Joey B Enthusiast

It’s somehow both the hottest and the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. 

As if he senses you standing there, he turns his head and smiles when he sees you. 

‘There she is,’ he greets you softly. ‘How’s your project going?’ 

You shrug. 

‘Okay. I’ve made the executive decision to come and supervise dinner instead.’ 

Joe chuckles. His Bengals hoodie is stretched over his enormous shoulders, making him look larger than ever, and he looks so soft and huggable that you suddenly feel the need to be as close to him as possible. 

‘C’mere and supervise then, babe.’ 

Without another word, you shuffle over to him and duck under his arm that’s bracing against the counter as he continues stirring. It moves to your waist and brings you in closer to his chest. 

‘Hi sweetheart,’ he whispers in your ear. You drag your feet so you’re standing even closer to him. When he tries to move away from you to grab something, you move with him. Your head rests on his chest, just where his collar bone meets his sternum. His heartbeat is steady and strong, just like him, under your ear. You breathe in his scent as if it’s the oxygen you need to survive; vanilla and cedar, along with the remnants of whatever expensive aftershave he sprayed after his shower at practice this morning. It’s addictive, more because it’s him than anything else. You can’t help but keep breathing him in, inhaling deeply and letting the scent of him fog your mind. 

‘You smell nice.’ Your remark is slightly muffled from being so close to him.  

He chuckles softly when he realises that you’re feeling a little clingy tonight and you feel him press a warm kiss to your cheek. 

‘Want me close tonight, honey?’ he asks. 

The question is tender. Soft. Understanding. Not an ounce of teasing or amusement. Just your sweet boyfriend asking what you want. 

You nod in agreement. 

‘If that’s okay,’ you whisper.

‘’Course it’s okay, baby, it always is. You can…’ 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Instead, a yelp punches out of his chest as you jump against him. You feel both of his hands immediately move to your thighs, keeping you steady as your legs lock around his waist. 

‘Whoa, angel!’ He laughs against your cheek. 

You smile smugly into his neck. 

‘There, that’s better.’ Your words are muffled as you mumble them into his warm skin. 

‘When I said “close”, this isn’t quite what I anticipated, honey,’ he chuckles. 

‘You looked deliciously climbable.’

‘That might be the case but being your personal jungle gym is hard when I’m trying to cook dinner, baby.’ 

You lean back, face level with his, and he can’t help but laugh again at how pleased with yourself you look. 

‘Hi,’ you murmur through a smile. 

He tilts his head to look at you properly, smiling fondly at you. His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, both of you smiling into each other. 

‘Hi yourself.’ One of his hands reaches up to stroke your cheek. A strand of hair falls down in front of your eyes, but he tucks it back behind your ear. ‘You have no idea what you do to me, huh?’ There’s an element of teasing in his voice now, but you know how much he loves you like this. Confident in needing him. Joe loves being needed. Especially by you. 

‘You love it.’ 

He shakes his head in disbelief, because goddamn he does love it. He loves you. He loves when you’re like this, clingy and needy for him. His forehead rests against yours, before his attention turns back to the pasta. 

‘Okay, guess I’m multitasking tonight.’  

‘You got this, QB1.’ 

His whole body shakes with laughter as his head moves to rest on your shoulder, clearly resigned to the fact that this is his fate. 

‘You are a menace.’ 

‘I am your menace,’ you reply simply, resting your chin on his shoulder as if you belong there. 

The worst (or best?) part is, you do. You know it and Joe knows it. 

He kisses your cheek affectionately by way of agreeing with you. 

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, beautiful.’ 

He tries to stir with one hand, but without his other hand to steady it, the pot moves around whenever he nudges it with the spoon. 

Joe sighs again. You feel it reverberating through his whole body, all six-four of him and your arms instinctively tighten around his neck. He chuckles again softly. 

‘Baby, as much as I love you, cooking with my beautiful girlfriend attached to me like a koala is not really working.’ 

He moves both hands to your waist and you shift slightly against him, purely just trying to be helpful. The friction of you against him, though, right where he needs you most, makes him hiss against your shoulder. You shoot him a filthy smirk when you see the impact you’re having on him. 

‘No - don’t… baby…’ he mutters. He’s breathing hard despite not running anywhere. ‘God, you make it so hard for me to behave sometimes.’ He’s rambling and blushing, and you can’t help but giggle. 

‘Who said anything about you needing to behave tonight, Joey?’ you tease quietly into his ear. He groans and swears under his breath. You can feel how hard he is against your leggings. 

‘’m just trying to cook dinner…’ 

You giggle at his useless pleas. 

‘You lasted longer than I thought you would, I’ll give you that.’ 

He sighs through his smile, soft and fond, and lifts you carefully up and off him, as if he’s prying a stick insect off of a tree branch. You’re placed on the counter next to the oven and he rests a hand on your thigh. 

‘Sit. Right there. No more sabotage.’ He tries to sound authoritative and use his quarterback cadence, but one look at you smirking at him and he’s gone. Completely gone. There’s that soft smile that he uses only when he’s with you, one that the cameras never see. He rubs his face with both hands and you collapse with giggles. You’ve never seen him so flustered but you’re loving it. You’re loving that this is the effect you have on him. 

‘You make a very good tree, Joseph.’ You say it so matter of factly that he doubles over with silent laughter, at how much you’re clearly enjoying yourself and at the effect you have on him. 

He gazes down at you, completely and utterly besotted with the woman sat on the counter in front of him. 

‘Happy to fulfil all your tree requirements, sweetheart.’ There’s a beat, before: ‘So what kind of tree do you think I would be?’ 

You join him in his laughter, tilting your head in mock thought. 

‘A strong oak. Sturdy. Thick.’

There’s a very long, weighted pause as what you’ve just said registers in your head. Your eyes are wide as saucers and you can just tell he’s trying not to lose composure right there and then. 

Joe turns the heat down on the oven, then moves closer to gently pull your legs apart so he can stand in between them. He’s towering over you now, but you love it. His hair, still slightly damp from the shower, flops down over his eyebrows. 

‘Thick, huh?’ He winks at you. 

This time, it’s your turn to get flustered. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly as you try to think of a rebuttal, but his scent and the intense gaze he’s giving you just makes your brain stop working. It’s complete blue-screen. 

‘Well, you know…’ you mumble. ‘You’re… tall and muscular. Huge. You’re also unflappable. Unmoving.’ 

He leans in even closer to you with the filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. It makes your cheeks flush even more. 

‘Good to know I’d be a thick and sturdy oak tree, baby girl.’ He mutters it low and hoarse right in your ear. Shivers erupt up and down your spine at the way his breath fans against your neck, hot and intense. 

He kisses you, steady and firm. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek while the other braces your back. 

‘The thickest and sturdiest oak tree in the whole wood, Joey,’ you murmur against his mouth. You tilt your neck to kiss his jawline, something you know full well wrecks his composure completely. His whole body seems to expand as he inhales, then sighs it out in pleasure. 

‘God, I love you,’ he mutters. 

‘I love you too, Joey,’ you respond immediately. Each word is punctuated with a kiss to his jawline. 

His head instinctively cocks to the side as your mouth moves to press wet, sloppy kisses down his neck. When he looks down at you again, he fires another wink at you, making you blush harder. He chuckles and closes the remaining distance between the two of you to capture your lips in a firm but steady kiss. Your hands move to his waist, under his shirt and feeling the defined muscles of his abs. His stomach reacts seemingly of its own accord at your fingernails gently tracing the washboard of his abdominal muscles, twitching and jumping at the sensation. 

You want his hands on you, though. The way your hands are on him. The lack of contact makes you whine against his lips. 

He leans back slightly to bump his nose against yours. 

‘What’s the whine for?’ He asks. This time, it’s your turn to tilt your head back as his lips trace the faintest line of kisses from the corner of your mouth, along your jawline and down your neck. For a moment, your vision goes spotty with pure need and you have to stop yourself from moaning. ‘Use your words, beautiful. What do you need?’

A gasp lurches from your body as he sucks and nibbles on a particularly sensitive spot, one that’s still tender from activities from just a few nights ago. 

‘H-hands on… my god Joe…’ You hate that it comes out as little more than a whimper. Your entire body is pulsing with need. He hums against your throat. The vibration is enough to send your eyes rolling back into your head. Focus, your brain screams at you. Tell him what you want. ‘Need your hands on me, pl-please…’

One of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. A filthy, full-bodied moan leaves your body when he pulls on the strands, not gently but not enough to cause you pain. The other loops around your back, moving under your hoodie. His fingers are warm and grounding on your skin. The physical contact makes your brain go hazy with need.

‘Good girl.’ 

Those two words are nearly enough to send you over the edge by themselves. He knows they make you go completely feral. Sure enough, he smiles wickedly when your whole body reacts to them. Breaths spurt from your chest in ragged gasps as his mouth continues its assault on your neck. There’s absolutely going to be marks left tomorrow. You don’t care.  

He chuckles darkly against your skin. 

When he looks at you again, his eyes are dark. He doesn’t need to tell you badly he wants you. The want is etched into every sinew of his face, every crease of his eyes and the furrow of his brow. Your mind is racing with thoughts that are certainly not appropriate for the dinner table. 

‘Are you… um… what… is dinner…’ 

You’re so flustered that you can barely get the words out. Joe’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin on his face as he watches you try and string a coherent sentence together.

Then he reaches a hand behind you. You feel it settle on the small of your back, and seconds later, you feel him gently slide you closer to him. 

‘Trust me, baby,’ he mutters into your ear. ‘Dinner is the last thing on my mind right now. I could go for some dessert, though.’

His words register in your brain. You look up at him again, taking in his handsome features; eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. His pupils are completely blown, making his eyes appear almost black. 

Your hands move up to cup his face. The kiss you give him is fiery, mirroring the intense heat you feel in between your legs. As if he can sense it, one of Joe’s hands moves up the inside of your thighs and up to where you need him most. 

‘Fuck, baby girl,’ he groans against your mouth when he feels how wet you are through your leggings.  

You pull back, breathless from desire.

‘All those in favour of pausing dinner and addressing this,’ you gesture vaguely between the two of you for emphasis, ‘please say aye.’ 

He doesn’t respond. Not verbally anyway. 

When Joe Burrow decides he’s doing something, he does it. 

His arms, huge, warm and strong, encircle you once more and lift you from the counter. 

‘Legs round me, baby,’ he growls against your lips. The minute you obey, you’re airborne and moving from the kitchen into the living room. ‘Yeah, we’re not making it to the bedroom, couch it is.’ 

You giggle once more. 

Needless to say, dinner can wait. 

Dinner can very much wait. 

Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.

"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"

You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."

"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"

"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.

Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."

The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.

"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."

"I had ideas. You made them actually work."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.

"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."

It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.

"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."

"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.

The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.

But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.

By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.

You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.

"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.

"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."

"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."

"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."

You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.

"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."

You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.

"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."

"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."

He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.

When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.

"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."

He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."

"What?"

"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."

It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.

"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."

Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"

"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"

The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.

"That depends," you said. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."

The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.

“I’d like that too,” you said.

“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”

* * *

Eight Months Later

That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.

Eight months of being his secret.

It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.

“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.

Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."

It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.

You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.

The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.

You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`

And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.

After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.

He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.

But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.

Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.

“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”

You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.

But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.

* * *

The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.

You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.

That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.

TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!

Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.

Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.

He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.

You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.

The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.

Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.

"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."

The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.

You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:

“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?

You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.

Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again.

You didn’t look.

* * *

You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.

Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.

You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.

11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”

11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"

12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."

12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."

1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”

1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”

2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”

3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”

3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”

And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.

Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:

“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”

“Do NOT contact me again.”

You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.

Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.

* * *

Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?

He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.

He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.

“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”

So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.

“Please. Just five minutes.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”

“I ended things with Maddie.”

That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”

“I know. I know I fucked up—”

“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”

“That’s not true—”

“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”

The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.

“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”

She turned back toward the building.

“I love you,” he called after her.

She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.

“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”

* * *

February 14th - Valentine's Day

You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."

It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.

This had to stop.

You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:

“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”

Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?

“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.

But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.

You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.

It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.

* * *

April 15th

The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.

You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.

Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.

Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.

In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.

Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.

For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.

You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.

By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turned around, and there he was.

“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”

“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.

“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”

“I noticed.”

“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”

You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”

He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.

“Joe.”

He stopped, turned back.

“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.

* * *

April 20th - 11:47 PM

You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.

It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head. 

You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.

You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.

Then you saw it.

Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"

Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.

Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.

The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.

You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?

Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.

This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.

Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.

Joeyb_9 liked your photo.

The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.

You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.

He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.

You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.

When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.

Nothing came.

Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.

You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.

* * *

April 21st - 9:23 AM

You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.

You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.

You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.

But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.

He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.

Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.

Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.

Then you kept going.

The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.

A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.

A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.

You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

A different recent post.

You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.

Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”

You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.

The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.

You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.

Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.

“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.

“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”

“I know. I was there when I posted it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”

You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He was right. You didn’t. 

* * *

April 25th

Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”

“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”

“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”

You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.

“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”

“Definitely worth it.”

-----

April 30th

Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”

“Why?”

“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”

“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”

“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”

You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

-----

May 3rd

“You were right about that book recommendation.”

Joeyb_9: “Which one?”

“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”

“And?”

“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”

“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”

You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.

-----

May 8th

Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”

The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”

“That sounds normal for therapy.”

“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”

“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”

“When?”

“When you stop bleeding.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

“It gets easier. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”

There was a long pause before he responded.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

-----

May 15th

“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”

Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”

“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”

“I would never skip a wine step.”

“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”

“Deal.”

Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.

“I’m impressed.”

“I had a good teacher.”

-----

May 20th

Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”

The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.

“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”

“Ouch. But fair.”

“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”

“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”

You stared at that message for a long time.

“Then I guess that’s still change.”

-----

May 28th

Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”

“That’s ominous.”

“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”

Your heart did something complicated.

“You arranged a private tour?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”

“When did you arrange this?”

“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”

You found yourself smiling at your phone.

“What time Saturday?”

* * *

You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.

“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.

He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”

The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.

“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”

“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”

“Of course you did.”

The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”

Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”

“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”

As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.

“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”

“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”

You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.

In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.

“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.

“Yeah?”

“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”

“So you went into event planning instead.”

“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”

“Joe…”

“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.

The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.

“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”

When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”

“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”

“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”

You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”

As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.

“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”

Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”

The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”

He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.

“I like this too,” you admitted.

“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”

As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.

Something real.

* * *

June - August

It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.

The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.

“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.

The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.

“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.

“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.

It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.

“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.

“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“What would you call it?”

“Hopeful,” he said simply.

-----

September

The first fight you had was about Maddie.

Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.

“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”

“How is she?”

“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”

You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.

“How did that go?”

“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”

It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.

“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.

“Are we okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

-----

October

The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.

You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like concrete.”

“Edible concrete.”

“That’s generous.”

Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”

You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not good at gentle.”

“You’re learning.”

As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.

“I love you,” you said without thinking.

Joe went still under your hands. “What?”

“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.

He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.

-----

November

The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.

When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.

"It's your call," he said quietly.

You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.

"Okay," you said. "But just one."

The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.

It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.

December 9th

The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.

"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.

"My birthday's not until tomorrow."

"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."

You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."

Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What changed?"

You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.

"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."

Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."

He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.

He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.

You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.

Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.

His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.

When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.

He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.

"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.

You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You didn't rush either.

Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.

Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.

His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.

You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.

"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.

"Yes," you whispered back.

His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.

Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.

His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.

You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.

His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.

His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.

Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”

His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.

He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.

And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.

You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.

Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.

You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”

You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.

His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.

You did.

His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.

He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.

He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”

Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."

"I love you too."

He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.

Tim looks happy. You stand by your car, leaning against the hood as you watch him.

“Hey,” Angela calls, walking to your side. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you answer, not looking away from Tim. “Who is that?”

Angela follows your line of sight, frowning when she sees what’s keeping your attention.

“Uh, that’s Isabel,” she answers quietly. “They’re working a case together. She had some intel that narcotics found really useful.”

Tim doesn’t work in narcotics, you think. So why is he standing with his ex-wife?

You take a deep breath, your hand resting against your stomach as you pick at your shirt. Tim starts laughing, leaning toward Isabel as she smiles at him. Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you begin overthinking. Tim looks happy, happier than he ever has with me.

“C’mon,” Angela murmurs, wrapping her hand around your forearm as she leads you toward the door. “I need someone to keep me company.”

Nodding, you follow her, watching Tim until you can’t see him anymore. Your thoughts quickly turn to a fear that Tim will leave you to return to Isabel.

“Alright, spill,” Angela says, pushing you toward her chair.

You shake your head, looking down as you tug at your shirt again. “Just weird seeing them together, I guess.”

“Tim loves you,” Angela assures you. “He’s just working.”

“Doesn’t laugh like that with you, does he?”

Angela doesn’t answer, looking past you as Tim enters the station. He finds you immediately, walking toward you, oblivious to Angela glaring at him.

“Hey,” Tim greets, smiling at you. “What are you doing here?”

Seeing something I’m probably not supposed to. “I was passing by and thought I’d say hi. Hi,” you reply.

Tim’s brows furrow, glancing over at Angela quickly.

“But, I should probably get going, I know you’re all busy,” you add, standing and straightening your shirt.

“Um, okay,” Tim says, noticing how you avoid stepping too close to him. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod, though you don’t look sure of yourself. When Angela nods, you tilt your head toward your shoulder and take a deep breath. Tim can read your expressions well, but he hasn’t cracked the code of wordless ‘girl-speak’ yet.

“Are you okay?” he whispers as you turn back toward him.

“Yeah, just tired. I’ll see you tonight.”

While you quickly kiss his cheek, your thoughts begin to swim again. If Isabel had kissed him, he probably would have responded differently; when you do it, he stands there and accepts your affection, nothing more than a hand holding your hip to steady you. Angela would not be happy to know what you’re thinking, but the moment you get in your car, you fall into a spiral of heartbreaking thoughts, and in every scenario you imagine, you end up alone while Tim laughs with Isabel.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim calls you nearly a dozen times before you turn your phone off. Sitting in your quiet bedroom, you look at a framed picture of you and Tim. You’re smiling at the camera while Tim’s focus is on you. You saw how he looked at Isabel today, completely different. His smile, laugh, eyes, it's all different with her.

You know that first loves are different, everyone does, yet you let the fact that Tim never talks about Isabel anymore lead you to believe he was wholly in love with you.

You let your guard down. His sweet smile and kisses distracted you, and you never noticed how easy it would be for him to choose her.

A few tears roll over your cheeks, and you set the picture to the side, moving your hands to cover your stomach instead.

The front door closes, and you rush to wipe your face dry, pulling your shirt away from your skin before Tim steps into the bedroom.

“Hey, I’ve been calling,” he breathes, walking toward you. “What’s going on?”

“I guess my phone died,” you lie. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just got a little worried.” He kneels beside the bed and looks at you. Not like he looked at Isabel, though. “Have you been crying?”

“I- uh- I saw one of those animal shelter commercials with the sad dogs.”

Tim chuckles, his lips quirking up into a smile as he hugs you. “You’re sure you’re okay, though? Nothing bothering you?”

“No. I’m okay,” you reply, turning in Tim's hold because it may be the last time.

“I was thinking that we should go out on Friday. I get off a little earlier, so we could go out for dinner and drinks if you want.”

“Dinner sounds good.”

“Lopez wanted to do a double date, but that always ends with me listening to Wesley while she steals your attention,” Tim adds, moving his hand over your shoulder.

Like Isabel steals yours? The thought is unwelcome and brings more tears to your eyes; you’re emotional and tired and growing more heartbroken each moment.

“Hey, isn’t there a game on tonight?” you ask, hoping Tim is as easily distracted by sports as by Isabel.

“I don’t think so. Trying to get rid of me?”

The opposite, but it feels like a losing battle.

✯✯✯✯✯

You call in sick to work the next day. It’s not a complete lie, though the truth is that you’re making yourself sick by overthinking, worrying, and constantly fighting tears. Tim left early this morning for work, and every time you think of him, you see him laughing with Isabel, then realize that she makes him happier than you do.

If this had happened a year ago, you would have talked to Tim about it. But now, there is much more at stake, and losing him would be the same as losing a part of yourself.

You need to talk to someone, and only one person understands the depth of your emotion because she knows at least half of your situation. After dialing Angela’s number, you cancel the call and decide to visit her in person. For the first time, you hope that you don’t run into Tim at the station.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Ange?” you ask, walking to her desk.

Angela looks up from a folder, her eyes widening when she sees you. You’re sure your face is red and teary, and your fiddling fingers are concerning, but you’re concerned, too.

“Can we talk?” you ask.

“Of course. Come with me.”

She leads you to an empty office, and you lean against the desk as she closes the door.

“What’s going on? Are you okay? If Tim did something, I will kill him and they’ll never be able to prove it,” she rambles.

You chuckle sadly before promising, “I’m okay. Mostly.”

Angela nods, moving to sit beside you as she takes one of your hands. “Is this about Isabel and Tim working together?”

You nod, and she squeezes your hand.

“Not just that, though,” you whisper.

“He really does love you; I didn’t just say that to make you feel better.”

“I know he does, but…”

“You think he still loves her, don’t you?”

“I don’t see how he couldn’t,” you argue, sniffing as a tear rolls over your cheek.

“What else is going on?” Angela asks.

You move your hand toward your stomach, and she gasps, grabbing your other forearm as she stands.

“Really?” she asks excitedly.

The door opens, and Tim stops when he sees you, his eyes fixed on you as his hands flex at his sides. 

“Really what?” he asks.

“I think you two should talk,” Angela says softly.

You shake your head, and she whispers, “Trust me. You need to tell him all of it.”

She walks past Tim, pulling the door closed behind her. Tim stands in front of you, setting his hand on your hip and rubbing it gently.

“Tell me all of what?” he asks. “You know you can talk to me about everything.”

Nodding, you try to believe him.

“I just- I’ve been thinking about us,” you begin. “Are we okay?”

“Yeah, we’re great. Aren’t we?”

You shrug, chewing on your inner cheek as more tears gather at your waterline.

“We’re not, are we?” Tim asks softly, gently wiping your tears away. “What’s going on?”

Someone knocks, and you lean back from Tim, but he follows your movement.

“Tim?” Isabel asks from outside. “Are you in there?”

Tim ducks his head to meet your eyes, but you push his hand off your hip and point to the door. 

He sighs and pulls it open, asking, “What?”

Isabel’s brows raise at his tone, and you watch them, though you can’t see much besides Tim’s back.

“We got another tip, the drug buy is going down in thirty minutes,” she explains.

“Then tell narcotics, I’m in the middle of something.”

“What’s more important than this?”

“My wife,” Tim snaps, closing the door and turning toward you again.

“Do you still love her?” you whisper, looking up at him.

Tim freezes, staring at you as he repeats the question to himself. He realizes how this must look to you, though your reaction seems too intense for this to be the only problem.

“No. I love you,” Tim promises, taking your hands. “I loved Isabel once, but you are everything to me.”

“I saw you laughing with her yesterday.”

“She-“

“You seemed happy, and I want you to be happy, but I also don’t want you to leave me. I want to make you happy.”

Tim releases your hand, placing his hand under your chin to tilt your face toward his.

“Hey, look at me,” Tim demands, though his voice and touch are softer than usual. “I am never leaving you. You make me happier than anyone else in the world. Happier than I was with Isabel, even though there is no comparison between you. I’m sorry that I made you feel this way.”

“I was just overthinking it,” you mumble, looking at his collar rather than his face. “I didn’t want to do it alone if you left me.”

“Do what alone?”

Licking your lips, you look back at his eyes to say, “I’m pregnant.”

Tim’s smile grows slowly, and you can’t help but laugh when his hands move to your stomach.

“You’re pregnant?” he repeats reverently.

“Yes, I am. You’re going to be a dad, Sergeant Bradford.”

Tim bends to kiss you, one hand remaining on your barely-there baby bump as the other cups the back of your neck. 

“That’s why you’ve been messing with your shirt so much, and why you didn't want to go out for drinks,” Tim realizes quietly.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you. Just like I knew you weren’t okay yesterday and this morning, I just didn’t want to push you.”

You smile at Tim, wishing you had remembered how amazing he is and chosen to talk to him rather than overthink and grow scared of him leaving you. Someone knocks on the door and Tim groans.

“I know you’re in there,” Angela calls. “Open up.”

Tim shakes his head as he opens the door. You smile and nod at Angela, and she claps her hands together in front of her chest before hugging you.

“We’re having a baby!” Angela cheers.

“Uh, no, we are having a baby,” Tim corrects, pointing between himself and you.

“You made her cry, Timothy.”

“I apologized.”

Angela looks at you with narrowed eyes, and you nod.

“Then shared custody it is,” Angela decides.

“Do I get the baby at some point?” you ask.

“You have it for nine months,” Tim argues. “I get it after.”

“What makes you more worthy than me?” Angela asks.

“It has my DNA, Lopez.”

“Tim?” Isabel asks, approaching the open door. “Are you sure you don’t want in on this?”

“Yeah, I’m busy, but thanks for helping,” he answers. After Isabel walks away, Tim looks at you. “She made me laugh by telling me that whatever had changed since she went to rehab was good for me. That was you.”

“Wow,” Angela drawls. “Tell the love of your life, the pregnant love of your life, that you were laughing at her. That’s not a good way to get custody.”

The last few months had been filled with joy. After the news of his engagement, the wedding planning process had been smooth. You and Robin along with your mom, had gone to several appointments together and Joe had even added his input in most of the details without you feeling like you had to twist his arm and force him to participate.

You were now in the home stretch of the most important day of your lives. Less than two months from now you’d be saying “I do” to the love of your life. And Robin had taken her role as future mother in-law very seriously. You knew that Joe was a mama’s boy, his brothers much older than him with their own mom, and it was clear to anyone with eyes that he was Robin’s pride and joy. But not in a creepy way that would get them to star in a TLC show. It was just very evident that she was proud of him and his achievements and that she didn’t mess around when it came down to business.

After one of your dress fittings, she pulled you aside. “There’s one quick thing I need to mention to you. You’ll be getting a formal document in the mail in the next few days. Nothing huge, just a formality that Peter and the team drafted up for you to sign. I hate the word prenup but that’s essentially what this is.” She said in a matter of fact way. “We just need to make sure to dot our i’s and cross our t’s if that makes sense. Get the boring stuff out of the way so that we can focus on showering you and Joey with our love on your special day.”

“No that makes complete sense, just send it over and I’ll sign whatever you need me to. Thank you Robin seriously, for everything. You’ve made planning this entire thing a breeze.”

She shakes her head with a genuine smile, giving you a warm hug. “This has been an honor, I’m so happy for the both of you sweetie. I’ll see you in a few days for brunch at your house? The kids are so excited they won’t stop talking about it.”

“Yes absolutely, I can’t wait either it’s been so long since we’ve gotten both families together it’ll be really fun.”

There weren’t many opportunities for your family to interact with Joe’s and vice versa, unless everyone met at a football game but that wasn’t exactly quality family bonding. That felt more like a collective screaming match where the adults pregamed with beer and the kids wore his jersey. Most of them didn’t really know what was going on in the actual game. So you and Joe were going to host both sets of parents, all of your siblings and their kids in order for everyone to really spend time together before the wedding.

A few days later, you were finalizing the menu with the catering company when Joe came home.

“It’s gonna be like Cheaper by the Dozen in here tomorrow,” he notes, grabbing a Body Armour from the fridge. “Are we sure we’re ready for this?”

“We kinda have to be. Should we do smoked salmon or shrimp crostinis?” You held up one of each and let him examine them. He snagged the salmon one first and took a bite then did the same with the shrimp.

“Definitely the salmon. What time is everyone getting here?” The catering people jot down their last notes and head out the door after you and Joe thanked them.

You could tell he was going to need time to mentally prepare in case he got overstimulated. “They’ll be here at 1pm, so you can probably get an early workout in and take a nap afterwards,” walking over to him on the other side of the counter, holding his face in your hands. “I know you get cranky when you’re tired and Uncle Joe needs to be at his best tomorrow because the kids will need a QB for their flag football game.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, sticking out his lips that are begging to be kissed. You happily grant his wish, pressing your lips against his, giving him a quick smooch. He asks for a few more, about to get lost in a full make out session when a stack of papers on the counter catch his eye. Joe pulls back so abruptly that your face smacks against his chest.

“Sorry baby,” he cradles your head, reaching around you to grab the piece of paper that’s on top. You take that as your cue to go after his second apology for nearly giving you a concussion. That chest is a brick wall.

The more he skims the words, the tighter his grip gets on the little sheet and the confused look on his face deepens. “Um…what is this?”

“What is what?” You give him a look that matches his energy.

He holds up the paper. “This. What is this? Where did you get it from?”

You look around the room to make sure you aren’t getting Punk’d. “Wait—are you being serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking,” it wasn’t a question. He’s legitimately starting to look upset. “Who gave this to you?”

“Joe,” you let out a dry chuckle, “your mom did. Said it was a formality and that I should sign it and give it to her so she can hand it off to Peter so your lawyers can process it.” When your fiancé continues to stand there motionless in the middle of the room, that’s when it hits you. “Did—did you not know about this?”

He usually has something to say about everything, so watching him silently shake his head is a little scary. Joe places the first page of the prenuptial agreement on the table with a heavy sigh, visibly trying to compose himself. The man had the patience of a saint, known to have blow ups on the field but that was Football Joe. Off the field Joe was calm and rarely ever let things get to him. You’d probably only heard him yell twice in the entire time you’ve been together. And now he was dead quiet. You didn’t know what to do with that.

“Joe, your mom is just trying to protect you. Get this out of the way so that we can—”

“Please don’t try to defend her right now,” his tone was laced with venom, a seething anger you hadn’t seen before and weren’t too keen on getting familiar with. “I don’t like that this was just drafted, printed and handed to you without my permission. She and Peter shouldn’t have done that. And my mom definitely shouldn’t have ambushed you with this.”

Now he was being dramatic. “Robin didn’t ambush me! She told me a couple days ago and I thought you knew so I didn’t mention it.”

“I would never do that to you,” he says with a pain in his voice that makes your chest clench. “WE, you and I should be talking about this. Not my mom and Peter. Jesus.” He rested his arms on the counter, running his hands through his hair.

You hated seeing him get worked up like this, crossing the room again to place a comforting hand on his back. “Why don’t you talk to her tomorrow, I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset you. She most likely just thought she would do this for you so you didn’t need to worry about it.”

“That’s the thing, this isn’t something she should be doing for me. We’re getting married. You’re going to be my wife. There’s no reason she needs to be handing you documents on my behalf like you’re some fucking stranger. I don’t care how ‘busy’ I am. You come first.” You can feel the tension in his muscles even when he stands up to his normal height. He’s really trying to keep it together, giving you an empty kiss on the cheek before heading into his office to cool off. An hour later you head up to check on him, assuming he has his headphones on and can’t hear you, you find that the door is locked.

Tomorrow’s brunch is going to be very interesting to say the least.

Joe surprised you by being in bed by the time you came upstairs to get ready to go to sleep. You thought for sure he’d be on a run to clear his mind. As soon as you climbed in next to him he put his phone away, wrapping his arms around you and giving your body a squeeze.

Whatever private meeting he had with himself must have done the trick because he was actually letting you be the big spoon for once. His touch was soft and intentional, the previously icy aura was liquified and only warm and cuddly Joe remained. “Are you okay?” You asked him and he nodded without looking at you. He just interlocked your fingers in his before sitting up.

“Switch me.” You knew the little spoon wouldn’t last long. “That’s better,” he sighs kissing your head, feeling at home with your arm draped across his waist.

After a few seconds of silence he mutters, “I’m so sorry this is happening. Are you sure you want to sign up for a lifetime of this?”

You look up to meet Joe’s gaze to see if he’s trying to be funny. “A lifetime of you? I can’t think of anything I would want more. The rest of it is just extra, the good and the bad. As long as I have you I don’t care.”

His shoulders sag once again in relief, “good.” Joe peppers a few kisses on your neck, making his way up to your jaw, taking his sweet time until he got to your lips. A joyous hum leaves his mouth as the kiss grows deeper, each swipe of his tongue against yours makes you feel dizzy…love drunk. Nothing compares to the way that Joe kisses you, sensually careful but hungry at the same time, almost as if this is the last thing he’ll ever get to do. This kiss is different, it’s a promise to always protect you, to never let the outside noise sway what his heart knows is true. He’s found the one person in the world that consistently makes his heart sing and no one—not even his mom—will have the final say. And he was going to make that very clear.

When Joe sluggishly came down the stairs the next day rubbing his eyes after his nap wearing a hoodie and cargo pants, you were just thankful he wasn’t in sweats.

“Hi there Sleeping Beauty, I’ve already gotten a few texts that most of them are about five minutes out.”

“Great,” he grunts, parking himself on the couch, “I’m starving,” he scoots around trying to subtly adjust himself.

Joe stares at you , running his hand down your thigh. “Hungry…for food right?” You give him a pointed look.

“Yeah, yeah for food. What did you think I meant?” He laughs as he catches the pillow you launch his way and scoot far enough away that he can’t grab you.

“Don’t. Today really needs to be a stress free day. Can you promise you will be nice and not yell at your mother?” And with that statement he is no longer in the mood.

“I will not yell at my mom,” he crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl only like a youngest child could. “Can’t promise I’ll be nice.”

Before you can negotiate any further the doorbell rings and your first guests arrive. Nieces and nephews come running in, suffocating you with hugs and the youngest one tugging at Joe’s legs demanding to be picked up. Less than 30 minutes later the entire backyard is filled with kids playing tag, drinking juice boxes while the adults enjoyed the appetizer spread.

Joe wasn’t making it blatantly obvious that he was mad but he wasn’t exactly hiding it either. He kept the greeting with his parents short, keeping his distance throughout the afternoon focused on entertaining the kids and playing the perfect host.

“I just realized I never asked,” Codie, one of Joe’s sister in laws speaks up. “Where are you two going for your honeymoon?”

“Bora Bora! I can’t wait,” you respond, topping off her wine glass.

His brother Dan’s ears perk up. “We were thinking about going there for an anniversary trip. Are you guys staying in a resort?”

Joe shakes his head, “I got us an underwater bungalow. The view is supposed to be insane.”

“Yeah I bet,” your dad notes.

“Take lots of pictures,” his dad adds in.

He waits for a second taking a mental note of his mom’s silence throughout the conversation, nudging you to make sure that you’re on the same page. By the time everyone was gone you needed something stronger than wine. Robin and your mom insisted on helping you clean up but you let them know that the caterers were coming back to grab everything. As you bid your family goodbye and thanked them for coming, your mom whispered in your ear, letting you know that the man inside was a keeper. You responded by telling her you intended on keeping him.

Once the door was fully closed you could breathe a sigh of relief…until you heard Robin ask Joe what was going on with him.

Here we go.

Joe didn’t respond. He just went up to his office and came right back down with the prenup in hand. “Care to explain?”

“Oh,” she looked rather unfazed, “Peter and I thought that—”

“And that’s where you went wrong,” Joe interrupts, voice surprisingly even. “You and Peter don’t get to ‘think.’ You don’t get to do whatever you ‘think’ I need. You have to ask me.”

You can tell she’s visibly taken aback at how this has gone. “It was not at all my intention to go behind your back. You’re just very busy and now with wedding planning and everything else, it just made sense to get it put into place so you’d have one less thing to worry about.”

“Mom, I get that. But you crossed the line here. I’m an adult who would’ve liked to have a mature conversation with the person I am going to marry about a topic that is extremely uncomfortable for everyone. It is not your job to play the middle man here. There is no middle man. This is between y/n and I.”

The tension in the air was getting a little too thick for your liking. You stood next to Joe, running your hand down his arm trying to diffuse the situation as much as possible. “Okay I think you’ve made your point. Robin, I am not at all upset with you, this can all be resolved rather—”

“I am upset with you mom. There was no reason to hand over that document without at least giving me a phone call,” Joe counters, starting to stand in front of you a bit like he’s physically shielding you from her.

“Now Joey I don’t think your mom meant any harm,” Joe’s dad speaks up seeing his wife almost in tears. “Why don’t we all just take a breather here.”

You nod in agreement.

“I’m so sorry, to both of you. In hindsight that wasn’t the best way to go about it but like you said this is uncomfortable. I thought keeping it casual would remove some of that awkwardness and I just made it worse. I really am sorry.”

Joe still seemed unmoved but you really didn’t think she needed to apologize this much. He just told her he appreciated the sentiments but that she needs to recognize that’s he’s an adult, telling them goodnight and immediately heading upstairs.

You’re left to walk them out alone, giving them both hugs goodbye. “Honey I’m so sorry,” Robin states again, “I never want you to think that I don’t love you or that I was intentionally going behind Joe’s back. I was just making sure we have all of our bases covered so we aren’t sweating the small stuff on your big day. I hope you can forgive me.”

“You’re totally fine, I understand. And I agree. I think he just got a little freaked out at the reminder that his life is abnormal. He wants things to be simple and sometimes they just aren’t. That probably stressed him out a little. Or a lot.”

It feels good to leave their tense interaction with her smiling. Even though it didn’t reach her eyes like usual, it was still a small step forward.

“How can you not be upset about this?” Joe asks after brushing his teeth.

You focused on what was going on at your sink, taking your time to complete your skincare routine. “Because I see where both of you are coming from. You have every right to be angry at her for doing this behind your back. But at the same time I understand why she feels like she should get a jump on protecting your assets.”

“Protect my assets…” he scoffs, “…from you? What’s mine is going to be yours.” He hands you a towel after you wash your face, having memorized the steps at this point.

“Yeah ok, legally. But your accomplishments and accolades are yours. That’s how you got here and your mom saw all the blood, sweat and tears that went into you being in the position you are today. She may have overstepped a little but you’re still her baby at then end of the day and sometimes it’s hard for them to recognize that they have adult children who are fully capable of making their own decisions.” He grabs the moisturizer off the counter and places it in your hand as you laugh, whispering thank you. “My mom has done the same to me, not to this extent obviously because we’re in completely different tax brackets but—they just want to make sure we’re okay no matter what.”

Joe leans against the counter, deep in thought. Growing up with his dad coaching it was usually just the two of them, she drove him to basketball and football practices and tournaments, took him to school and worked the entire day at school and came home still ready to dedicate all of her time to him if he asked. “I was too harsh wasn’t I?”

“A teeny bit? Maybe? I do thoroughly appreciate you looking out for me though. Going to bat for me against your mom of all people.”

He shrugs, giving you a hug from behind, resting his chin on your head. “She protects me so somebody’s gotta protect you. That’s what I’m signing up for and I promise to always take that job very seriously.” I should put that in my vows, he tells himself. He leans over a little more to press a kiss against your temple.

“Is that a promise?”

“That is a promise,” he holds out a pinky, making you gasp as you turn around.

“Isn’t a pinky shake you and Ja’Marr’s thing?”

Joe looks at you sheepishly, smiling so wide his eyes crinkle. “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

You lock your pinky in his, kissing the smile off of his face.

That night before he went to sleep, he texted his mom telling her that he loved her. You gave them privacy when she came over the next day, smiling and hugging it out so you assumed everything went well. You hoped to have open communication with your kids even as adults one day, but did not envy the journey that your parents were constantly navigating. This once tiny person you created and had to make sure to teach them everything was now not only getting married and had established their own life but in Joe’s case everything was heightened. She’s been there through her son being the overlooked player who Urban Meyer said threw like a girl to now if he so much as has a paper cut an entire city of people, a whole fanbase is worried and asking for minute by minute updates on his condition. You couldn’t imagine the whirlwind that must be.

So you were going to sign that prenup whether Joe liked it or not.

“We need to decide on bridal party gifts,” Joe suggests a week later. “I was thinking about getting the guys customized golf carts. They could be delivered straight to their houses after the wedding or I could have them dropped off the day we get and they can drive around the property whenever they need to get somewhere? What sounds better?”

“It sounds like you’ve had this very specific plan and just couldn’t wait to make your big announcement. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

Joe laughs, grabbing his water. “You can give them all Cartier bracelets, have the wedding date engraved on the inside. That’d be pretty cool.”

Cool and expensive. “Don’t do that, I can actually hear what you’re thinking.” Curse him for knowing you so well. We’re only gonna do this once, might as well do it right. Make it a great experience for everyone we love.”

“Fine. You’re right. But we are not doing an ice sculpture then.” He gives you a blank stare but says nothing, both of you know that it’ll be coming back up sooner rather than later. “There is something else we need to talk about though.”

He rolls his eyes, deciding this is the perfect time to get up and put his plate in the sink, like you can’t just follow him. “We really don’t have to do this.”

“Oh but we do. Joe seriously we’re gonna have to figure this out. It’s important.”

He lets out a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling before putting his eyes back on you. “I’m just uncomfortable with any conversation that plans a breakup. I don’t ever want to breakup.”

“Then let’s not breakup and we won’t even have to worry about any of this. We’ll discuss the details, I’ll sign it and we’ll never talk about it ever again. Deal?”

You place a hand on his cheek and he kisses the inside of your hand before he speaks. “Deal. I can’t wait to marry you. Even got a countdown on my phone.”

“That’s probably the single most adorable thing you’ve ever said.” He pulls his phone out to show you a countdown app with a timer down to the hour the ceremony is supposed to start. A picture from your engagement shoot is set as the background. “I can’t wait either. I love you, so much.”

You threw the shirt aside and answered, your voice breathier than you intended. “Hey.”

“Hey, you busy tonight?” Joe's voice was strained, a clear indicator of what he had in mind. You felt a mix of excitement and annoyance. He never called this late unless he wanted you in his bed, yet you couldn't resist the allure of his deep, husky tone. You glanced at the time - 10 PM - and figured you could spare some time before heading to bed. Whether you'd fall asleep at his place or yours remained to be seen.

“Nah, just doing laundry. What's up?” you responded nonchalantly, trying to hide your anticipation.

Joe let out a sigh of relief. “Can you come over?”

You rolled your eyes, playing hard to get. “It's pretty late, Joe. What's so important?”

“You know what's important,” Joe said, his voice dropping lower, more insistent. You could almost feel the heat of his breath through the phone.

“Hmmm, not really. You should tell me why it's so urgent," you teased, your hands setting aside a pair of jeans to hang up later. You knew exactly what Joe wanted, but you enjoyed the thrill of making him ask for it. He was a man of duality - the composed quarterback on the field, the shy soul when it came to expressing his desires.

“Look, I just - I need you. Okay?” Joe sighed, and you giggled, your heart fluttering at his vulnerability. It was a side of him you didn't get to see often.

You bit your bottom lip, the sweet feeling of victory bubbling through you. “Well, when you put it that way... I suppose I can make an exception.”

Joe's sigh of relief was audible even through the phone. “I'll meet you downstairs, call me when you're outside,” he said before ending the call. You felt a thrill run through your body at the thought of seeing him. You pulled on a form-fitting long-sleeve, your cotton shorts barely covering your ass as you strutted out of the house with your keys, wallet, and phone in hand.

When you arrived at Joe's place, you parked your car in an empty spot just two spaces down from his. The building was quiet, the only sound was the distant murmur of music from passing cars. You sent him a quick text as you locked your car door. He appeared almost immediately, his eyes scanning the darkness until they found you. He wore a simple white tee that clung to his muscular chest and sweatpants that hung low on his hips, showing off the waistband of his boxers. You couldn't help but appreciate the view as you approached.

Joe's faint smile grew into a full grin as he saw you approaching. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a tight embrace, his nose nuzzling into your hair. You melted into the warmth of his body, your hands sliding around his neck as you kissed, a kiss filled with the familiar hunger that only grew with time apart. His hands traveled down your back, gripping your ass and lifting you slightly, making you gasp into his mouth. The chemistry between you was palpable, a silent conversation of passion that needed no words. Your legs wrapped around his waist with a giggle as he swiped his key and opened the door, carrying you into his apartment.

Inside, the room was bathed in a soft glow from the lamp by his bed, casting shadows across the floor. He kicked the door shut with a thud. You could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation thick as Joe carried you to his bed, he threw your body onto the soft mattress. He hovered above you, his eyes dark with desire, his hands skimming the bare skin of your thighs.

Your heart raced as Joe's hands moved with a confidence you had grown accustomed to, yet never failed to excite you. You watched as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the muscular chest you had admired from afar so many times. His abs flexed with each movement, a testament to the countless hours he spent in the gym and on the field. You reached up, tracing the lines of his torso with your nails, making him gasp. His skin was hot under your touch, and you felt a thrill of power knowing you could elicit such a response from him.

As Joe worked your shorts down, you sat up, eager to help. Your eyes locked, the air crackling with electricity. You slid the fabric of your shirt up over your head revealing your bare body. You wore nothing but a black lace thong underneath. Joe's eyes widened as he took you in, his hunger unmistakable. He leaned down, kissing you deeply as his hands found your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples, making you gasp. Your own hands were busy, pushing down his sweats, freeing his erection. You wrapped your hand around his length, sinking to your knees before him.

Joe's hand cradled your face as you took him in your mouth, your tongue teasing the tip before taking him deeper. You knew exactly how he liked it, the rhythm that would drive him wild, and you didn't disappoint. He groaned, his hips bucking slightly, and you felt his hands tighten in your hair. You looked up, your eyes locked in a silent challenge, and took him deeper still. His breathing grew ragged as he threw his head back, his grip on you tightening.

“Fuck,” Joe breathed out, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt your warm mouth wrapped around him. His body was on fire, the sensations you were giving him too intense to ignore. He knew he wouldn't last long with your skilled tongue working him over, and he didn't want to. He craved more of you, all of you.

“Hold on, get on the bed,” Joe grunted, his voice thick with desire as he pulled away from you. You complied, your legs trembling slightly as you climbed onto the bed, watching Joe as he fully removed his sweatpants and boxers. His cock stood proudly erect, the tip glistening with pre-cum and your saliva. You licked your lips, eager to taste him again. But Joe had other plans.

With a surge of roughness, he flipped you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips. You gasped, the sudden change in position sending a thrill through your body. You felt his warm breath on the back of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he whispered, “You want me to fuck you? You want this?” His words were gruff, demanding an answer from you.

“Yes, Joe, yes, please,” you whimpered, your voice muffled by the pillow. You felt the heat of his cock against your ass as he positioned himself behind you. The anticipation was agonizing, your body begging for release. His hand slid down, his fingers finding your slick folds, teasing your entrance before plunging into your wetness. You arched your back, your body eager to be filled by him.

Without warning, Joe thrust into you, the force making your cry out. The sensation was overwhelming, his length stretching you as he buried himself to the hilt. Your nails dug into the bedspread, your body tightening around him as you adjusted to his size. He didn't pause, setting a relentless pace that had your hips pushing back to meet his thrusts. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through your body, the friction of his skin against yours creating a symphony of sensation.

One hand pressed into your back, holding your flush to the sheets with no room for escape, while the other hand gripped your hip, guiding you to meet his every thrust. Your breaths grew shallow, your moans growing louder as Joe's rhythm quickened. His movements grew more urgent, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the quiet room.

“Fuck, Joe, harder,” you panted, your voice muffled by the pillow as Joe's hips pounded into you, each stroke hitting that perfect spot. Your body responded, your inner walls tightening around him, urging him on. The headboard banged against the wall, a steady rhythm that matched your breaths. You could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building deep within you.

Joe groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he slammed into you. His own release was near, his muscles tensing as he felt your body responding to his every move. He leaned over, pressing his hips against your ass, pounding into you relentlessly. Your moans grew more urgent, your body writhing under his as you neared your climax.

“I'm gonna come,” Joe’s voice was strained, his breath hot on your skin as he whispered, his teeth grazing your earlobe. The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you pushed back into him, eager to feel his climax fill you. “Where do you want me, pretty girl?”

“On my tits,” you managed to say through gritted teeth, your body begging for the release you knew was coming.

Joe chuckled darkly and pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness making your whine. He flipped you onto your back, your thighs parted, and straddled your hips. The sight of his cock, glistening with your wetness, made your head spin. He positioned himself between your thighs, jerking himself off as he watched your breasts heave with each breath you took.

“Touch yourself, wanna see those pretty eyes roll back when I paint those pretty tits,” Joe instructed, his own eyes blazing with passion as he stroked his cock. You obeyed, your hand sliding down your body to your clit, your fingers circling the sensitive nub as you watched Joe's hand move rapidly up and down his shaft.

Your breaths grew shallower, your eyes fluttering as you felt the first wave of your orgasm building. “Close, Joe, so close,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Come for me,” he urged, his own release imminent. His strokes grew more erratic, his breaths quickening. You could see the veins pulsing in his arms, the tension in his jaw as he fought to hold back.

Your hand moved faster, your hips bucking off the bed. You could feel the tingle in your toes, the warmth spreading through your core. Your eyes locked with Joe's, and you felt the connection between them, the raw, carnally charged bond that had formed over your months of lowkey hookups. The room was a blur of heat and passion as you climbed higher, your body begging for release.

Joe's eyes bore into yours, watching you intently. With a growl, he gave into the pressure building in his balls and shot his load onto your chest and neck. Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing under his as you moaned his name. The warmth of his cum painted your skin, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to keep from moaning out too loud.

As you both came down from your highs, Joe collapsed beside you, his chest heaving with exertion. He reached over, using his thumb to wipe a stray drop of cum from your clavicle, a gentle gesture that seemed out of place amidst the carnality of the moment. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of something more than just physical satisfaction. But you quickly shoved the feeling aside. This was just sex, a mutual agreement with no strings attached.

“Need a rag? Or do you like it like that?” Joe quipped with a chuckle, his eyes gleaming with mischief. You playfully pushed him away, laughing as you sat up to inspect the mess. The sight of you, flushed and satisfied, nearly gave Joe a headache from the dizzying satisfaction. He suppressed the urge to pull you back down for round two and instead grabbed his t-shirt from the floor, tossing it to you.

Wiping yourself off, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of something you hadn't felt in a long time: comfort. Sure, your arrangement was unconventional, and Joe could be a bit of an unaware dickhead at times, but moments like this reminded you of why you kept coming back.

You lay there in silence for a while, your breaths mingling in the air. Joe's arm was casually slung over your waist, his thumb idly drawing circles on your bare skin. You felt his eyes on you, but you didn't look over. Instead, you focused on the sound of his heart beating in sync with your own racing pulse.

“So, I accidentally met your parents yesterday,” you said, breaking the quiet. “They were tailgating before the game, and they spotted me in your jersey. They’re super nice, by the way.” Your voice was light, but there was an edge to it. You waited for his reaction, expecting him to laugh it off or maybe even be happy you’d made the effort. “I didn't tell them anything, obviously, just said I was a fan. I didn't want to make it awkward.”

Joe's expression tightened, his thumb pausing on your skin. “Why the fuck would you do that?” His voice was harsh, and you could see the annoyance in his eyes.

You stiffened, your eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean, why? I didn’t know they were your parents. And even if I did, I'm not gonna be rude. I said hello, talked about my major, and said I was a fan.”

Joe sat up, his expression darkening. “You had no business talking to them. You're not my girlfriend. This is just supposed to be us fucking around.”

You felt the blood rush to your face, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you expected. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you snapped, tossing the t-shirt aside. “I can't even say hello to your parents without it being an issue? You think I'm some kind of bitch?”

Joe sighed, his eyes searching yours. “No, that's not it. It's just - I don't want them getting the wrong idea. They're already worried about me with all the pressure from the team and school. They don't need to know I'm messing around with someone, especially when it's not serious. You know how they are.”

Your anger flared up. “No, I don't know how they are. I don’t know them!” You stood up, the sheets falling away from your body. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

Joe looked at you, his eyes filled with frustration. “My problem is that you don’t understand the situation. You don’t get what it took for me to get here. My parents think I’m focusing on football and school, not screwing around with random girls that might try to take advantage of me. My parents don’t need to know about my sex life!”

Your eyes narrowed. “So that’s what I am to you? A random girl trying to take advantage of you?”

Joe’s sigh was filled with irritation. “What the fuck? Does it matter?” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “We agreed on this. The whole point of this is that you’re not my girlfriend. You don’t get to meet my parents unless it’s something serious, and this isn’t serious.”

You felt like you’d been slapped. The room grew colder, and you felt your eyes water. You didn’t know why his words hit you so hard, but they did. You quickly grabbed your clothes and started to get dressed. “Fine. I’ll make sure to keep my random ass away from your precious family next time, Joe.”

Joe watched you, his expression shifting from annoyance to regret. He knew he had crossed a line, and he reached out to stop you. “Come on, don't be like that.”

But you were already dressed, your eyes blazing with anger. You slammed the bedroom door behind you, leaving Joe sitting on the bed, his erection gone and replaced with a sinking feeling in his gut. He had screwed up, big time. With a huff he fell back onto the pillows, running a hand through his hair. He had gone too far, said too much, and now he had to deal with the aftermath. He knew you had blossoming feelings for him, even if you never admitted it. But he didn't know how to deal with them, not when his life was so fucking complicated already.

He threw on a pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt before going into the living room. He grabbed his phone, scrolling through his messages, hoping you had sent him something, anything, to ease the tension. But you had blocked him everywhere. The cold realization hit him hard. You were really upset, and he had no idea how to fix it.

Days went by, and Joe felt like a zombie. He went through the motions of practice, classes, and life, but without your fiery energy to fall back on, it was all just a blur. His friends noticed the change in him. Justin and Clyde exchanged worried looks when Joe barely reacted to their jokes, and Grant kept asking him if everything was okay. But Joe just shrugged them off, not ready to admit that a simple no-strings-attached arrangement gone wrong had left him feeling so lost.

“Burrow, you look like shit, man. What’s going on?” Clyde's voice cut through Joe's foggy thoughts as he stumbled into the locker room after a particularly grueling practice.

Joe grunted, not bothering to look up. “It’s nothing.” He reached for his phone, contained in his duffel bag. Nothing from you. Your messages, your snaps, all gone. It was as if you had disappeared.

“If you tell me this pouty bullshit is because of a girl, I’m gonna have to intervene,” Clyde said, smacking Joe on the back of the head. The quarterback scowled at him, but the running back only laughed. “Come on man, spit it out. Maybe my psychology classes are good for something.”

Joe sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s Y/N. We had a fight after the last time she came over. She’s not taking my calls or anything now.”

Clyde whistled low. “Damn, that’s harsh. What did you do?”

Joe looked up, his eyes tired. “Why do you think I did something?”

Justin jumped into the conversation, his smile only serving to irritate Joe further. “Because we know you, Joe Cool. You probably said something dumb and now she’s showing you how cool she can be.”

Grant looked confused. “Wait, huh? What’s going on here?”

“It’s nothing,” Joe mumbled, stuffing his phone into his pocket. He didn’t want to get into it, especially with Grant. The safety had grown to become pretty close friends with you, and Joe didn’t need him to know how badly he had fucked up. He especially didn’t want to hear about how unaffected you were by it all.

“Look, man, if you need to talk—” Clyde started, but Joe cut him off.

“I’m fine. It’s just a misunderstanding, that’s all,” Joe said, trying to sound more convincing than he felt. “I’ll fix it. I just need to talk to her, figure out what I can do to fix it. She’s just upset about something, she’ll come around.”

Justin and Clyde exchanged a knowing look, but they didn’t push further. They had seen Joe like this before, and they knew better than to get in the way when he was dealing with his emotions.

The weekend rolled around, and Joe found himself at a loss for what to do without you. Normally, the two of you would be planning your next meet up, sending each other flirty texts and pictures that sent your pulses racing. But now, there was only silence, and it was deafening. He tried to focus on the game coming up, but his mind kept drifting back to you, to the way you had looked at him, hurt and angry, before you stormed out.

During Saturday's game he searched the student section, hoping he'd catch a glimpse of your dark hair and those brown eyes, but you were nowhere to be found. You never missed a game, even before you started hooking up, but Joe knew you were avoiding him now. The win didn't feel as sweet without you cheering him on, without the promise of hot victory sex waiting for him afterward.

Monday rolled around, and Joe couldn't ignore the pit in his stomach as he walked into class. He had hoped that maybe you’d be there, that you would have cooled off and you could talk things out. You were sitting at the back of the class with your headphones on, ignoring him completely. He attempted to take his usual seat next to you, slowly stalking up the row to the empty seat to your right. But as he approached, you turned to look at him, your eyes cold and unyielding.

“I didn't see you at the game,” Joe said, trying to keep his voice steady as he sat down next to you. You didn’t even look at him, keeping your gaze focused on your laptop screen.

“I had other plans,” you replied curtly, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you typed away, clearly not interested in his attempt at conversation.

Joe felt a pang of regret. He should have known better than to push your buttons like that. He leaned back in his chair, watching you from the corner of his eye. You looked incredible, as always, in an oversized Saints jersey with an edge tucked underneath your bra and a pair of cutoff jeans, ones he had watched your cut from an old pair of jeans several weeks ago. Your hair was neatly styled into a high puff, showcasing your beautiful features, and Joe couldn't help but miss the way you used to lean into him, your head on his shoulder, while you talked about your weekends in his bed.

The professor began the lecture, and you removed your headphones, but you didn’t acknowledge Joe’s existence. He felt like an outsider in a class you had shared for months. The tension between them was palpable, and Joe's mind drifted from the lecture to your last heated exchange. He had never seen you so upset, so hurt by his words. The silence stretched on, and Joe felt the need to fill it with anything, even if it was just noise.

The lecture seemed to drag on forever, Joe's thoughts consumed by your icy demeanor. He couldn't remember the last time you’d gone this long without speaking. His mind raced with apologies and explanations, trying to formulate the perfect words to make things right between them. As the class ended, students began to pack up their things, chatting among themselves as they prepared to leave.

“Hey,” Joe said tentatively as you stood up, your backpack slung over one shoulder. You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “Can we talk?”

You rolled your eyes with a sigh. “There's nothing to talk about, Joe,” you replied, your voice flat. “I'm not your girlfriend, remember?” You started to walk away, but Joe reached out and grabbed your wrist, trying to halt your retreat. You snatched your hand away, eyes blazing as you continued on your path, pushing through the doors of the classroom and then of the building.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to make it seem like you're just some random girl to me. You know you're not. I just... I'm stressed, man. The team, school, everything's riding on me. I don't need my parents getting involved in my personal life, making things complicated.” His words came out in a rush, desperation lacing his voice.

You paused. You felt a flicker of something that might have been understanding, but you quickly squashed it. You couldn't let him off the hook that easily. “Well, maybe you should have realized that before you opened your mouth and said something stupid.”

Joe's eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of forgiveness, but all he saw was anger and hurt. He knew he had to do something big, something that would show you he was serious about fixing this. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? I miss you. I miss this. Us. Let's go out tonight. Just us, no strings, no pressure. We'll talk, I'll apologize properly, and maybe we can move on from this shit, okay?”

You hesitated, the mention of your previous intimacy sending a shiver down your spine. You missed the way Joe made you feel too. But you weren't going to be swayed so easily. “Why should I? You're just going to say whatever you think I want to hear to get back into my pants, and then we're right back where we started.”

Joe leaned in closer, his voice earnest. “Because I mean it. I do. I miss the way we laugh together, the way we talk about nothing for hours. And, yeah, I miss hooking up. But I miss you, all of you. I know I hurt you, and I want to make it right.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your emotions warring within you. “You don't get to decide when we're just fucking and when we're not, Joe. You don’t get to treat me like that and then expect me to come running back when you decide you miss me.” Your voice was firm, but Joe could hear the waver in it, the hint of vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. “I gotta go.”

With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving Joe standing on the sidewalk, feeling like an absolute asshole. He watched your retreating figure, your hips swaying as you disappeared into the throngs of students moving between classes.

For the rest of the day, Joe's thoughts were consumed with you. He couldn't focus on his schoolwork or his football strategies; all he could think about was the pain he saw in your eyes when he called you a “random”. He knew he had to do something to make it right, but he didn’t know where to start.

It was the Tigers' bye week so he figured he had about a week to make this right. And Joe Burrow was not a man to let things slide. He knew he had to act fast before you completely wrote him off. He spent the rest of the day in a daze, his mind racing with grand gestures and apologies he could make to win you back. But as the hours ticked by, he realized that maybe it wasn’t about the grandeur of his apology, but the sincerity behind it.

“Hello?” Alani, your roommate, waved a hand in front of your face, snapping you out of your daze. You had been staring at your phone screen, replaying the conversation with Joe over and over in your mind. Your thumb hovered over the unblock button, the temptation to reach out to him almost too much to handle.

You looked up, shaking your head. “Sorry, this shit with Joe is just... I don’t know. It’s fucking with my head, Lani.”

Alani nodded sympathetically, crossing your arms. “Well, you can’t miss what you never had. Maybe it’s time to move on, girl.”

You rolled your eyes. “Easy for you to say, you’ve been dating the same guy for three years. You don’t know what it’s like to have something so intense and then have it just... not mean anything to the other person. I've never cried in front of him, and when he said that bullshit, I almost did.”

Alani sighed, sitting down on the bed next to you. “Look, I get it. But maybe he just doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings. You guys have always had this... complicated situation. Maybe he needs to spend a little time without you to realize what he’s missing.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, because that’s totally what’s going to happen. He’s going to sit in his room, mope around, and suddenly realize that I’m the love of his life.” You tossed your phone onto the bed, the frustration in your voice palpable. “Why did I have to fuck the quarterback? Why couldn’t I just find literally any other guy to hook up with?”

“Because Joe Burrow is hot as fuck. And because he’s obviously into you, even if he’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to show it.” Alani said, her voice filled with a blend of amusement and annoyance. You couldn’t argue with that. Joe was the epitome of gorgeous, and you had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame from the moment you had met. But his emotional cluelessness was starting to wear on you.

The week dragged on, and you threw yourself into your studies and workouts, trying to keep yourself busy. But every time you saw someone wearing an LSU jersey, or spotted one of Joe's teammates, your thoughts drifted back to him. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t ignore the gaping hole in your life where he used to be.

Finally, Saturday night arrived, and you had had enough of moping around. You were going out with Alani and Portia, your other roommate, to blow off some steam. You all got dressed up in your sexiest outfits, ready to conquer the Baton Rouge nightlife. Per advice from Portia, you tugged on the shortest skirt you owned and paired it with a tight tube top that left little to the imagination.

As you were leaving your apartment, your phone buzzed in your pocket. It was a message from Grant. 

You still pregaming with us?

The words were a reminder of the world that Joe had brought you into, and how you were now being invited to it without him. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. 

Yeah, we’re on our way.

When you arrived, the bass of the music hit you like a wall, vibrating through your chest as you entered Grant's apartment. There were a handful of guys from the team that you knew by name, eagerly taking advantage of the bye week to let loose. You spotted Grant immediately, his broad smile lighting up the room. Portia skipped over to him first, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, leaving you and Alani to exchange gagging noises before you were also swept into the rush of pregaming before hitting the frats.

But Joe was nowhere in sight, and you felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Maybe this was for the best, you thought. Maybe you could finally have some fun without the weight of your unresolved issues hanging over you. The three of them took shots, danced, and flirted, the energy of the party building like a crescendo. And then, like a cruel joke, Joe appeared, his eyes locked on yours from across the room.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt a sudden urge to flee. But you couldn't. Not with the way he looked at you—like he hadn't seen you in months rather than days. He was dressed in a vintage-style Kendrick Lamar T-shirt and jeans that hugged his muscular thighs, and you couldn't help but remember the last time you had seen him undressed, the way he felt inside you. You took a deep breath, tipping back a shot of tequila to steel yourself for whatever was about to come. Your hair was different from the last time he saw you. Your natural coils exchanged for a sew-in of some sort. He tried to sift through his memories of your conversations, knowing you had to have told him the exact name of the style you frequently reverted to at some point.

Joe instantly recognized the tiny little skirt that barely contained your ass, and his jaw clenched. You had intended on wearing it at least half a dozen times before. But, you had never managed to make it past the threshold of your apartment before he had torn it off you. The sight of you in it now, surrounded by his teammates, made his blood boil with a mix of anger and desire.

He stalked over to you, his eyes never leaving yours as he approached. You felt your body heat up under his intense gaze, the alcohol in your system doing little to dull the effect he had on you. You knew you were playing with fire, but you couldn’t help yourself. You had to keep your walls up.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Joe’s voice was low and gruff.

You rolled your eyes, taking another shot. “Clothes, Joe. It’s a revolutionary concept, I know,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. You didn’t miss the way his eyes raked over your body, and you felt a thrill of satisfaction. You knew you looked amazing tonight.

Joe’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took in your outfit. “You've never worn that out,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice thick with accusation.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I guess there's always a first time for everything, right?” you said, your voice dripping with challenge. You could feel the eyes of the other guys on you, and you knew Joe could too. It was like a silent battle of wills played out in the middle of a crowded room.

“Joe! Get yo ass over here, boy. We ‘bout to head to the frat!” Clyde’s boisterous voice cut through the tension, slapping Joe’s hand against his back as he pulled him away from you. You smirked at the interruption, enjoying the frustration on his face.

The group spilled out into the cool night air, the scent of spilled beer and sweat mixing with the sweet aroma of a great season that hung over the city. You felt Joe’s eyes on you as you swayed to the music, the beat of the bass echoing through your body. You knew you were driving him crazy, and a part of you reveled in it. The anger still smoldered within you, but you couldn’t deny the thrill you felt at having his attention solely on you.

As you all made your way to the frat house, you felt a gentle nudge against your back, and you turned to see Justin smiling down at you. “You know you a lil' asshole? I ain't seen you show out like this in a minute,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Don't play with me, I had a shitty week and I'm just trying to get loose,” you said, taking a sip of your vodka lemonade.

Justin chuckled and shook his head, “You tryna get turned loose.” You threw your head back with a cackle, taking another sip of your drink. The warmth of the alcohol spread through you, and you felt a bit more relaxed. As you approached the frat house, the music grew louder, and the lights grew brighter, casting a neon glow over the rowdy crowd.

Joe, unable to keep his eyes off you, watched your dance with a fiery passion that had his heart racing. He wanted to stride over and pull you into his arms, but he knew better. Instead, he found himself glaring at every guy who dared to look your way. His friends noticed his mood and tried to include him in your conversations, but Joe's mind was elsewhere.

Inside the frat house, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and the promise of a wild night. Your hips moved to the rhythm of the music, drawing the gazes of the intoxicated partygoers. You felt Joe’s eyes on you, a silent battle of wills playing out across the crowded room. With each sway of your hips and flick of your hair, you felt a surge of power knowing you had his attention. Every so often you’d have to pull your skirt down and your top up, giving him a teasing glimpse of what he was missing.

Alani and Portia danced beside you, occasionally whispering in your ear, egging you on. But you didn't need encouragement. The beat of the music and the burn of the alcohol in your system fueled your need to push Joe's buttons. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, but the thrill was too intense to resist.

Joe’s patience grew thinner with every passing second. His eyes followed you as you danced, your body moving in ways that had his imagination running wild. He took another shot, trying to dull the ache in his chest, the guilt and frustration melding into a toxic cocktail. He knew he had to talk to you, to explain himself, but you remained elusive, conveniently dancing away whenever he approached.

The night grew wilder, the music louder, and Joe's resolve stronger. He'd had enough of this dance. He wove through the crowd, the alcohol giving him liquid courage, until he was right behind you. He placed his hands on your waist, his touch firm as he pulled your ass against his crotch. Your eyes snapped up, surprise and anger flashing across your face. You tried to twist away, but Joe’s grip was like steel.

“What the hell, Joe?” you snarled, your voice barely audible over the music.

“You’ve been fucking with me all night. What did you expect?” he shot back, his voice a gruff hiss in your ear.

Your body stiffened against him, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and arousal. You knew he was right, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. You turned to face him, pushing him back with a look of pure defiance. “Fuck off,” you spat, your voice low and full of warning.

Joe stepped closer, his blown out blue eyes burning into yours. “You want to play games, fine. But know that every time you dance like that, every time you give me that look, I'm going to want you more. So, I'm not playing around anymore. We're going to talk now.”

You felt the heat of his body against yours, and you couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine. You wanted to push him away, to maintain your cool façade, but his touch was too much. You nodded curtly, and Joe led you through the sweaty, pulsing mass of bodies, his hand tightly gripping your waist. You found a quieter corner of the frat house, the music a distant throb in the background.

Joe took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. “Look, I know I said some fucked up shit that I didn't think through. And I was wrong, okay? I just... it scared me, the idea of you meeting my family. It's not that you're not important to me, but I'm not ready for that shit yet.”

Your eyes narrowed, the anger in your voice clear as day. “I didn't plan to meet your parents, Joe. It just happened. And you know what? It's not fair of you to get pissed at me for it.”

Joe nodded, his expression earnest. “I know. I get that now. I'm sorry. I just... I don't know how to handle all this shit.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes up to the ceiling. “What does that even mean, Joe? What is there to handle?” You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts up and causing the tight fabric of your top to stretch even more.

Joe raked a hand through his hair, his eyes lingering on your exposed cleavage before meeting yours again. “I wanted to handle this the right way. I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me without all this bullshit. I wanted to introduce you to my parents when I was ready, not because you bumped into them. But here we are, and I'm fucking it up like always.”

Your anger began to dissipate, but the hurt remained. “Well, you had your chance. And you blew it.”

Joe stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours. “I know. But I'm asking for another one. Please. Give me another chance to make this right.”

Your resolve wavered, the warmth of his hand sending a jolt through you. You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your eyes searching his for any sign of insincerity. Finally, you sighed, “You're lucky you're hot, Burrow. That's all you got going for you right now.”

Joe cracked a smile, his thumb brushing against your palm. “Is that a yes?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. “It's a don't be fucking stupid.”

Joe leaned in. “So that's a yes?” His voice was back to its baseline, deep and dark, sending a shiver down your spine. You rolled your eyes again, but the heat between them was undeniable. He licked at his lips, hands sliding down to cup your ass firmly. Your breath hitched, your body responding despite your mind’s protest. Your hands snuck up into his hair, pulling him closer to you as you bit your bottom lip with a smile.

The music swelled around them, a pulsing beat that matched the tempo of your racing hearts. Your skirt had ridden up even further, and Joe aching for a greedy look at your barely covered pussy, shimmering from your dance and your desire for him. His cock grew hard in his pants, and he knew that if you didn’t find some privacy soon, you’d be fucking right there in the middle of the party.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging your hand as he led you through the frat house, ignoring the curious glances thrown your way. The two of you found an empty bedroom, the door barely hanging on its hinges. He pushed you inside and slammed it shut behind them, the sudden silence deafening. The room smelled faintly of weed, booze, and perfume, a scent that only served to excite him further.

You leaned against the wall, your breathing ragged. Joe stepped closer, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips. He kissed your neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his lips. “Is this what you wanted? To get me all riled up in front of everyone?” His voice was a low growl, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt, your nails digging into his back. “Maybe,” you whispered, your voice thick with lust. “You're sexy when you’re mad. Gonna be good and say sorry?”

Joe smirked, his hands sliding around to squeeze your ass again. “I'm sorry. I fucked up. I was an idiot. I just... I don't know what I was thinking,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “But you look so fucking good in that skirt, I can't think straight when you're around.”

Your breath hitched, your body responding despite the lingering anger. You knew you should be mad at him, knew you should keep your walls up, but the way he was looking at you made your knees weak. “You're still an idiot,” you murmured, your voice betraying your own desire.

Joe leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. “But you want me anyway,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your resolve crumbling. “Unfortunately,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

Without warning, Joe’s lips were on yours, hard and demanding. Your anger melted away, replaced by a white-hot desire that you hadn’t felt since the last time you were together. Your body responded eagerly, pushing into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he picked you up, your skirt riding up even higher. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, and you moaned into his mouth, feeling his erection pressing against you.

“Fuck me, right here, Joe, please,” you panted against his mouth, the urgency in your voice making Joe’s cock throb.

He didn’t need any more convincing. He moved to rip through your panties, tearing them away from your body. The sound of the fabric ripping seemed to echo in the empty room. He fiddled with his jeans as he pressed you against the wall, dropping his pants just enough to free his cock. You were already wet, and Joe took a moment to appreciate the sight before he plunged into you with a groan that was half-moan, half-curse.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he began to thrust, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. The friction was heavenly, his thick length filling you up as you wrapped your legs around his waist. The room spun around them, the music from the party a distant echo as your bodies found a rhythm that was uniquely yours. Joe's teeth grazed your neck, sending shivers down your spine, and you moaned his name, the sound muffled by his hungry kisses.

You were lost in a whirlwind of passion, the anger and frustration of your recent fight forgotten. Your movements grew more frantic, your breaths mingling in the small space between them. You felt the beginnings of your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that had your nails digging deeper into Joe's skin. His grunts grew louder, his strokes more forceful as he chased his own release.

Your eyes locked, and in that moment, the air was charged with something more than just lust. It was a silent understanding, a connection that transcended the tumultuous dynamics of your relationship. Your body tensed as you climaxed, your muscles clenching around Joe’s cock, pulling him over the edge with you. You came together in a symphony of gasps and moans, your bodies shaking as you rode out the intense wave of pleasure.

For a moment, you remained entwined, your hearts hammering in your chests. Then, with a sigh, Joe lowered your legs to the floor, keeping you against the wall. He kissed your glossed lips, his breathing ragged. “I meant it. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I just... I don’t know how to do this whole relationship thing without fucking it up,” he confessed, his voice filled with vulnerability.

You looked up at him, your eyes softening. “I know, Joe. But I'm not gonna be the one to fix it for you. If you want this to work, you need to be honest with me. And if you can't handle the small stuff then maybe we shouldn't be doing this at all.”

Joe nodded, his gaze intense. “I’ll do better, I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”

You studied him, the weight of his words sinking in. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But if you mess up again, I’m not playing games. You get one more shot, Burrow.”

Joe’s expression grew solemn. “Understood,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Your hand found the back of his neck, and you pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Your anger had dissipated, but the sting of his previous words remained, leaving you feeling vulnerable.

You broke apart, your breaths mingling in the quiet space. Joe’s eyes searched yours, looking for any lingering doubt. “I’ll make it right. I swear to god,” he said, his voice thick with sincerity.

You nodded, your own eyes still filled with a mix of lust and wariness. “I hope so, Joey.” You stepped away from him, straightening your skirt and smoothing your hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You stepped out of the room, back into the pulsing heart of the party. The lights seemed brighter, the music louder, and the energy of the room washed over them like a wave. Joe's hand rested on your ass, you shot him a look that was both a warning and a promise. When you finally rejoined your friends, Justin and Clyde started a round of applause, their expressions marked with amusement. Alani and Portia were grinning, sipping on their drinks, and Grant looked like he was trying not to laugh.

You rolled your eyes. “You're all disgusting,” you said, though the smile took the sting out of your words.

Clyde grinned. “Look who’s talking, Miss 'I just got fucked in a frat house bedroom'.”

You glared at him playfully, but you couldn’t help the heat that crept up your neck. “Shut up,” you said, though the corner of your mouth twitched with a smirk.

“Y'all were gone for almost an hour, what were you doing in there?” Alani teased, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.