percussion that pulls you both back to the surfaces of reality.

When he finally walks you to the door, hand ghosting against your lower back, neither of you speak. The silence feels fragile, like words might shatter whatever unspoken understanding you've reached. You turn back once, finding him framed in the doorway with light spilling out behind him. Something passes between you that feels like a promise, but could be a warning with the way he’s staring back, looking as if he’s holding himself back from pulling you back into his arms.

Driving home through the rain slicked streets, you catch yourself touching your lips, still swollen from his kisses, more than once. This may the beginning of something or the end of everything you've worked for, but all you know is that when you close your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his hands on your skin, still taste the desperation in his kiss.

It had started awkwardly, with a tentative hello, and there was this second of silence where neither of you seemed to know how to begin. Then, Joe cut straight to the point. What followed was probably the most frustrating twenty minutes of your life. Joe tried to walk you through what he had done, but your were hands shaking from a combination of pain and nerves. Every instruction seemed to make less sense than the last—him telling you to start at your arch, explaining the figure-eight pattern, describing tension levels you couldn't see or feel through the phone. You kept having to ask him to repeat himself, which only made you feel more incompetent than where you started.

The breaking point came when you'd completely botched another attempt and he'd grown impatient with your inability to follow his directions. You snapped back that maybe he was just “bad at explaining things”, and he immediately fired back with “maybe you’re just bad at following them". The silence that followed was deafening.

You sat there on your couch, tape hanging uselessly from your fingers, ready to hang up and just deal with the pain. And then, maybe it was the absurdity of arguing with Joe Burrow over the phone about taping an ankle in the early morning hours, or maybe you were just delirious from exhaustion, but suddenly you were laughing. It was the ridiculousness of getting yelled at by Joe over the phone that was hilarious.

On the other half of the line was still silence at first, before a low chuckle came through that grew into genuine laughter. From there, something between the two of you clicked. Maybe because you'd both stopped trying so hard, or maybe the laughter had broken down some invisible barrier, but suddenly his instructions made sense. He'd walked you through each step again—starting low at your arch, creating that stable base, wrapping in a figure-eight pattern with firm but not tight tension. You found yourself actually following his guidance instead of fighting it, and slowly, carefully, you managed to create something that resembled his work.

Before hanging up, Joe quickly asked if you would be at practice tomorrow, and when you said yes, he just said “good,” in that simple, steady way that somehow stayed with you long after the call ended.

Ivy stops curling her hair long enough to give you a look in the mirror, pulling you back from the memory. "Okay but the picture looked..." She trails off, clearly fishing for more details.

"Looked like what?" You're trying to keep your voice light, but there's a defensive edge creeping in that you hope they don't notice. Your fingers work through the tangles in your hair with more force than necessary, the brush catching and pulling in a way that makes your scalp sting. Each tug feels like punishment for the thoughts you can't seem to control—the way your mind keeps drifting back to that moment.

Honestly, you’re not sure how to categorize everything that has happened this past week—namely Joe. You’re usually good at keeping different parts of your life separate and manageable. School goes in one box, cheerleading in another, friends and family in a third. It's a system that's served you well, kept you focused and driven toward your goals. But Joe... Joe doesn't fit neatly into any category, and that makes you uncomfortable in ways you're not ready to look into.

"I don't know," Maliyah caps her mascara and turns to face you fully, her amber eyes sharp with curiosity. "Like, he was really, really focused on you."

The hairbrush freezes in your hand completely.

Because she's right, and the knowing tone in her voice tells you she's unknowingly already beginning to connect dots you've been trying to ignore. You can still see Joe's face in perfect detail—that careful concentration, eyebrows slightly furrowed in a way that made him look younger somehow. The way his hands had stilled completely when he hit that spot that was already tender, eyes flicking up to yours for just a second before dropping back down. And the way, just after he'd finished, his thumb had pressed against the tape one final time, testing the edges even though you both knew it was already secure.

You force the brush through another tangle, harder this time. "He was focused because he was trying to help," the words feel hollow, even to you, because focused doesn't explain why the pain seemed to fade out of worry the second his hands were on you.

"Okay, but—" Ivy starts, but you cut her off.

"Seriously, there's nothing else to tell." The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, especially when you see the way Maliyah and Ivy exchange a look. These are supposed to be your closest friends on the squad, the people you tell everything to. The guilt sits heavy in your chest as you watch your friends clearly wanting to push for more information, but holding back because they can sense your reluctance. You hate lying to them, but the alternative feels so much worse.

And it's not that you don't trust Maliyah or Ivy specifically, but you've seen how information travels in this environment. Someone overhears something in the locker room, mentions it to their roommate, who tells her boyfriend, who shares it with his buddies. Before you know it, your private moment becomes public property.

The call especially feels too precious, too fragile to risk. That moment belongs to you, and sharing it with them feels like it would somehow either diminish its importance, or blow it out of proportion.

"Well, I just think it's weird how they're keeping you separated today," Maliyah speaks finally, and you can tell she's changing the subject for your benefit, though her eyes still hold traces of that earlier curiosity. "Like, obviously separated."

She's not wrong. When they announced the photo schedule this morning, your name had been conspicuously absent from any shots involving the quarterback, or even the offense for that matter. You're grouped with defensive players and some of the special teams guys—hardly the glamorous assignments that usually get posted on the main media accounts or used for display.

The exclusion stings more than you want to admit. Not because you crave the spotlight, but because it feels like being erased. It's a reminder that no matter how hard you try to keep your head down and do your job, you're still subject to other people's perceptions and decisions.

"It's probably for the best," you offer, trying to sound like you don't care. "Less drama for everyone." But even as you say it, you can't shake the feeling that you're still being managed, handled just the way they want you. It's probably Linda's doing—keeping you and Joe in separate orbits so there's no chance of another compromising photo. The logic makes sense from an organizational standpoint, but it doesn't make the reality any less humiliating.

It’s hard not to imagine how this looks from the outside, how people will interpret the obvious separation. Anyone paying attention will notice that the girl who was supposedly involved with the quarterback is conspicuously absent from his photo shoots. Some will probably assume it's proof that the rumors were false, that there's nothing worth hiding. Others might read it as confirmation that something did happen and now damage control is in effect.

Either way, your professional reputation takes the hit. Either you're a liar who fabricated drama for attention, or you're someone who crossed professional boundaries and had to be reined in.

Neither narrative does you any favors, and both ignore the simple truth.

"Speaking of drama," Ivy lowers her voice, nodding toward the other side of the dressing room where Stephanie is adjusting camera settings at a nearby table. "Someone's really going all out today." You follow her gaze to where Stephanie is practically vibrating as she checks her equipment. She's the team's social media manager, officially, but everyone knows she has a not-so-subtle thing for Joe.

"I swear she has a whole shrine to him above her bed," Maliyah whispers with barely contained laughter, and you have to bite back your own laugh because you, Ivy, and Maliyah have definitely joked about that exact thing before. The three of you have this running theory that Stephanie's apartment is basically a Joe Burrow museum, complete with candid photos and maybe a few items of clothing she's managed to "accidentally" acquire.

"Did you see her story yesterday?" Ivy asks, pulling up Instagram on her phone. "She posted fifteen different shots, all including him, from practice. Fifteen."

"And they were all the same," Maliyah adds with an eye roll. "Like, we get it, Steph. He's attractive."

Stephanie's fingers are flying over her camera settings with the kind of manic precision that only comes from someone who's been planning this moment for weeks. She keeps checking her phone, scrolling through what you can only assume are reference shots, then back to her camera. There's nearly something predatory about the way she's preparing, like a hunter setting up the perfect trap. You watch as she adjusts her lens for the third time in a minute, her whole body practically humming with anticipation.

"She's been like that all week," Maliyah mentions after following your gaze. "Ever since the whole photo thing happened, she's been extra... in tune."

"In tune is one way to put it," Ivy mutters, and you catch the knowing look the three of you share. It's moments like this that remind you why these friendships matter. And… also remind you how guilty you should be feeling for lying. They know you, understand you in ways that feel increasingly rare as you get older and your lives become more complicated.

"Alright ladies, let's move!" Coach Williams' voice booms through the locker room, cutting through the chatter instantly. "Crew is ready for us. Remember, this is for the media guide and promotional materials, so I want your best!"

The exit from the room is chaotic, twenty some girls trying to funnel through a single doorway while juggling pom-poms, spare hair brushes, and touching up last minute details. It’s by purse luck that the guys were called out earlier. You drag your feet to the back of the crowd, partly because moving quickly still sends uncomfortable jolts through your ankle, and partly because you're in no hurry to face what you're sure will be an (unfortunately) memorable shoot.

As you're walking down the tunnel toward the field, Megan falls into step beside you. It's the first time she's voluntarily come within ten feet of you since the photo leaked, and the sudden proximity makes your shoulders tense automatically. 

"Hey," her tone is scarily normal. "How are you doing?" The question catches you off guard. After being the source of your current nightmare, this interaction is the last thing you expected from her. You study her profile as you walk, trying to read her expression for signs of ulterior motives.

"I'm fine," the phrase comes automatically while making sure to keep your own voice equally neutral.

"Good," there's something that might be genuine relief flickering across her face, and it makes you wonder how much guilt she's been carrying about that damn photo. "I know a lot has happened."

The words hang between you, heavy with subtext. You can see it in the way she won't quite meet your eyes, how her hands fidget with her poms. She knows. She knows that her photo was the match that lit this whole fire, that her moment of ignorance has turned your life upside down. And now she's offering what might be an apology without actually saying the words. It's strange, considering at yesterday’s practice she'd barely looked in your direction—she’d actually moved to a different section when you ended up stretching near her. 

The entire practice had this weird, suffocating atmosphere. The guys were kept on the outdoor field while the girls practiced indoors, in the auxiliary gym that everyone tries to avoid because something is constantly wrong with the old AC unit. Coach Williams claimed it was because of "scheduling conflicts," but you caught the way she avoided your eyes when she said it. Nothing about that day had felt normal or coincidental.

You popped three Tylenol before leaving home, and made sure to pull on socks that would hide your taped ankle underneath. The whole night it was as if everyone was being extra careful about what they said and did. Even the music seemed quieter than usual, and there were more water breaks than normal as if Coach was trying to kill time. You caught some of the other girls stealing glances at you when they thought you weren't looking, their expressions ranging from curious to sympathetic to something that might have been jealous.

And now, part of you wants to make Megan say it—wants to force her to acknowledge what she did. But another part of you is just exhausted by the whole thing, tired of carrying around the anger and resentment that's been eating at you for days. "Yeah, well," you shrug. "It is what it is."

Megan nods, her lips pressing together like she wants to say more but can’t quite get there. She lingers beside you for a few steps, poms twisting nervously in her hands, before finally speaking again.

“I didn’t mean for it to…” She trails off, shaking her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. “I just… I didn’t think.” 

For a second, she doesn’t look like the girl who knows exactly how to lace a smile with poison. She looks younger—more like the Megan from auditions three years ago, when she hadn’t yet learned how to cloak every compliment in something cutting. Back then, you caught her more than once staying late after practice, running extra drills until her face was red and her hair stuck to her temples, desperate to prove she belonged. That glimpse is what tugs at you now, not because you trust her or because you like her, but because it’s startling to see it resurface.

It doesn’t change what she did. It doesn’t undo the fact that she lit the match and watched it burn. But for the first time, you can almost believe she didn’t mean to.

You blink once and the quiet weight of the exchange is gone, replaced by the noise and motion waiting outside. The sun sits low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the turf and turning everything golden. There are photographers scattered around, their equipment cases and extension cords creating an obstacle course on the sidelines, and what looks like half the athletic department's administrative staff hovering nearby.

The entire team is already split into various groups for different shots. You try not to scan for Joe specifically, but your eyes seem to have their own agenda, seeking him out despite your better judgment. He's on the far side of the field with the other offensive players, and even from this distance you can see the way he carries himself, that easy confidence that seems to come so naturally to him.

"Defense and special teams over here!" One of the photographers calls out, waving your group toward the end zone furthest from where Joe is stationed. As you head in that direction, you can't help but notice how the separation couldn't be more obvious if they'd painted a literal line down the middle of the turf.

Your group consists of about eight cheerleaders and twelve players, a mix that makes for some awkward positioning as the photographer tries to arrange everyone in a way that looks somewhat natural. You end up in the second row, squeezed between two defensive linemen who are both at least a foot taller than you. Their shoulders are so broad you're practically disappearing between their massive frames, and when the photographer calls for everyone to get closer, you might as well be invisible.

"Can we get the girls in front?" the photographer sighs, already reshuffling bodies before anyone can respond. It's fine, you remind yourself. Respectable enough considering there are about a thousand other girls who would kill to be in your position. "Alright, everyone look excited to be here," the photographer calls out. "Big smiles, lots of energy!"

You paste on your most convincing, cheerful expression, hoping that being cooperative today will earn you some extra brownie points. What you don’t expect is how easy the defense guys make it. Their energy lightens the whole shoot, goofing around between shots, making stupid jokes, and in general making light of the process. It helps that you've built good relationships with most of them over the years. 

"Y'all had a look at B.J.'s new haircut?" Dax pipes up while the special teams guys break off for their own shots. "Man looks like he got attacked by a weed whacker."

"Better than whatever's happening on your head, Hill," B.J. shoots back, and suddenly they're all roasting each other with the kind of brutal affection that defines male friendships. You find yourself smiling at their antics. These guys don't seem to care about or even be aware of any drama surrounding you. To them, you're just another person doing their job, and it's just the refresh you need after practice yesterday.

"At least we don't spend two hours on our hair like those pretty boys," B.J. adds, nodding toward the offensive line across the field, and you can't help but laugh.

"Says the guy who asked me for haircut inspo last week," you tease back, and the man bashfully ducks his head while the others howl with laughter. Merely seconds later, Geno is going on about the Madden game they spent hours playing last night, bragging about some fourth quarter touchdown. 

Not as interested in the new conversation topic, you find yourself scanning the field out of habit. Joe is in the middle of his group's shoot with a different cluster of cheerleaders. The girls with him are laughing at something one of the linemen said, and he's got a smile on his face. Stephanie is moving around the group with her own camera out, no doubt taking advantage of the opportunity to get some extra content. You have to give it to her—she can be really good at her job when she isn't only focused on one person.

Your eyes scan over the group once more, and Joe... Joe is looking directly at you.

He's got a new look in his eyes, different than what you've seen before. In the conference room, he'd been professionally polite. During practice, the few times you'd interacted, it had been brief and surface-level. But this feels more intentional, more like he's looking for you. Your stomach gives a quick flip before you can stop it, that instinctive little rush you hate yourself for even noticing.

"C'mon girl!" Sarah calls out. "They’re ready for us!" You blink and realize your entire group has moved while you were completely zoned out. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you hurry to catch up, hoping no one noticed where your attention went. 

The photographer repositions everyone for what feels like the hundredth variation of the same shot, and you slip back into the rhythm. Your body moves automatically through each pose, each expression, while your mind keeps drifting to the sound of Stephanie's voice carrying across the field, that breathless enthusiasm that makes your jaw clench underneath a smile because you know who it's all directed toward. 

Today’s shoot is dragging on significantly longer than usual. These are supposed to be basic team photos—normally you'd be wrapped and heading back inside by now. But the photographer keeps asking for "just a few more," which invariably turns into several dozen more as he chases some vision that only exists in his head.

The sun is starting to sink lower in the sky, casting longer shadows across the turf and painting everything in golden light. Sweat is beginning to gather at your hairline despite the cooling air, and your ankle is starting to throb in a way that makes each pose feel like a small endurance test. 

Finally, the photographer lowers his camera and walks toward the monitor set up near midfield. The group shifts anxiously in place as he scrolls through the shots, his sigh carrying all the way back to you. He shakes his head, lips pressed thin, the kind of grim expression that makes all your shoulders slump and stomachs sink. It feels inevitable that he’s about to drag his feet back around and make you stand there until the sun falls and the moon rises.

Then his assistant leans in, pointing at something on the screen. Whatever she says has him rubbing a hand down his face before giving a reluctant nod. His mouth flattens into something caught between resignation and agreement. When he finally turns back to the group, his voice is clipped but merciful as he calls it for your group.

"Thank God," someone mutters behind you, and you hear a collective exhale of relief. Most people start gathering their stuff, talking about hitting up catering before it closes. "I need food like yesterday," one of the linemen announces loudly, already jogging toward the tunnel. You follow the general flow, but your mouth feels like cotton, and the water station is just a quick detour on the way back anyway.

Veering off towards where they've got coolers set up, you grab a water bottle and immediately down half of it. The cold water feels incredible against your throat. You're still drinking when you notice Stephanie's voice continuing from Joe's ongoing individual shoot across the field.

"You’ve gotta work with me here!" 

The other cheerleaders from his group have already headed inside, leaving just him and a couple of offensive players for what looks like the final round of photos. Their photographer is still working, though even he looks worn down—his directions are clipped, movements mechanical like he’s merely going through the motions. One of the guys has given up entirely, stretched flat on the turf with his phone held above his face. The other shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing toward the tunnel as if debating whether it’s worth sticking around.

Stephanie, of course, hasn’t lost steam. She hovers close, voice bright and insistent as she offers suggestions. Every so often she steps in to adjust Joe herself, whatever (probably nothing) from his jersey or nudging his stance a half-inch one way or the other. It’s while she’s fussing that his gaze slides past her, landing on you.

His attention lingers on the water bottle tilted against your lips, then the way your shoulders have loosened. His eyes narrow, then roll, and you catch the faint shift in his posture as he leans away from Stephanie just enough to mouth something in your direction. His lips move, subtly and quick, so much so that at first you think you imagined it, until you lower your water bottle and narrow your eyes.

The shape of it comes clearer the second time: show off. The words stretch across the space between you, punctuated by the grin tugging at his mouth.

You shake your head and mouth back "what?" with exaggerated confusion. He repeats it more obviously this time, definitely calling you a show off, and you can't help the annoyed smile that spreads across your face as you mouth back "shut up" while rolling your eyes.

"Burrow!" Stephanie's scolding cuts through, and you suddenly can't imagine having to work with her more than you already do. "I need you to focus, this is important." Joe snaps back almost immediately, that picture-perfect look sliding into place like a mask, and you take that as your cue to finally head inside. Part of you wonders if he ever gets tired of having to be "on" all the time, or if that fake smile comes so naturally now that he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

The dressing room is empty by the time you make it back in there, everyone likely getting their fix of food before the rest of the guys come in and take what's left. You've ducked in here because your ankle is killing you, the combination of standing on uneven turf and maintaining photo-ready posture for over an hour having pushed your injury well past its limits.

You lower yourself back onto that same torturous bench, carefully extending your leg to ease the building pressure. The tape job you managed this morning, cobbled together from half-remembered phone instructions and sheer stubborn determination, is holding up better than expected, but you can feel fresh swelling around the edges where the adhesive meets skin. Your Tylenol you took before leaving home is wearing off, leaving you with the full force of the pain you've been trying to ignore all day. Each pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo in your ankle, a steady rhythm of discomfort that makes you wonder how you managed to get through those photos without visibly wincing.

You're so focused on gingerly rotating your ankle, testing the limits of movement without aggravating the injury further, that you don't hear the door open behind you. "How is it?" Joe's voice makes you jump hard enough that you nearly topple off the bench entirely.

You twist around to see him standing in the doorway, still in full uniform, helmet tucked under his arm. The sight of him fills the doorway completely and makes the space suddenly feel so much smaller with him in it. All the mirrors reflect back multiple versions of this moment you probably shouldn't be having.

"It's fine." The same automatic deflection you've been using all day, but your voice wavers slightly on the words. 

Joe steps into the room and lets the door swing shut behind him. His movements are controlled, and there's something in his posture that suggests he's as aware as you are of how this could look from an outsider’s perspective.

"That's not an answer," he says, echoing his text from the other night with a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. There's something almost teasing in his tone, like he's enjoying the callback, maybe wondering if you remember yourself.

"It's fine," you repeat, but this time there's less conviction behind the words. The pain medication has definitely worn off, and sitting down has made you acutely aware of just how much your ankle has been throbbing throughout the day.

Joe walks closer, his focus settling on your extended leg. His eyes follow the line of your boot, pausing at the rigid angle of your foot. He watches longer than feels necessary, eyes moving like he’s searching for what you’re trying not to show. "You sure about that? You've been walking wrong all day."

The fact that he noticed sends an unwelcome flutter through your chest. Yes, you caught him looking over a couple times, but with everything else going on—namely the obvious attempt to keep you two apart—he was still paying enough attention to notice.

"I'm managing," you tell him, which feels more honest than claiming you're fine.

"Sure you are. Bet that tape's not falling apart at all." His cocky tone makes you want to wipe that smirk right off his face, but there's something else underneath your irritation, a familiar sting of being underestimated. Again.

It's the same assumption you've dealt with since joining the school dance team, when teachers would automatically pair you with the "easier" lab partners. The guidance counselor who looked genuinely surprised when you mentioned going into health sciences, then immediately started suggesting backup plans. You've gotten used to that moment of surprise people have when they find out about the other half of your life—like they have to mentally downgrade their expectations of you.

Glancing down at your boot, the rational part of your brain knows this is a stupid hill to die on. You could just tell him it's holding up fine and leave it at that. But the part of you that's tired of being managed and doubted and treated like you're incapable of handling your own problems? That part is already reaching for the zipper of your shoe.

"You don't have to—" Joe starts, but you cut him off.

"You said it was falling apart,” you huff, eyeing him from through your lashes. "I'm proving you wrong."

With your boot off, you pull your sock halfway down to reveal the taping. It's not nearly as neat as what Joe did originally, and there are definitely some areas where it's shifted or loosened, but honestly... it doesn't look bad.

Joe stays standing as he studies your work, keeping a measured distance while his eyes travel slowly over the layers of tape. His attention lingers on each strip, following the angles and overlaps as though he’s replaying the steps in his head. The line between his brows deepens slightly, not with disapproval, but concentration.

“The swelling is definitely worse,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of concern that catches you off guard. He stays standing, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on your ankle. The vanity lights buzz faintly, catching on the damp ends of his hair where sweat has started to dry. The room feels still around you, his focus narrowing the space until it’s just the two of you. “When did you last ice it?”

"This morning," you admit, suddenly feeling foolish. You know better, and you don’t want him to think you don’t. "Before I got here."

"That's not enough." There's a gentle edge of criticism in his tone, like he's trying not to lecture but can't help himself. He stays standing, shoulders squared, "you should be icing it every few hours. Especially if you're going to be on your feet all day."

"I know that," you snap, the defensiveness catching in your throat before you can stop it. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, nails biting into the padding to brace yourself against the sudden rush of frustration. "I've been a little busy dealing with everything else."

His eyes hold the same seriousness as before, steady and unblinking, intent enough that it feels like he’s waiting for you to flinch first. From where you sit, he’s close enough to cast a shadow across your lap, his frame filling the space until you have to tip your chin back just to meet him. The angle stretches at your throat, heat collecting there, and you find yourself suddenly aware of how small you feel. 

“Everything else meaning…?”

"Everything else meaning my entire life being turned upside down because someone took a picture of us.”

“Right,” Joe murmurs, the word barely carrying across the space. His helmet hangs at his side, fingers flexing against the facemask, tightening and loosening like he’s working through something he can’t quite say. For a moment, his gaze drops, jaw shifting as though he’s chewing on the next words. “For what it’s worth… sorry that happened to you.”

The fidgeting cuts off there, his hand going still around the helmet. Silence stretches before he adds, drier this time, “Next time I’ll just let you hobble around in circles.”

The apology catches you off guard, even with the deflection tacked on, which is so perfectly Joe that it makes you huff out a small laugh despite everything. You've been bracing yourself for him to brush it off, maybe roll his eyes and tell you this is nothing compared to what he deals with. You expected him to mention something about how you signed up for this when you joined the team, or how you need to develop thicker skin if you're going to be around high-profile athletes. Instead, he's sitting here acknowledging that what happened to you actually sucked—then immediately trying to joke his way out of the vulnerability.

"It's not your fault," you say, because it isn't. "You were just helping me."

"Maybe. But I know what it's like when people start paying attention to you for the wrong reasons. It's not fun."

His voice drops when he replies, quieter than it's been this whole time. You notice the way his jaw tightens, how his eyes can’t meet yours. It’s like his composure slips, and you’re catching a glimpse of what it might actually be like to live under the kind of scrutiny he deals with daily.

"Do you..." you start, then stop yourself.

"Do I what?"

"Do you ever get tired of it? The attention, the photos, all of it?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, and you can see him weighing how honest he wants to be when his eyes meet yours. You can see the hesitation in his face, the same calculation you’ve caught yourself making—how many cards to show, how many to hold close. "Yeah," he finally admits. "But it's part of the job. You learn to deal with it."

"Is that what you're doing now? Dealing with it?"

"Is that what you think this is?"

The question hangs between you, and suddenly the room feels too quiet. You can hear your own breathing, the distant sound of voices from the hallway, the ticking of the clock. You open your mouth to answer, but no words come out.

Joe blinks first, the smallest pause settling in his face before his attention disappears, returning to your ankle. "You missed a spot here," he points vaguely to an area where the tape has lifted. "And this section is too loose."

The shift is so abrupt it does make you flinch this time. "So I messed it up," you ask, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

Joe tilts his head from side to side, face scrunching up as he gauges your work. His mouth pulls into a line, and you can see him weighing something behind his eyes. The expression tells you everything before he even opens his mouth. "A few adjustments and it would be functional."

"Functional," you repeat, the word tasting sour on your tongue.

There's a wall back in his eyes."What did you expect? You followed instructions over the phone."

"Are you always this critical of other people?" you shoot back, matching his cooler tone.

"Only when they ask for help then get sensitive about feedback," he cocks an eyebrow, but there's less bite in his tone than before. "It’s not terrible."

"I probably wasted half a roll of tape before I got help from you."

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly, the hard line of his mouth easing though you can tell he’s fighting against it. It’s there and gone in the span of a breath, a slip of warmth breaking through the distance he’s trying to hold. "You figured it out once you had proper instructions."

"Well enough that you think I could do it again?" The question falls more as a challenge, tucked hidden into the words before you can soften them. You hold his gaze anyway, refusing to let him see how much even that small bit of approval tugs at something inside you.

"I think," Joe says slowly, "that you probably could. With a little guidance."

"What kind of guidance?"

"The kind where I actually show you what I'm doing instead of trying to explain it over the phone."

The suggestion should alarm you. You're alone in a room together, he's offering to put his hands on you again—and this is, yet again, exactly the kind of situation that Linda would add to her now growing list of incidents. But instead of alarm, what you feel is curiosity mixed with a dangerous kind of anticipation.

"That would probably be helpful," you chew on your bottom lip even after the words slip out. All those mirrors that made the room feel smaller when he first walked in are now showing you exactly how this looks, and somehow you can’t bring yourself to care.

"We should probably—" Joe starts, but he's interrupted by the sound of voices nearby in the hallway outside, growing closer with each second.

Both of you freeze as the reality of your situation crystallizes with startling clarity. You're alone in a room together, having a conversation that could easily be misinterpreted, and there are people approaching who absolutely cannot find you in this position.

Joe crosses to the far side of the room in one fluid motion, the space stretching wider with every step he puts between you. The air feels different the second he’s gone, the heat of his nearness replaced by an emptiness that makes you want to pull your arms in against yourself. The room is still warm, stifling almost, but without him close it leaves a chill that creeps over your skin, enough to snap you back into yourself.

You yank your sock up and grab your boot, trying to get it back on as quickly as possible despite the pain the rapid movement sends shooting up your leg. Your fingers fumble with the zipper, suddenly clumsy with adrenaline. The voices are getting closer now, and your heart pounds against your ribs as you struggle with the stubborn zipper. You can hear Joe moving around on the other side of the room, probably gathering his things, preparing to pretend this conversation never happened.

You manage to get the zipper up just as the door swings open and several players walk in, their voices loud and boisterous,discussing something that happened earlier during their shoot.

"—swear to God, Ja'marr almost knocked over the camera trying to get out of the way of that bee," Orlando is groaning.

Helmets knock against the doorframe as they jostle through, the air stirred with their heat and noise. A couple of them flick their chins in your direction without breaking stride, acknowledgment so casual it’s nearly dismissive.

You stand from the bench too quickly, the legs of it scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. Turning around, you reach for your makeup bag on the vanity, shoving your things inside with more force than necessary. One of your brushes catch in the zipper and you wrestle it free, movements still rushed like you can will yourself invisible if you just move fast enough.

"He's afraid of everything that flies," Andrei chuckles, none of them giving a second thought to you and Joe being the only ones in the room. "Remember that one time when that dragonfly landed on his helmet?"

Your hairspray makes a hollow thunk when it hits the bottom of your bag, the sound swallowed by the chatter filling the room. Grabbing your water bottle by the neck, condensation runs down your wrist in a cold line. When you glance up, the mirror throws him right back at you, his watchful reflection hovering behind your own. You don’t know what unnerves you more: the possibility that he’s been staring this whole time, or the way some part of you had already been hoping he was.

The vanity lights are cruel, bleaching everything flat, but even they can’t soften the hard set of his jaw, the intensity carved into his face. Orlando’s voice cuts loudly across the room, pulling laughter from the others, but Joe might as well be in a completely different building.

Your bag is in your hand. The door is right there. All you have to do is walk out.

But you don’t. Instead you stay rooted, eyes locked on the mirror, caught in a stare that feels like it could stretch on forever if you let it. The noise behind him blurs, laughter and voices fading to nothing but background static, until all you can hear is the rush of your own pulse.

Finally, you tear yourself free, forcing your feet to move. You wrench your eyes away, shoulders tight, and step toward the exit. The door handle is cold, sticking for a breath before it gives, and when you slip into the hallway the air seeps into your lungs easier, lighter and freer. But the feeling of freedom comes tangled with something else, an odd tug low in your chest, the imprint of his stare following you out like a weight you almost wish you hadn’t left behind.

The hallway feels too dark after the brighter lighting of the dressing room, and you blink as your eyes adjust. Your steps are quick, purposeful, like you can outpace the memory of him. You’ve only made it a few steps when Ivy appears beside you, seemingly out of nowhere.

"There you are!" she exclaims, relief bright in her voice. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Coach wants to do a quick debrief."

She falls into step beside you easily, ponytail swaying as she talks. At first she seems her usual self, but then her head turns, eyes flicking back down the hallway. Her pace eases, just a fraction, as though something behind you has caught her attention.

"Wasn't that Joe I saw heading that way earlier?" 

Your heart lurches, but you force your shoulders loose and answer with a shrug. “Maybe? I think some of the guys were grabbing their stuff.” Switching your water bottle to your other hand, the cool plastic gives you something to hold onto while the lie scrapes out of your throat.

“Makes sense,” Ivy hums, distracted again, already facing forward. The two of you round the corner together, folding into the knot of girls gathering in a half-circle.

You feel the words you didn’t say pressing at the back of your teeth, the urge to blurt out the truth riding up with every step. It would be so easy to just catch her sleeve, admit it in a low rush, and let someone else carry the weight for once. The impulse swells until your jaw actually aches from keeping it shut, because it's Ivy. 

Ivy, who stayed late with you during auditions when everyone else had gone home, running the same counts side by side until your legs gave out, refusing to leave because she couldn’t stand the thought of not being on the team with you. It was on those same nights that the two of you would catch Megan practicing by herself. You’d trade a glance with Ivy, almost feeling bad enough to call her over, back before you knew her true colors. But then Coach is there, sweeping in with her brisk voice and her clipboard, filling the air with talk of schedules and logistics, leaving you no space to do anything but swallow hard and bury the words back down.

Even so, the words sit heavy, pulsing under your tongue, tangled with the memory you can’t shake. Your pulse still quickens at the thought of him, the same thrill that hit when his eyes found yours in the mirror. And despite all the rational reasons to stay away from him, despite warnings and the organizational pressure and the potential consequences, you find yourself hoping that he'll keep his promise about showing you how to tape your ankle properly.

Because maybe, just maybe, it's worth the risk.

As the debrief wraps up and people start to scatter, you catch sight of Joe through a window, heading out to the practice field with the rest of the team. For just a glimpse, he looks back toward the building, and though he’s just a figure beyond the glass, you swear you can feel the weight of his attention.

Luckily, you were able to finish your anatomy paper last night. The thought provides a small comfort as Linda continues her speech about social media protocols and appropriate conduct. You stayed up until almost two in the morning, hunched over your laptop in your bedroom, forcing yourself to focus on the intricacies of skeletal muscle contraction instead of thinking about Joe Burrow. The paper was due next week, but you'd needed something to occupy your mind, something to stop you from replaying the way his fingers had felt against your skin… the careful precision of his movements… The way he'd looked at you before walking away.

"Are you listening?" Linda's voice cuts through your thoughts, stern enough to make you sit up straighter. There's something in her tone that makes you feel like a scolded child caught daydreaming in church, and you hate it. You hate that this woman who probably makes twice what your parents do combined gets to talk to you like you're some reckless teenager who doesn’t understand consequences.

"Yes," you lie smoothly, refocusing on her pinched face and the stack of papers spread across the conference table. The papers probably have your name on them, your image, strategies for "managing" you, because right now, you're just a nuisance instead of a person.

She doesn't look convinced, her pale eyes narrowing slightly as she studies your face for signs of deception. But continues anyway, now going on about maintaining professionalism and avoiding further incidents. The word "incidents" makes your jaw clench.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh where you've hidden it under the table, the vibration barely audible but somehow feeling loud enough to give you away. You resist the urge to check it, keeping your hands folded in your lap while Linda talks. You've been resisting that urge all morning, but you know what's waiting for you.

The buzzing had started at 5:47, your phone vibrating against your nightstand with an urgency that pulled you from the first decent sleep you’d gotten in weeks. Drew's name flashed across the screen, followed immediately by Ivy, then Maliyah, then numbers you didn't recognize—a cascade of calls that made your stomach drop before your brain could even process what was happening. Your first thought had been that someone was hurt, that there'd been an accident, some emergency that required you to be awake before sunrise on a Wednesday morning.

You answered Drew's call with your eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep and confusion.

"Please tell me you've seen it," she rushed out, voice tight with something between panic and excitement. This was either really bad, or really good.

"Seen what?" You abruptly sat up, reaching blindly for your laptop while panic started to creep in around the edges of your mind. "Drew, it's not even six—"

"Check Instagram. Check Twitter. Check literally anywhere." A pause, and you could hear her moving around, probably pacing like she did when she was stressed. "Actually, don't. It's everywhere."

But you were already logging into Instagram with shaking fingers, lips parting silently as notifications flooded your screen. Tagged photos, mentions, DMs from accounts you'd never seen before. Your follower count was climbing in real time, hundreds of new faces wanting access to your life. And in the middle of it all, an image that made your blood go cold.

At first, you couldn't process what you were seeing. It was clearly a screenshot of an Instagram story—you could tell by the rounded corners and the username at the top. Meant to be temporary, gone in twenty-four hours, but screenshots last forever. You squinted at your laptop screen, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching the display, hoping you were wrong about what you were seeing. The username was small, partially cut off in the screenshot, but unmistakable once you focused in on it.

meganwilliams23

"That bitch."

The words had slipped out before you could stop them, harsh and vicious enough to make Drew stutter mid-sentence on the other end of the line. Of course it was Megan. Of fucking course. The girl who'd been making passive aggressive comments about you since day one, who always seemed to be watching you like she was waiting for you to mess up. You'd never liked her—something about the way she smiled when she delivered backhanded compliments, how she always managed to position herself in the center of drama while maintaining plausible deniability about her role in creating it.

The image showed Joe crouched in front of you, your foot resting on his lap. The angle made it look intimate in a way that it hadn't felt in the moment, like something private that was never meant to be shared. Something romantic. And there, at the top of the screenshot in that telltale green circle, was a little white star.

Close Friends. Megan had posted this to her fucking Close Friends story, which meant she'd specifically chosen to share it with her inner circle, probably thinking it was just harmless gossip to share with her trusted few. But someone in that “trusted” group had screenshotted it and sent it out into the world.

The caption to the photo was exactly what you'd expect from Megan. The fake sweetness of it all made you want to throw your laptop across the room. 

And the comments underneath this post specifically were a different story entirely. Speculation, assumptions, conspiracy theories about how long you'd been "together," debates about whether you were his type, comparisons to other women he'd been photographed with. Someone had already made a compilation of "evidence" that you and Joe were secretly dating, using photos from games where you just happened to be in the background of shots that included him. Photos where you were doing your job, existing in the same space as him because that’s literally what you’re paid to do.

Your breath came in shallow waves as you scrolled, reading comment after comment dissecting your appearance, your body, your worthiness. "This is insane," voice barely audible, you whispered into the phone.

"It gets worse," Drew said grimly. You could hear the reluctance in her voice, as if she didn’t want to be the one to tell you. "Someone posted your school on Twitter. And your major. People are going to your Instagram posts from like years ago, they’re all over everything."

Your phone buzzed again, another call from a number you didn't recognize. Then another. And another. "Don't answer those," Drew warned after hearing the insistent beeping through the speaker. "I've been getting some calls too. Someone leaked your number."

That's when the real panic had set in. Not just about the photo, but about everything it could destroy. You'd worked so hard to keep your two worlds separate—the girl who cheered on Sundays and the girl who had bigger plans. The one who was planning a future that had nothing to do with poom-poms, short skirts, and knee-high boots. Now they were colliding in the most public way possible, and you could basically see that carefully constructed future crumbling in real time.

"Miss?" Linda's voice snaps you back to the present, making you flinch. "I asked if you understood the severity of the situation."

You nod, though you're not entirely sure what situation she's referring to anymore. The photo? The media attention? The fact that your life as a serious student who happens to cheer on the side is now being reduced to gossip blog fuel?

"Good." Linda shuffles her papers around with the same sort of efficiency as someone who’s handled this before. "Mr. Burrow will be joining us shortly to ensure everyone is on the same page moving forward."

Your stomach twists for the hundredth time today, twining itself into a knot that feels untangleable. "You mean Joe will be here?"

Linda's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Burrow is just as invested in resolving this matter as we are." You seriously doubt that. "I need to step out for a moment to grab some additional documentation. I'll be right back."

She heads toward the door, stilettos muffled against the carpet, but just as her fingers close around the handle, it swings open from the other side. Joe fills the doorway, making the room feel smaller. He looked like he’d been in the weight room before this—you can see the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, droplets beginning to seep through his white shirt.

"Oh." Linda stops short, nearly colliding with him. "Perfect timing." 

Joe's eyes sweep the room before landing on you, sitting rigidly in your too-hard chair. His expression gives away nothing, which is exactly what you've come to expect from him over the past three years. You’ve watched him switch from almost-friendly in empty hallways to completely indifferent when other people are around. Joe Burrow's face is basically unreadable when he wants it to be, and right now, it’s giving you absolutely nothing to work with.

"Right," he says. You try to gauge his mood, looking for any sign of whether he's pissed about this whole situation, whether he blames you somehow for dragging him into this mess, whether he's planning to throw you under the bus to save his own reputation. But his expression remains frustratingly blank.

"I'll be right back." Linda announces, clutching her manila folders to her chest. She gives you both a look that’s probably meant to be stern but mostly just looks tired. "You two can behave yourselves for a few minutes, can't you? No more... incidents?"

You have the urge to roll your eyes but manage to keep your face still. As if this is somehow your fault. As if you asked for any of this attention, this scrutiny.

"We'll do our best," Joe replies with just enough bite in his tone to let Linda know exactly what he thinks of this whole production. She gives that tight-lipped smile and click-clacks her way out of the room, leaving the door open just enough to remind you that you're being monitored.

The silence that follows is suffocating. You can hear everything—the hum of the air conditioning system, muffled voices from other offices, the distant sound of someone's printer running through what sounds like a massive job. Joe moves away from the door but doesn't sit. Instead, he leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed over his chest, putting the maximum possible distance between you while still technically being in the same room.

You remember hearing whispers at the end of last season about him and some model from Columbus, paparazzi photos of them leaving restaurants, the usual speculation that follows him everywhere he goes. Maybe this is just another Wednesday for him, another girl, another rumor, another mess for his handlers to clean up before it affects anything that actually matters to him.

Desperate for something to do with your hands, you pull your phone out. At least you figured out how to block calls and messages from unknown numbers, so that particular nightmare has calmed down for now. Your family and some of your friends have all gone private on their socials, and your other friends seem confident this will blow over in a few days. There's not much you can do except wait it out and hope they're right.

Joe shuffles against the wall, drawing your attention back to him briefly as he pulls out his own phone. You open Instagram, deliberately ignoring the chaos of notifications that keep lighting up the top of your screen. Scrolling through your actual feed, you attempt to pretend this is a normal day and you're just killing time like always.

That's when a blue checkmark catches your eye among the usual posts. You recognize the username immediately.

joeyb_9 Do you think this counts as an incident?

When you glance up at him, he's looking at his phone, but there's that familiar smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It was that same exact expression from two years ago when some reporter asked him if he had any pre-game rituals. Joe answered with complete sincerity that he always made sure to put his left sock on before his right. The reporter completely ate it up, missing the fact that he was being messed with, and the moment slowly became a running joke throughout the franchise that season.

Your finger taps against your phone case. The message sits there waiting for a response, and you can’t decide if this is the most ridiculous thing that’s happened today or somehow the most normal.

Peeking over your shoulder at the door Linda left cracked open, you try to scan the sliver of hallway outside. Then back at your phone. Then at Joe, who's still wearing that stupid smirk like he knows something you don't.

"Probably," you speak out loud.

Joe looks up from his phone. The word hangs between you for a moment, and you can feel something shifting in the air, like when you're balancing on one foot and realize you're about to fall, that split second before gravity takes over.

"Then why are you talking to me?"

There's no warmth in his words, no invitation to continue speaking. Just a flat challenge that makes your chest tighten. You study his face, searching for some hint that he's still playing around, but his eyes have gone distant. 

He's putting you in your place.

The realization settles in your stomach like cold water. This is what he does; draws you in with a moment of shared understanding, then reminds you exactly how little you matter to him. The joke was bait, and you took it like an idiot.

Your throat feels tight, but you're not about to let him see how his dismissal stings. The familiar burn of embarrassment crawls up your neck, the same feeling you got in middle school when you'd raise your hand in class only to have the teacher ignore you completely. But you're not thirteen anymore, and you're definitely not going to sit here and take whatever power trip he's on.

"Good question. Why did you message me in the first place?"

The words come out steadier than you feel, but there's steel in them. You watch as something shifts in his expression, not surprise or struggle, but something almost pleased. Like you've just done exactly what he wanted you to do. He doesn’t answer your question, but a slow, satisfied look spreads across his face like watching you get riled up is the most entertainment he's had all day.

The sound of Linda's heels clicking down the hallway snaps you both back to reality. Phones disappear, backs straighten, faces rearrange themselves into serious expressions. When you catch Joe's eye for half a second, there's something smug in his expression that makes you want to start the whole argument over again.

"Alright," Linda spreads new documents back across the table like she's dealing cards. "Let's discuss how we're going to handle this moving forward."

───

It’s just past midnight when you wake up feeling like you've been hit by a truck driven by someone who really, really doesn't like you. Your neck has a crick that suggests sleeping on couches might not be the self-care choice your body was hoping for, and there's something deeply unsettling about waking up in the same clothes you wore to what might have been the worst meeting of your life.

The orange streetlight outside your home is bleeding through your blinds in the most depressing way possible, casting everything in sickly amber tones that make your living room look like a low-budget horror movie. You can't remember the last time you felt this disoriented without actually being drunk, your thoughts moving through molasses as you try to piece together how you ended up passed out here.

These jeans are cutting into your waist in a way that makes you question every decision that led to passing out fully clothed, the denim twisted and bunched in uncomfortable places. And your ankle—God, your ankle feels like it's got its own weather system happening down there, all storm clouds and lightning strikes every time you so much as think about moving it.

The events of today start filtering back in through the fog of sleep, and you're not sure if you want to laugh or cry at how spectacularly everything went sideways.

You'd sat through twenty more minutes of Linda's schpiel. Social media protocols you could recite in your sleep, fraternization policies that somehow felt like they were rewritten specifically for you, and contingency plans for different levels of public interest. The whole time Joe had been sitting across from you, quiet but somehow making you hyperaware of every small movement you made—the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs, how you kept fidgeting with your pen, the fact that you probably looked like a nervous wreck.

When Linda finally snapped her leather portfolio shut, you practically sprung from your chair. Freedom was so close you could taste it, but just as Joe moved to follow you: "Mr. Burrow, if you could stay behind for just a few more minutes?" 

The words had frozen you mid-step, your hand already on the door handle, escape so close you could feel it slipping away with every passing second. You caught Joe's eye for maybe half of one of those seconds before watching him settle back into his chair.

Walking out of that room while he stayed behind felt like leaving an exam you knew you'd failed, that sick feeling of knowing something was happening that you had no control over and probably wouldn't like the outcome of. 

The rest of your day was like when you're already running late and then hit every single red light. Forty-five minutes at the Verizon store because the employee had to ask her manager about literally everything, making you sit in those plastic chairs that creaked with every little movement while she typed with two fingers like she’s never seen a keyboard before. The whole time you kept thinking about what Joe and Linda were discussing, your mind creating increasingly worse scenarios. 

And then, walking across campus afterward felt like that recurring nightmare where everyone's staring at you, except it wasn't a nightmare and people actually were looking. Your acquaintance from Pharmacology—your friend who was only your friend during classes you shared—cornered you after class, blocking your path to the door with that concerned 'friend' voice that wasn't fooling anyone. 

"Are you okay?" she asked while tilting her head like a confused puppy, and you wanted to tell her that no, you weren't okay, that your life had become everyone else's entertainment and you had no fucking clue how to make it stop.

Even the grocery store was a personal attack. They were completely sold out of your usual granola, the kind you'd been buying with no previous troubles for two years, leaving you staring at empty shelves wondering if this was just how life worked now. Everything you wanted, gone. By evening, you were running on nothing but spite and the dregs of a Red Bull you mercifully found in the bottom of your backpack. Collapsing on your couch felt less like a choice and more like your body finally giving up on pretending to be functional.

Currently, you can barely sit up without your ankle staging a protest that makes you seriously reconsider every stubborn decision you've made in the last twenty-four hours. The tape Joe applied yesterday is practically useless now—curled and twisted from hours of walking and standing and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while your world tilted sideways. The adhesive has lost its grip, leaving sticky residue on your skin, and when you finally work the whole mess free, the swelling underneath has definitely gotten worse.

What was minor puffiness yesterday has progressed into something that makes your ankle bone barely visible beneath the inflammation, a purple tinge creeping around the joint. The skin feels tight and hot to the touch, and when you press gently against the swollen tissue, it gives way with a squishy resistance that makes you wince. You flex your foot experimentally, immediately regretting it as pain shoots up your leg.

The symptoms are textbook—localized swelling, discoloration, pain with palpation. A tendon strain, peroneal most likely. Could be a partial tear if you're unlucky, but likely not a complete rupture with the way you're still somewhat mobile. And should definitely be X-rayed to rule out any bone involvement. 

But "should" involves medical documentation, injury reports, being entered into the system as damaged goods. That would definitely lead to being pulled, and when your entire world already feels like it's hanging by a thread, being sidelined indefinitely is absolutely not an option.

You hobble to your freezer and grab a bag of frozen blueberries, the ones you'd bought for your morning smoothies as some half-hearted attempt at being healthier this semester. The bag is covered in frost, having been forgotten behind a box of popsicles. Right now, you know they can serve a much better purpose than any lackluster nutritional goal you set for yourself. A smoothie can wait, your ankle can't. 

The cold is a shock at first, so intense it makes you gasp and jerk your foot away instinctively. You have to force yourself to keep the makeshift ice pack in place, gritting your teeth as the temperature gradually numbs the worst of the pain. It’s not perfect, but your only other option would be the ice pack you were using last night, the same one sitting on your nightstand. After finishing that essay, you promised yourself you would return it to the freezer in the morning. Morning time, well… that didn’t quite happen.

When you try to settle back down on the couch, you make sure to be elevating your foot on the coffee table like you know you’re supposed to. The position is awkward, your hip twisted at an uncomfortable angle to keep your ankle raised, and you already feel your lower back beginning to complain.

A couple minutes later, you give up entirely on trying to get comfortable and turn on the lamp beside your couch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, your eyes watering as they adjust. You have medical tape in your bathroom cabinet, left over from a previous sprain last season. The roll is only half gone because you’re always paranoid about these sort of freak accidents.

You watched Joe work yesterday, tried to memorize every movement—the way he'd started low, the specific tension he'd used, how his hands had moved with such practiced confidence. If he can do it, how hard can it be?

Your first attempt is embarrassing. Your fingers feel clumsy and uncertain as you try to mimic what you observed, the tape nearly sliding around your ankle like a loose sock, providing no support whatsoever. You rip it off and start again, frustrated with yourself for not paying closer attention when you had the chance.

The second attempt is too tight from the beginning. Within minutes, your toes start tingling, circulation clearly compromised. The third attempt starts promising but falls apart when you try to secure the final strips, the tape sticking to itself in useless wads. When you try to cut it away with kitchen scissors, you accidentally nick the skin just above your ankle bone.

"This is so fucking stupid," you mutter to your empty apartment, staring at the medical tape carnage surrounding you. 

And the fourth attempt is when the frustration really hits you. Your hands are shaking now—from pain, from exhaustion, from the general stress of everything—and the tape keeps sticking to your fingers instead of your ankle. Every time you try to position a strip, it adheres to your skin before you’re able to get it where it needs to go, leaving you picking at the edges while trying not to lose what little progress you’ve made. 

You can feel hot tears starting to build behind your eyes, that particular overwhelmed feeling when everything feels like too much at once and your body starts shutting down in protest. Trying to push through it, you attempt to force the tape to cooperate, but it bunches and wrinkles like it's actively working against you. When you finally stand to test your work, putting your full weight on the ankle with cautious optimism, the whole thing immediately gives up—tape peeling away in defeated strips that leave you grabbing for the couch arm to keep from face-planting into your coffee table.

The frustration hits like a wave you can't duck under, overwhelming and absolute.

Your shoulders shake as you sink back onto the couch, ankle pulsing with each heartbeat like it’s keeping time with your misery. You’re surrounded by the evidence of your complete failure; strips of tape everywhere, ankle looking borderline worse than when you started, blueberries now warm and useless off to the side. Tears surface whether you want them to or not, the kind that happens when your body finally admits what your brain has been denying all day. The kind that tastes like giving up.

You're sitting there with tears leaking down your cheeks, wiping your nose with the back of your hand like you're trying to erase the evidence of falling apart, when your phone lights up on the coffee table. The sudden glow in your dim living room makes you jump slightly.

Joe Burrow sent a photo

Your heart hammers as you open Instagram, bracing yourself for another leaked photo, maybe something worse that you hadn't seen yet. After spending the entire day feeling like your life was spiraling out of control, the last person you expected to hear from was the one who'd made it clear you weren't worth his time. Instead, you find yourself staring at possibly the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen.

It's an edit, and a terrible one at that. Someone has taken "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" by Frankie Valli and set it to the most random, poorly matched collection of clips you’ve ever seen. Joe walking past the cheerleaders during warmups, you in the background of some interview he's doing, that one shot from the tunnel where you're both heading in the same direction but like twenty feet apart. They've even thrown in photos from when everyone had to wear those stupid number nine uniforms, like the fact that you're wearing his number means something when literally every girl on the squad was wearing the exact same thing.

The whole thing is laughable. They can't even find a single decent photo or clip where you're actually next to each other, where there’s any evidence of an actual interaction, and somehow these are the same people who’ve convinced themselves you’re a part of a secret love affair? The comments prove themselves to be even worse than the edit itself. Someone's convinced that the way you're standing in the background of Joe's media interview means you were "watching him with heart eyes," when in reality you were probably wondering if you'd remembered to turn in your assignment for Professor Chen’s class.

Another commenter has zoomed in on your face in one of the photos, circling what they claim is you “looking jealous” of another woman near Joe, when you’re clearly just squinting because the sun was in your eyes. The reach of these people is astronomical, the delusion almost impressive in its creativity.

You scroll through more comments, each one more unhinged than the last—people creating entire relationship timelines, analyzing videos you’ve never even seen of yourself. It would be funny if it weren’t so completely divorced from reality. When your phone buzzes with a new message, you nearly drop it.

joeyb_9 At least the song isn’t bad

y/n.y/l/n lol

joeyb_9 First clip I was literally glaring at Pitcher 

y/n.y/l/n verrryyy romantic

Despite everything that's happened today; the disaster of a meeting this morning, the way your ankle feels like it might actually fall off, the complete uproot of your media presence, you find yourself almost smiling. You hate that he can do this, go from making you feel invisible to pulling you right back in.

There’s a pause in the conversation, and you can see the three dots indicating he’s typing, then stopping, then typing again. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting to see what he’ll say next, your breakdown temporarily forgotten in favor of this strange normalcy.

joeyb_9 How's your ankle?

The question catches you completely off guard. He cared enough to mention it?

y/n.yl/n it's whatever

joeyb_9 That's not an answer

You bite your lip, staring at the screen. The cursor blinks in the text box, waiting for your honesty. 

y/n.y/l/n been better tbh

joeyb_9 You icing it?

y/n.yl/n did that already

joeyb_9 Elevation?

y/n.yl/n yep

joeyb_9 What about taping it

y/n.yl/n working on that

y/n.yl/n i can't figure out how you did it

The admission stings more than it should. You know how to tape an ankle, you've done it countless times for yourself, teammates, friends, in school. But there was something about the way Joe did it yesterday that made it feel different, more secure, more... right. You can't seem to replicate however he did it, and it's eating at you.

joeyb_9 What's going wrong

y/n.yl/n literally everything

y/n.y/l/n too loose or too tight or it just falls apart

joeyb_9 You gotta anchor it first

y/n.yl/n tried that

joeyb_9 Where are you starting

y/n.yl/n above the ankle bone?

joeyb_9 Nah too high. Start at your arch

y/n.yl/n the arch?

joeyb_9 Yeah around the midfoot

joeyb_9 That's your stable base

You look down at your swollen ankle, trying to envision what he's describing. You know the anatomy of it, know the midfoot is indeed more stable than the ankle joint itself, less prone to movement and shifting. It makes sense, but it’s not how you were taught.

y/n.yl/n then what

joeyb_9 Figure eight pattern. Crosses over the front, behind the heel, back around

y/n.yl/n i think i was doing that part wrong

joeyb_9 Probably

joeyb_9 Most people pull way too tight

y/n.yl/n so don't pull tight?

joeyb_9 Pull firm there's a difference

What?

Your previous frustrations begin to bubble up again as you stare blankly at his mysteriously vague words, eyes darting from the screen to your ankle and back again. Pull firm? That's supposed to help you? Your jaw clenches as you realize you're no closer to understanding what made his technique work than you were ten minutes ago.

What exactly constitutes “firm” versus “tight”? How were you supposed to measure that sort of difference when your hands are already shaking? The instruction feels like when you were told by your high school counselors to “just to better” without any actual guidance on how to improve. 

Staring at the conversation, thumb hovering over the keyboard, you realize what you actually want to ask. The request sits there, half-formed, making your pulse quicken just thinking about it. This is exactly the kind of thing Linda would eagerly add to her list of "incidents."

It would be weird, right? Too weird. 

But what’s the alternative? You think about showing up to practice tomorrow, trying to hide the fact that you can barely put weight on your foot, probably making a fool of yourself in front of Coach and the entire squad. The thought makes your stomach churn almost as much as the idea of asking for help from someone who'd spent the morning reminding you exactly how little you likely meant to him.

Then again, he's the one who brought up your ankle in the first place. He's the one texting you about how ridiculous this whole situation is. Maybe this push and pull he does—drawing you in just to shut you down—maybe it works both ways.

You type the message and delete it three times.

y/n.yl/n this is probably weird but

y/n.yl/n can you like walk me through it over the phone or something

You hold your breath as you press send, immediately backing out of the app and turning your phone face down on the couch like that'll somehow make the message disappear. It's the same feeling you get when you post after not being active in forever, or when you send one of those risky texts that could either go really well or blow up in your face completely. 

It makes you feel childish. You know how to tape an ankle, have done it countless times. But there's this stubborn part of you now that doesn't just want any ankle taping. You want it done the way Joe did it yesterday. Because Joe has had his taped “more times than you've blinked this week.”

You're so lost in your own spiral of overthinking that you barely register the phone buzzing next to you on the couch. When you finally notice it's not just a text notification but an actual call, your heart jumps into your throat.

Joe's name and profile picture fill your screen. One ring. Two rings. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears and feel the weight of this decision pressing down on you. This is either the smartest thing you've done all day or the dumbest, and you won't know which until you answer.

“What?”

"Nice throw on that last route," you shared, still crouched on the floor. "Really nailed that water cooler."

He huffs through his nose and grips the edge of the shelf behind him, knuckles white against the metal. You can see him deciding whether or not to bother with this interaction at all. The knot finally gives under your fingers and you let out a small breath of relief. Your fingertips are sore from digging into the fabric. There's a red mark where the string cut into your thumb.

"Was aiming for you, actually."

You freeze. Lace still pinched between your fingers. The words register, and for a second you're not sure if he's joking or if this just took a really dark turn. Your mouth opens, then closes.

What the hell are you supposed to say to that?

He rolls his eyes when he sees your face. "Kidding. Was a joke," he huffs through his nose.

"Oh." Ducking your head back down to your shoe, heat creeps up your neck as you fumble with the laces. Your hands feel clumsy now. "Right. Obviously."

"Obviously," he repeats. You hear him moving around behind you, the rustle of whatever he's looking for begins again.

"Well," you say, standing up and brushing concrete dust off your knees. The grit clings to you, coating your palms. "Your aim still sucks."

"Mhm." He grabs something from the shelf—pre-wrap or tape, maybe, but his hand dwarfs whatever it is. His fingers are long, calloused from gripping footballs. There's a thin scar across his knuckles you've never noticed before. "You coming or are you gonna stand there all day?"

Following him toward the door, your footsteps echo off the concrete in a rhythm that fails to match his longer stride. Joe holds the door open behind him, the same fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in the hall. The door swings shut with a soft click and he turns left toward the locker rooms without a word.

You stand there for a second, watching him walk away. His shoulders are broader than you realized, and he moves with this natural confidence that makes it look like he owns every space he walks through.

Probably thinks he does.

You shake your head and turn right, back towards the outdoor fields.

OCTOBER

You're fiddling with the edges of your protein bar wrapper, scrolling through your phone at the counter by the windows. Drew just texted you a photo of her kitchen sink overflowing with her roommate's dishes again, followed by three crying face emojis and "i can't deal with this anymore."

you: stop

you: that’s disgusting

drew: when are u getting home i need to vent

you: idk late practice today

The protein bar tastes like chalk mixed with artificial strawberry, but you needed something in your stomach before practice tonight. You drove straight here from your afternoon lecture instead of going home first—no point in making the drive twice, and you're not hungry enough for a full meal anyway. The cafeteria is mostly empty at this hour, just the soft hum of refrigerators and the distant clatter of someone cleaning up in the kitchen.

Your practice bag is sitting on the chair next to you along with your school bag from earlier when you were trying to cram some studying in before coming here. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, warming your back through your crewneck.

Footsteps approach, then the scrape of a stool being pulled out a few seats down. Your eyes stay fixed on your phone screen as Drew sends another photo, this time of the roommate's dirty clothes piled on the bathroom floor. You can hear whoever sat down unwrapping something of their own, the crinkle of plastic echoing in the quiet space.

you: absolutely nottttt

The time at the top of your screen catches your eye when you tap to send the message. You sigh, already dreading another three hour practice where half the squad still can't nail the sequence that's been giving them trouble for weeks. Sliding off the stool, you grab your practice bag, but when you reach for your school bag, the straps are somehow twisted around each other. As you try to untangle them, the bag slips from your grip and hits the floor with a loud thunk that echoes through the otherwise silent cafeteria.

Your face burns instantly. The sound was so much louder than it should have been, and you can feel a few people glancing over from the other tables scattered around the open room. You bend down quickly to grab the bag, but before you can reach it, someone else is already there.

"What do you have in here?" Looking up, you find Joe crouched next to you, skeptically lifting your bag like he's testing its weight. His eyebrows are raised as he hefts it up and down a couple times.

"Books," you respond flatly.

"Books?" He gives it another experimental lift, grinning.

"It's not that heavy."

"Uh-huh." He stands up, still holding it, and makes an exaggerated show of struggling with the weight. You know better—this is Joe Burrow, the same man you’ve seen bench plates stacked thick on the bar, forearms roped with muscle, biceps flexing like cables when he racked it with ease. A bag of textbooks isn’t going to slow him down, but he hams it up anyway, lips quirking like he’s daring you to call him on it. "This thing could be a weapon."

Rolling your eyes, you go to grab the bag from him. "Har har.” His fingers brush yours as you grab the shoulder strap. "Thanks." You sling both bags over your shoulder and head toward the exit, but you can hear him chuckling behind you as you walk away.

FEBRUARY

You're twenty minutes early and still late somehow.

The meeting is supposed to be with some trainer in her office, but you've been looping the same hallway for the past ten trying to find it. The athletic offices all look identical—gray door after gray door, each with the same peeling, white, nameplate. You've already walked past the hydrotherapy room, the sports med lounge, and what might’ve been a janitor’s closet, twice. 

After a full season of being here, you somehow still get turned around when you stray too far from the locker rooms or indoor studio.

Passing the vending machines again, you have to resist the urge to throw your hands up. The stubborn part of you won't let you ask for directions—someone would offer to walk you there, and that feels worse than being late.

Rounding the same corner for the third time, you nearly collide with two players leaning against the wall outside the film room. One of them is Joe. Hoodie hood down, arms in the pockets of his sweats, talking with a receiver whose name you can never remember. Both of them are laughing at something that dies off when they see you.

You keep walking. Head high, pretending like you're supposed to be here, even though your shoes squeak slightly on the waxed floor and you're acutely aware this is the third time you’ve passed them.

“You lost?”

Glancing at the receiver briefly over your shoulder and letting out a short breath through your nose, you offer a small smile and shake of your head without slowing your pace. You hopefully move towards the next door like this one will be different, like maybe the third lap around this hallway unlocked a secret entrance. The door label reads something vague and useless, “Office 3C: Staff Access Only” but you try it anyway.

Locked.

You step back with a quiet exhale, the edges of your hope crumbling a little. Your shoulders sag.

“You’re lost.”

When you turn your head, Joe’s the one looking at you now. He’s moved forward from where he’d been standing, hands moved to the front pocket of his hoodie. His eyes glint with something unreadable, the kind that leaves you suddenly too aware of yourself, which makes you want to shrivel up in embarrassment.

Your lips press together, chin lifting almost defensively. But after determining what’s better for you, you nod. “I’m looking for Harper’s office.”

Joe tips his chin toward the hallway you’d passed earlier. “Take that hallway behind us, cut left past the laundry carts. There’s a door tucked right at the end… kind of hidden behind the hydro bins.”

You follow the direction of his nod, then glance back at him. “Thanks.”

He turns back to his teammate and you pivot too, heading the way he pointed while doing your best to keep your pace steady and not let the heat crawling up your neck reach your ears. Your tennis shoes click against the polished floor, and your breath finally starts to even out as you spot the hallway up ahead and turn left.

See? you tell yourself. That wasn’t that bad.

They didn’t laugh at you, didn’t make jokes. He gave you actual directions—helpful, specific ones, even. The door was tucked away. If anything, the situation proves the place is stupidly hard to navigate. Anyone could’ve gotten lost.

You let yourself feel that flicker of relief as the corridor narrows and bends to the right. You’re already rehearsing what to say when you get there, even starting to smile a little because maybe it’s fine. Maybe you hadn’t made a complete idiot of yourself after all.

And then, from behind you, meant to be private but still audible in the echo of the empty corridor, comes the voice of the receiver. “We helping cheerleaders now?”

It shouldn’t bother you. You don’t know why it bothers you. Squaring your shoulders and keeping your eyes forward, you pretend not to care, trying to keep your face neutral even as something small and bitter curls beneath your ribs.

Joe’s voice follows, lower than before, but still clear enough to reach you.

“She was going in circles.” A scoff. “Figured if I didn’t say something, she’d still be wandering around next week.” And then, just as your hand touches the handle of the last door, like the final word on the matter: “Don’t care what happens to them.”

Of course.

Of course he had to knock the moment back down to size. Had to make sure his teammate didn’t think too much of it—because God forbid he could just be kind. 

YEAR TWO - JUNE

Your gym bag is a disaster. You're crouched on the floor in the empty hallway, digging through a mess of clothes, hair ties, hygiene products, and spare shoes, trying to find your keys that have somehow vanished into the black hole that is the bottom of your bag. Your knees are starting to ache against the cold vinyl, and you can feel another hair tie wrap around your fingers as you push deeper into the chaos. 

The facility is mostly quiet; the majority of people cleared out after the first official practice back, but you stayed late to work on some of the new choreography. Your legs are still sore from three hours of conditioning, and there's that familiar burn in your calves that means tomorrow's only going to hurt worse.

"You're back.” You look up to find Joe walking down the hallway, his own backpack slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the showers and sticking up where he probably ran a towel through it too quickly.

Fingers wrapping around what feels like a travel sized lotion bottle, your hand stills for a moment in your bag. The last time you saw him, you were walking away from his voice echoing in an empty corridor, dismissing you to his teammate like you were nothing. But here he is, casual as ever. Your brows pinch, the faintest curl of irritation flickering through you before you bury it.

Shaking it off, you pull out the lotion and set it aside. You grin as your fingers catch on what feels like a granola bar that's been crushed into crumbs. "Yeah, they like me."

"Are you surprised?" you add, glancing up at him.

He stops walking, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking slightly against the floor. "Should I be?" Pushing aside a water bottle that's somehow leaked sticky residue onto everything and what feels like seventeen different lip balms, he speaks up again. "Looking for something?"

"My keys," you frustratedly pull out a tangled mess of earbuds. "They've completely disappeared."

"What, those ones?"

You freeze, then look where he's pointing. Your keys are sitting right there on the floor next to you, the little shell keychain from your recent trip to Punta Cana blending in perfectly with the speckled gray floors. No wonder you missed them. They probably fell out when you first started digging, and you've been sitting inches away from them this whole time. "Oh." You grab them, the cold metal of them a nice contrast against the heat still lingering in your skin from practice. "Thanks."

"No problem." He's already moving toward the exit, footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. "See you around."

"Yeah," you mumble, shoving everything back into your bag in no particular order. "See you."

SEPTEMBER

The tunnel is buzzing with energy, that familiar electricity that makes your skin feel too tight and your heart beat just a little too fast. Everyone's in the new uniforms—black tops with gems scattered around the neckline that catch in the sunlight, and a white number nine outlined in orange right on the front. Your usual skirt and white boots complete the look, but it's the top that feels different, more official somehow.

You keep catching strands of your hair on your lips. The Charlotte Tilbury gloss you splurged on this morning was supposed to be worth the forty dollars, but right now you're missing your usual combo: that NYX liner topped with some random drugstore gloss you grabbed before a night out sophomore year because you forgot your normal one. It's been your go-to ever since, and this expensive stuff is just making everything stick to your mouth. 

Deep breath in through your nose, hold for four counts, out through your mouth. Roll your shoulders back, shake out your hands. The familiar routine centers you, keeps the nerves from spiraling. You've been doing this exact sequence since last year—the only thing that stops you from completely losing it before kickoff.

Ivy appears beside you, stretching her hamstrings against the concrete wall. "Did you see Megan's story from last night?" she whispers, grinning. "She was at that club downtown with Jake from the practice squad. They were all over each other."

You nod absently, still focused on your breathing pattern. The crowd noise is getting through the other end of the tunnel. The rumble of sixty thousand people still makes your stomach flip even in your second year. Your free hand finds the hem of your top, smoothing it down automatically.

Cleats start clicking against concrete behind you. Players filing in, deeper voices, gear clanking together as they move. You don't pay much attention, never do during these last few minutes. 

This breathing thing is sacred, the only way you don't completely fall apart.

"I like your uniform."

The voice comes from directly behind you, quiet enough that only you can hear it. You turn to find Joe in full gear, matching you—black jersey with orange and white accents, shoulder pads making him look impossibly broad. His helmet is tucked underneath his tanned arm, veins popping out from the curve of his bicep, drawing your eyes before you can stop them.

"It's the same as everyone else's," you glance down at your top and then at Ivy beside you.

"Oh." His eyes stay on yours and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Thought yours was different."

There are twenty-two girls in this tunnel wearing identical black tops with white nines outlined in orange. He had to walk past every single one of them to get to where you're standing. "Different how?" you ask, sacred breathing routine completely forgotten now.

"Just looked better on you, I guess." He adjusts his grip on his helmet, and you can see the white tape wrapped around his wrist under his glove.

Heat creeps up your neck. "That's not—"

"Burrow! Let's go!" Pitcher’s voice cuts from the back of the tunnel. Joe glances toward the behind him, then back at you. A mischievous smirk fully spreads across his face as he turns and walks toward his teammates, not sparing another word.

You blink, suddenly aware of where you are again. A few of the girls nearby are staring at you with confused expressions—Ivy’s eyebrows are furrowed like she's trying to figure out what she just witnessed, and Megan is looking between you and Joe's retreating figure with her mouth slightly open.

DECEMBER

Someone definitely went overboard with the fake snow that's now sticking to everything, including your dress. You bought it especially for tonight, deciding to treat yourself by spending money on something other than Christmas presents. Drew helped with your hair while you worked on makeup, having gone back to your good ol’ reliable lip combo because the Charlotte Tilbury disaster from the tunnel taught you to stick with what works. 

You've been wandering around the banquet hall for ten minutes looking for Ivy and Maliyah, dodging conversations with people you barely know and trying not to look as awkward as you feel. The decorations are aggressively festive—red and green everywhere, twinkling lights wrapped around every possible surface, and a Christmas tree that's probably three times taller than necessary. Someone's playing a mix of holiday music and top 40 hits that creates this weird soundtrack where "All I Want for Christmas" blends into whatever's currently trending on TikTok.

You finally spot them across the room, standing in a loose circle with a group of guys you recognize but haven't really talked to. Ivy's laughing at something, her red dress catching the light from the tacky disco ball someone thought was a good idea, and Maliyah is holding a drink that's definitely not her first of the night based on how chatty she's being.

As you get closer, you realize who they're talking to. Joe's there in a black button down that probably costs more than your rent, looking relaxed in a way you don't usually see during the season. Tee Higgins is next to him, gesturing wildly while he tells some story, and there are a couple other players you recognize but can't name standing around, completing the circle.

You slide up next to Ivy who gives you a quick smile and a squeeze on your arm. The music is loud enough that you have to lean in slightly to catch what they're talking about.

"I'm telling you, man, this cold is killing me," one of the players is rubbing his hands together dramatically. "My joints makin’ me feel like I'm ninety years old."

"Right?" Maliyah jumps in. "It's horrible for all of us. We hate it. Like, I can barely feel my fingers during practice, and don't even get me started on what it does to my skin."

Ivy nods emphatically. "The wind is the worst part. It goes right through the uniforms."

You're only half-listening, more focused on the warmth of the room and how different everyone looks outside of their usual getups. Joe’s clean shaven for once instead of sporting that weird scruff he’s been growing out lately, and Tee is actually standing still for more than five seconds without bouncing on his feet. Seeing them all dressed up like normal people instead of athletes feels weirdly surreal.

"No," Joe speaks suddenly, and you realize he's looking directly at you. "Doesn't seem to affect her at all."

The conversation stops. Everyone in the circle turns to look at you, and you can feel the inevitable dread of having to respond to that. Ivy raises an eyebrow, her drink paused halfway to her lips, and Maliyah's eyes dart between you and Joe like she's watching a tennis match.

"What?" you manage to spit out, though your voice gets swallowed by the noise around you.

Joe's still looking at you, head tilted slightly, the light from the disco ball catching the sharp line of his jaw. He’s got that same expression from the tunnel, like he's seeing something the rest of them are missing. "The cold. You never seem bothered by it."

You shrug, your fingers finding the hem of your dress and twisting the fabric. "I mean, I'm from Ohio. Used to it."

"Yeah, that's why they're always using her face for everything," Maliyah jumps in with a laugh, motioning with her drink and nearly sloshing it over the rim. "She never looks miserable in photos."

A few people chuckle, and you feel your shoulders relax slightly as some of the attention shifts. "Lucky," Ivy takes another long sip of whatever fruity concoction she's been nursing all night. Her cheeks are flushed slightly pink from the alcohol and the warmth of the crowded room. "I look like a frozen raccoon by the end of practice."

Tee throws his head back and laughs at that, the sound cutting through the music. "Nah, you all look good. Even when you're dying out there."

YEAR THREE - AUGUST 

The grass is still slightly damp from this morning's sprinklers, and you can feel it through your practice shorts as you settle into your usual spot for stretching. The August heat is already building even though it's barely noon, and you're grateful you opted for the lighter fabric today instead of the full-length leggings some of the other girls are wearing. Around you, the rest of the squad is scattered across the field in their typical clusters, voices mixing with the distant sound of the crowd filing into the stadium.

"I'm telling you, the new routine is going to kill us," Megan is complaining as she works her way into a split beside you. "Coach added like three more formations, and we barely have the original one down."

"It's fine," Ivy retorts, stretching her arms with a dramatic groan. "We just need more practice time."

You nod along, focusing on your quad stretch while your mind wanders. Being back here for your third year feels different this time around. You almost didn't try out again—the thought of balancing another season with your course load, daytime lectures packed with biomechanics and kinesiology, evening anatomy labs that run way too late, plus clinical rotations that start before sunrise. Last year nearly broke you. There were nights you fell asleep face-down in your textbook at the library, ink smudged across your cheek, and twenty minutes to change before classes started.

​​But then Drew had shown up at your apartment in May with iced coffee and that look she gets when she's about to talk you into something stupid. "You can't quit now," she'd said, settling cross-legged on your bed while you tried to explain why another year of this wouldn’t be impossible. "You’ve put too much into this to quit now. You love it—no matter how hard you try to talk yourself out of that."

She wasn't wrong. You did love it. The adrenaline rush of performing in front of tens of thousands of people, the way a perfect set felt like flying, the fact that you'd somehow become the reliable one, the girl they put front and center because you never looked miserable even when your feet were, quite literally, bleeding in your boots.

So here you are again, third year, supposedly smarter about managing your time but still feeling like you're constantly running on three hours of sleep and pure caffeine. And, this was only a month into it.

"Did you guys see that video of the Ravens' squad doing that basket sequence?" Maliyah asks, pulling you back into the conversation. "It looked insane."

"Yeah, but did you see how many of them were off count?" Sarah chimes in from behind you. "Like, it was pretty, but they were a mess."

You stretch your arms overhead, feeling the familiar pull in your shoulders from yesterday's conditioning. The stadium is beginning to really fill up, and you can hear the band warming up somewhere in the distance. This part—right before kickoff, when everything is potential energy waiting to be released—this is what you missed during the off-season.

"Heads up," Ivy mutters, and you follow her gaze toward the tunnel.

The players are jogging out for their final warm-up, a stream of white jerseys and focused energy. They'll run through their plays, loosen up, then head back inside before the real show starts. You've seen this routine hundreds of times, and you're reaching for your toes when you notice the quarterbacks breaking off from the main group.

Joe's there, running with the other QBs, but his head turns toward your section of the field. His eyes find you. Not the group, not the general area where all the cheerleaders are stretching— you. His gaze locks onto yours and doesn't waver, even as his feet keep moving with the team.

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you look down at your hands, suddenly fascinated by your nail polish that's already chipping from this morning's practice. But you can still feel him watching, and when you glance up again, he's turned his attention back to his coach.

Except he's smiling. Just slightly, but enough for you to notice he noticed.

SEPTEMBER

It should all be muscle memory by now, but your mind keeps drifting to the quiz you have tomorrow on muscle attachments and the clinicals application that's due next week. You're in the middle of the combination when your foot hits the ground wrong, ankle rolling under you with a sharp pop that makes your stomach lurch.

Pain shoots up your leg like lightning, but you manage to just barely stay upright and push through the rest of the routine. The last thing you need is to be pulled from rotations because of something stupid, so you grit your teeth and finish the last few eight-counts with everyone else, trying not to let the limp show.

"Nice work, ladies!" Coach Williams calls out as the music stops. "Showers, then you're free to go. Remember, we have that photo shoot Friday morning, so, be getting your beauty sleep."

The field starts clearing out immediately. Players are simultaneously heading to the locker room, coaches gathering equipment, the girls chatting about plans as they collect their belongings, taking long sips from water bottles. You hang back, waiting for the crowd to thin before attempting the walk to the building.

"We're thinking Chipotle after showers," Ivy jogs over with her bag slung across her shoulder. "You in?"

"Can't," you say, trying not to wince as you shift your weight. "I've got like three hours of studying tonight, and I still need to finish that paper for anatomy."

"You always have to study," Maliyah adds, appearing beside Ivy. "Come on, please?"

You shake your head, forcing a smile. "Next time, I promise. Go ahead, I'll be inside in a minute."

They exchange a look but don't push it, heading toward the main building with the last stragglers from practice. Soon it's just you and the groundskeepers in the distance, and you finally let yourself limp over to the bottom bleacher.

Your ankle is already pushing against your shoe in a way that makes even sitting down painful. You try to unlace it, but your fingers feel clumsy and the knot seems to have tightened from the swelling. Every time you pull on the laces, a fresh wave of pain shoots up your leg.

"You’re limping."

The voice comes from beside you, matter-of-fact and closer than you expected. You don't have to turn around to know who it is—you'd recognize that particular brand of blunt observation anywhere.

"I'm fine. It’s fine," you snap while still fumbling with your shoe.

Joe moves around to face you, still in full gear. "You're not." He crouches next to you, eyes locked on you with the same focused intensity he probably gives game film, cataloging details and calculating next steps. It makes sense, considering how many injuries he’s seen teammates push through. How many bad situations he’s watched spiral because someone wanted to look tough. How many times he’s done it himself.

"You know a lot about ankles?" The sarcasm comes automatically, your default defense against vulnerability.

"I've had mine taped more times than you've blinked this week."

You talk to Joe maybe a handful of times a season, if that, and even then it's usually something like "excuse me" or "thanks" when he holds a door. You don't know his favorite color or what he does in the off season or how he likes his coffee. You know he overthrows at water coolers and makes jokes about weaponized textbooks and likes to look at you.

But that doesn’t stop him as he works your shoe off carefully, fingers gentle as he loosens the laces and slides it away from your foot. He reaches behind him for a small duffle bag you hadn't noticed, pulling it closer and unzipping it to reveal rolls of athletic tape, cold packs, and other miscellaneous items. "What happened?" The swelling isn’t too bad yet, just a slight puffiness around the bone that you probably wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the pain.

"Rolled it," you watch him select a roll of white tape, pulling it from the bag.

"You think it's bad?"

You shake your head. "Just landed weird."

"Should probably ice it," he says, already positioning your foot the way he needs it. "And elevate."

"Thanks, WebMD."

That gets you a look. Quick and sharp, but with amusement flickering behind it. Almost a smile. He balances your foot on his thigh and anchors the first strip of tape just above your arch. His hands are warm as he works methodically, wrapping low and tight, then upward. The tape snaps softly with each pull.

He watches the way your ankle shifts under pressure, the way your breath catches when his thumb presses too close to the spot that hurts more than it should. 

“You’ll feel that tomorrow.” He finishes the wrap, smoothing the last strip down with his palm before sitting back slightly, still crouched in front of you. “Try not to be an idiot about it,” he adds. “Go see Mendez before she leaves.”

He looks up at you then, and you can see him weighing something in his expression.

"Don't limp back in front of them," he looks away, collecting his tape and shoving it back in his bag. "Someone'll pull you out."

Oh.

"I thought you didn't care what happens to us."

Standing up, Joe huffs once, zipping the bag. "I don't."

He's already walking away before you can respond, not bothering to look back. You sit there for a while after he's gone, testing the stability of his work. It's solid, professional, exactly what the trainers would have done. 

Later, you’ll find out Megan came back out to grab her things, spotting Joe crouched with your ankle propped on his thigh while he taped it. She snapped a photo—because why wouldn’t she—and posted it to her Close Friends story with a caption about him “playing doctor with our girl” and a stream of laughing emojis. That’s how it ends up leaked by morning.

⟢ timeline

prologue ; coming soon !

ch 1 ; tight laces

ch 2 ; don’t look at me

ch 3 ; the halo effect

ch 4 ; keep it cute

ch 5 ; off the record

ch 6 ; illicit

ch 7 ; control freak

ch 8 ; all eyes on you

epilogue ; pretty when you lie