joey b’s version

Joe Burrow x Reader

You never expected a simple second-grade writing assignment to change your life.

Every year your class completed a unit on letter writing. Most students chose grandparents or favorite authors, but this year, students decided they wanted to write to a local Cincinnati public figure. You went through the list with your class and landed on the Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow.

“Dear Joe…”

Some thanked him for inspiring them to play football.

Others asked if he liked dinosaurs.

One little girl simply wrote, “My teacher says being kind is more important than winning. I hope people are kind to you too.”

You bundled the letters together and mailed them, assuming they’d never be seen.

Weeks later, during a hectic Tuesday afternoon, your principal rushed into your classroom trying—and failing—to hide a grin.

“Don’t let the kids look out the window.”

Naturally, twenty tiny faces immediately pressed against the glass.

Outside sat a black SUV.

Then another.

Security.

Before you could ask what was happening, a familiar voice spoke from the hallway.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Joe Burrow.

Standing in your classroom doorway holding a football under one arm and a stack of handwritten replies under the other.

The room erupted.

Kids screamed.

One student cried.

Another proudly announced, “I told you he’d come!”

Joe spent nearly two hours with your class.

He answered every question—even the ridiculous ones.

“Do quarterbacks eat vegetables?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

“Probably a T. rex… feels like the obvious answer.”

“Do you get grounded if you lose?”

He laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his tiny classroom chair.

You stayed in the background, making sure everyone got a turn.

Watching Joe interact with your students wasn’t what you expected.

He remembered every child’s name.

He knelt to eye level before answering questions.

He signed every football, notebook, and crayon drawing they handed him.

Most importantly, he made each kid feel important.

As the visit ended, your students surprised him one last time.

They had secretly practiced a thank-you song.

Joe looked genuinely caught off guard.

He blinked rapidly, trying not to get emotional.

After everyone left for recess, you found him lingering beside the classroom bookshelf.

“I should probably get going,” he said.

“They’re going to talk about today until they graduate.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“They already think you’re a superhero.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m definitely not.”

“No,” you smiled. “You’re just a really good person.”

For the first time all afternoon, Joe looked nervous.

“I actually… wanted to ask you something.”

You tilted your head.

“Would it be weird if I asked the teacher who inspired all these letters to get coffee?”

You blinked.

“The teacher?”

He nodded.

“The kids talked about you almost as much as they talked about football.”

“They did?”

“They said you’re the reason they believe they can do anything.”

Silence settled between you.

Then he smiled—that soft, genuine smile very few people ever saw.

“I figured anyone who makes kids believe in themselves is someone I’d like to know.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

“That’s quite the pickup line.”

“I’ve never really been good at those.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So… coffee?”

You pretended to think for a second.

“I suppose.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Great.”

One of your students suddenly burst back into the classroom.

“I forgot my lunchbox!”

She stopped dead when she noticed the two of you smiling at each other.

Her eyes grew wide.

“I knew it!”

Both of you looked at her.

She pointed dramatically.

“You LIKE my teacher!”

Joe’s ears turned bright red.

“I…”

The little girl grinned mischievously.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

She grabbed her lunchbox.

Paused.

Then whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear,

“…Except my mom.”

She sprinted away before either of you could respond.

You both burst into laughter.

Joe shook his head.

“I have a feeling our first date is already public knowledge.”

You smiled.

“Second graders are terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Worth it?”

You looked at him.

The man who took time out of his day to answer children’s letters.

The man who cared enough to show up.

The man whose kindness was even more impressive than his football career.

You smiled a little wider.

“Definitely worth it.”

And as Joe held the classroom door open for you, you couldn’t help but think that maybe your students had been right all along.

Not because he was a superhero.

Joe Burrow x Reader

You almost didn’t come.

When Joe had texted asking if you wanted to take a drive, you’d assumed he wanted a quiet night away from reporters, teammates, and the constant noise that followed him everywhere.

What you didn’t expect was for him to pull into the nearly empty parking lot of an old diner two hours outside of Cincinnati.

The same diner where everything had started.

You stared out the windshield, immediately recognizing the faded neon sign.

“No way,” you laughed softly.

Joe smiled, shutting off the truck.

“You remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

Years ago, before the NFL, before the packed stadiums and national commercials, before anyone outside of football circles knew his name, this had been your place.

A cheap diner where college students could afford coffee and pie at midnight.

The place where you’d spent countless nights talking about dreams.

His dream.

Football.

Back then, Joe had very little certainty about what the future would look like. He was transferring schools, fighting for opportunities, trying to prove himself.

But there was one night you remembered more clearly than any other.

You and Joe had been sitting in the same booth by the window.

Rain had been pouring outside.

You had jokingly asked him what he’d do if football worked out.

Without hesitation, he’d looked at you and said:

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure it was worth it.”

You’d laughed.

He hadn’t.

Then he’d reached across the table and squeezed your hand.

“One day I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

At the time, it sounded like the dream of a hopeful college kid.

Now it sounded very different.

Joe opened your door and held out his hand.

“Come on.”

You followed him inside.

The diner looked almost exactly the same.

Same red booths.

Same old jukebox.

Same smell of coffee.

And somehow, sitting across from Joe in the exact booth where you’d spent so many nights together felt like stepping into another life.

For a while, you simply talked.

About old memories.

College.

Friends.

The ridiculous amount of pie he’d eaten back then.

Eventually, the conversation settled into a comfortable silence.

Joe watched you for a moment.

His expression softened.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been thinking about that promise.”

Your heart skipped.

“What promise?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You know exactly which one.”

Of course you did.

The diner suddenly felt much smaller.

Joe looked down at his coffee before continuing.

“Back then I didn’t have much.”

“You had plenty.”

He shook his head.

“Not really.”

You could tell he was serious.

“I had dreams. That’s about it.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“And you believed in me anyway.”

Your throat tightened.

“Joe—”

“No, let me say this.”

His voice was gentle but firm.

“There were a lot of days when things weren’t working. Times I doubted myself.”

He laughed quietly.

“Actually, most days.”

You smiled.

That sounded more like the Joe you knew than the confident athlete everyone saw.

“But every time things got hard,” he continued, “you stayed.”

His eyes never left yours.

“You never asked me to choose between football and us.”

“Because I knew how much it mattered to you.”

“I know.”

His voice dropped.

“And that’s exactly why I’ve never forgotten.”

Emotion flickered across his face.

Rare.

Raw.

Honest.

“The truth is…”

He paused.

“The whole reason I worked so hard was because I wanted a future.”

Your chest tightened.

“A future for me?”

Joe shook his head.

“A future for us.”

The words hung between you.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Joe reached across the table and took your hand.

The same way he had years ago.

“I know football has asked a lot from both of us.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“I know I’ve missed birthdays. Holidays. Random Tuesday nights.”

You blinked rapidly.

“Joe—”

“But you’ve never been second.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“You hear me?”

Your eyes filled immediately.

“You’ve never been second to football.”

The diner blurred.

Joe squeezed your hand.

“Everything I’ve done…”

He swallowed.

“Every workout. Every surgery. Every game. Every sacrifice.”

His eyes shone.

“It was because I wanted to build a life with you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Joe smiled softly.

“There she is.”

You laughed through tears.

“Don’t.”

“I love you.”

The words came easily.

Like he’d been carrying them for years.

“I loved you when I had nothing.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I love you now.”

He leaned forward.

“And twenty years from now, when nobody cares about football anymore, I’ll still love you.”

Your heart completely melted.

Joe stood and moved beside you in the booth.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him.

His embrace tightened instantly.

Safe.

Warm.

Home.

After a moment, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The same way he always did.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think I finally kept that promise.”

You looked up.

“What promise?”

His smile was soft and certain.

“The one I made right here.”

His hand cupped your cheek.

Joe Burrow x Reader

The house was quiet in the way it only ever was after midnight.

No TVs humming downstairs. No phone calls from coaches. No film playing from the iPad Joe practically carried like another limb during the season.

Just silence.

You blinked awake slowly, reaching across the bed toward the cold empty space beside you.

Your heart immediately tightened.

Ever since getting pregnant, you’d become hyperaware of everything — every missed call, every headache, every moment you woke up alone in the middle of the night.

You pushed yourself upright carefully and glanced toward the clock.

2:07 a.m.

A soft light glowed faintly from downstairs.

Of course.

You already knew where he was.

The nursery door sat cracked open when you reached the hallway downstairs. Warm yellow light spilled across the hardwood floor.

And there he was.

Joe Burrow sat cross-legged in the middle of the room wearing gray sweatpants and an old Bengals hoodie, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a hardware store explosion.

Wood panels.

Loose screws.

Instructions crumpled beside him.

And what was very obviously the side of the crib attached completely backwards.

You leaned against the doorway, trying not to laugh.

“Joseph.”

His head snapped up immediately.

The guilty expression on his face made it worse.

“I can explain.”

“You’ve built the crib inside out.”

“That feels dramatic.”

You stepped into the room, eyeing the disaster around him. “The bars are facing the wall.”

Joe stared at it for a long moment before sighing.

“…okay, maybe a little dramatic.”

You laughed softly, lowering yourself beside him onto the rug.

The nursery was still unfinished, but it already felt special.

Soft cream walls. Tiny stacks of baby clothes folded in baskets. A stuffed elephant someone had gifted you both sitting in the rocker by the window.

Pieces of your future scattered everywhere.

Joe rubbed a hand over his face. “I was trying to surprise you.”

“At two in the morning?”

“You were sleeping.”

“You should also be sleeping.”

“Couldn’t.”

That answer came quieter.

You glanced over at him.

The exhaustion sitting on his face lately had become harder to ignore. Long practices. Media. Pressure. Endless conversations about the upcoming season.

And underneath all of it — the baby.

You reached over, brushing sawdust off the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You know most dads hire people for this stuff.”

“Yeah, well.” He grabbed the instruction booklet again. “Most dads aren’t stubborn.”

“That’s probably not true.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Together, you started sorting through the mess. Joe handed you screws while you tried deciphering instructions that somehow looked more confusing than football playbooks.

“You’d think,” you muttered, “for the amount this thing costs, they’d make the directions understandable.”

Joe pointed toward the page. “That picture might actually just be a threat.”

You snorted.

For a while, it felt easy.

Quiet.

Domestic in a way neither of you were used to yet.

Your knee bumped his occasionally while you worked. Every now and then his hand settled instinctively against your back when you leaned forward.

Little touches.

Little reminders.

By the time the crib finally started resembling an actual crib, the room had gone still again.

Joe sat back on his hands, staring at it silently.

You watched his expression soften.

Not football-player Joe.

Not confident press-conference Joe.

Just him.

Tired. Quiet. Overwhelmed.

Your voice gentled. “What’s going on in that head?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

Joe dropped his gaze toward the floor. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

His jaw shifted slightly like he was debating whether to answer honestly.

Finally:

“I don’t know how to do this.”

You blinked. “Build furniture?”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him. “No.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache instantly.

Joe leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I know football,” he said quietly. “I know how to study film and take hits and deal with pressure and all that.” His eyes flicked toward the crib again. “But this…”

You stayed silent.

“I keep thinking about everything that could go wrong.”

His voice had dropped almost to a whisper now.

“What if I’m gone too much?” he admitted. “What if I miss things? What if you need me and I’m somewhere across the country worrying about third downs instead of—”

“Joe.”

“What if I’m not good at this?”

That one broke your heart a little.

Because beneath all the confidence everyone saw, Joe carried pressure like it lived in his bones.

You shifted closer carefully until your shoulder rested against his.

“You already are.”

His eyes lifted to yours immediately.

“You care this much,” you whispered. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Joe looked at you for a long moment.

Then his gaze dropped slowly toward your stomach beneath the oversized sweatshirt you stole from him weeks ago.

His hand settled there instinctively.

Gentle.

Protective.

“I don’t know how to handle loving something this much,” he admitted quietly.

Emotion climbed into your throat so fast it hurt.

You covered his hand with yours.

The room fell silent except for the soft hum of the heater.

Then Joe leaned forward suddenly, pressing his forehead carefully against yours.

“You know what scares me the most?”

“What?”

“That you both become my whole world…” His thumb brushed softly across your stomach. “…and football stops mattering as much.”

You smiled through burning eyes. “Pretty sure that’s supposed to happen.”

He laughed quietly at that, finally — really laughed.

The tension in his shoulders eased for the first time all night.

Later, after the crib was finally finished correctly, you found yourselves curled together in the nursery rocker near the window.

The sky outside had started turning pale blue with early morning.

Joe had you tucked against his chest, one arm wrapped around you while his other hand rested over your stomach absentmindedly.

Sleep tugged heavily at both of you.

Right before your eyes closed, you heard him murmur softly against your hair:

“I’m gonna be there for both of you. No matter what this league takes from me.”

Joe Burrow x Reader

“I know I should call instead of writing this.

You always tell me I sound more honest when I’m tired, and maybe you’d hear it in my voice before I even got the words out. But I think if I tried to say this out loud, I’d stop halfway through because hearing how much I’ve asked from you would make me hate myself a little.

So I’m writing it instead.

I know what this life has been like for you.

I know there are dinners gone cold because meetings ran late. I know there are nights you fall asleep alone because I’m watching film until two in the morning. I know there are mornings where I kiss your forehead before the sun comes up and you barely get to open your eyes before I’m gone again.

And somehow you still smile at me like I’m worth waiting for.

I don’t say thank you enough for that.

Sometimes I worry you’ve spent so much time loving me through all of this that you forgot you deserve to be loved loudly too.

Not in rushed phone calls between practices.

Not in “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Not in flowers ordered from another city because I couldn’t physically hand them to you myself.

You deserve mornings where I’m home.

You deserve someone who doesn’t have to leave all the time.

You deserve to come second to absolutely nothing.

And I know that’s what I’ve done to you.

Football has taken the best parts of me sometimes. The energy. The time. The patience. The softness. There are days I walk through the front door so exhausted that all I can do is collapse next to you and hope that counts as enough.

But you know what keeps me going?

It’s you.

It’s the thought of one day waking up and finally having the time to give you every piece of me back.

One day, this game ends. It has to.

And when it does, I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for all the moments I missed while I was chasing this dream.

I’ll take you everywhere you’ve ever wanted to go.

I’ll learn how to sit still.

I’ll cook dinner more than twice a year.

I’ll stop checking my phone every thirty seconds.

I’ll be there for the small things instead of apologizing after them.

One day I’ll finally get to take care of you the way you’ve taken care of me all this time.

Not because you need me to.

But because you deserve someone who chooses you every single day without distraction.

I hope you know this was never me loving football more.

It was me trying to build something worthy enough for you to stand beside.

And if I’ve made you lonely while doing it, I am so sorry.

Thank you for loving me through every missed holiday, every delayed flight, every bad mood after losses, every moment where I had nothing left to give except falling into bed beside you and reaching for your hand in the dark.

You are still the best part of my life.

Even from far away.

Always yours,

Joe Burrow x Reader

The first time you meet Joe Burrow, he’s twenty minutes late and carrying a sleeping little girl over his shoulder like the weight of the world rests there too.

You’re kneeling beside a shelf in the preschool classroom, cleaning up crayons after pickup, when the doorway darkens.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, careful not to wake her. “Practice ran long.”

His daughter stirs slightly against his chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

“It’s okay,” you whisper automatically.

You’ve seen him before, obviously. Everyone has. But this version of Joe Burrow isn’t the one people know from television.

This Joe looks tired.

Not miserable. Not cold.

Just stretched thin.

“She refused to leave without showing you this,” he says after a second, gently lowering her to the floor.

Immediately she perks up, suddenly awake enough to shove a paper toward you.

It’s a drawing. Crooked stick figures with bright yellow hair and an aggressively purple dog.

“That’s me,” she explains proudly. “And Daddy. And you.”

Joe actually closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “I love it.”

His daughter beams like you handed her the moon.

And Joe watches the entire interaction with an unreadable expression.

—

After that, he starts lingering during pickup.

At first it’s small things.

A quiet:

“How was she today?”

Then:

“Did she eat lunch?”

Then eventually:

“She keeps asking if tomorrow is school again.”

You learn quickly that he’s a good dad. The kind that remembers extra snacks and hair ties and always crouches to zip her coat himself.

But he’s cautious.

Like he’s waiting for things to fall apart.

One rainy Thursday, his daughter refuses to leave until she hugs you goodbye.

Joe sighs dramatically from the doorway. “Traitor.”

“She likes me better,” you tease before you can stop yourself.

Joe’s mouth twitches.

Not a full smile.

But close.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She does.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip unexpectedly.

—

Weeks pass.

Then months.

And somehow Joe becomes part of your routine.

Some mornings he arrives with coffee for you because:

“You look tired.”

Some afternoons he stands in the doorway longer than necessary while his daughter chatters between you both.

Sometimes you catch him watching you when he thinks you won’t notice.

Softly.

Carefully.

Like he’s trying not to.

—

The first time he calls you outside school, it’s nearly midnight.

You answer groggily, immediately worried.

“Hey,” Joe says, voice low. “Sorry. I just—”

In the background, you hear sniffling.

His daughter is sick.

And despite being an NFL quarterback capable of handling seventy-thousand screaming fans, Joe sounds completely panicked over a fever.

“She won’t stop crying,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Your heart breaks a little.

“You’re not doing anything wrong.”

There’s silence.

Then a shaky exhale from him.

You talk him through medicine dosages and cool washcloths and reassurance until the house finally quiets.

Before hanging up, he says softly:

“Thanks for answering.”

You smile into the darkness.

“Anytime.”

Neither of you acknowledges how much that word means after that.

—

The shift happens slowly.

So slowly neither of you notices at first.

Until one Saturday afternoon when you show up to his house for his daughter’s birthday party and Joe opens the door wearing gray sweats and flour on his cheek.

You stare.

He stares back.

And suddenly the air feels strange.

Different.

“Daddy burned the cupcakes,” his daughter announces loudly behind him.

Joe sighs. “You weren’t supposed to tell people that.”

You laugh as you step inside, reaching up without thinking to wipe flour from his face.

The moment your fingers touch his skin, both of you freeze.

Joe’s eyes flick down to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

Then his daughter barrels between you yelling about balloons, and the moment disappears.

But not really.

Not for either of you.

—

After that, it gets worse.

Or better.

Depending on how you look at it.

Movie nights become normal.

So do dinners.

And bedtime stories.

You start leaving spare clothes at his house accidentally on purpose.

Joe starts saving your favorite snacks without mentioning it.

His daughter starts calling you during FaceTimes just to tell you random things about her day.

And somewhere along the way, the three of you begin feeling painfully close to something that looks like a family.

Which terrifies Joe.

You notice it immediately when he starts pulling back.

Texts become shorter.

Conversations quieter.

He still looks at you the same way —

like you matter too much —

but now there’s fear tangled inside it.

Finally, after nearly a week of distance, you find him alone in the kitchen after his daughter falls asleep upstairs.

The house is dark except for the light over the stove.

Joe leans against the counter, exhausted.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He shakes his head once.

“No.”

“You have.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’m trying not to ruin this.”

Your chest tightens.

Joe laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it.

“You know what the worst part is?”

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

“I can handle people talking about me. I can handle pressure. But her?” he says quietly, glancing upstairs. “She’s attached to you now.”

Your throat aches instantly.

“And that scares you?”

“It terrifies me.”

The honesty in his voice nearly undoes you.

Joe runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.

“She asks about you constantly. You’re part of everything now.” His voice lowers. “And I don’t know what happens if this goes bad.”

You step closer carefully.

“Joe—”

“But then,” he interrupts softly, eyes locked on yours, “I started realizing it’s not just her.”

The room goes completely still.

His next words come out almost like a confession he’s been holding in for months.

“It’s me too.”

Your breath catches.

Joe looks exhausted by the truth of it.

“You walk into a room and everything feels lighter,” he says quietly. “You’re in my house, in my routines, in her life…” He swallows hard. “In mine.”

Emotion climbs into your throat so fast it hurts.

“You make this feel less lonely.”

The vulnerability in his voice destroys whatever distance remained between you.

You step closer again.

Joe doesn’t move away.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then very softly, almost uncertainly, he reaches for your hand.

His thumb brushes across your knuckles.

“I think I’ve been falling for you for a long time,” he whispers.

And then he kisses you.

Gentle.

Careful.

Like he’s still afraid this might disappear.

Your hands slide into his hoodie while his other hand settles at your waist, pulling you just slightly closer.

When the kiss breaks, your foreheads stay pressed together.

Upstairs, you hear tiny footsteps.

Then a sleepy little voice:

“Daddy?”

Joe laughs quietly against your mouth.

Joe Burrow x Reader

Dating Joe Burrow was not the problem.

Keeping it a secret from your father definitely was.

Your dad had spent twenty years in professional football—strict, respected, impossible to intimidate, and currently part of the Bengals coaching staff. He liked structure, discipline, film study, and men who kept their hands to themselves.

Which meant he would hate Joe immediately.

“Why are we sneaking around like teenagers?” Joe muttered as he followed you through the side entrance of your apartment building, baseball cap low over his face.

“Because if my dad finds out I’m seeing the starting quarterback, he’ll combust.”

Joe smirked. “Think he’d still call me ‘Joseph’ in meetings after?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying you way too much.”

You rolled your eyes even as your heart stumbled.

Inside your apartment, Joe dropped onto the couch like he owned the place, long legs stretched out while you handed him takeout.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m twenty-something years old. I should be able to take my girlfriend to dinner in public.”

You froze. “Girlfriend?”

He looked up slowly. “You objecting to the title?”

“No,” you said too quickly.

A grin spread across his face. “Good.”

—

The secret lasted six weeks.

Then your dad walked into your apartment unannounced on a Sunday morning.

You had one second to process the disaster:

Joe in gray sweats in your kitchen making pancakes.

Your father in the doorway, holding spare keys.

You halfway down the hall in Joe’s T-shirt.

Silence.

Joe, to his credit, turned calmly with the spatula still in hand.

“Morning, Coach.”

Your father blinked once. “Burrow.”

You wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole.

“Dad—”

“You,” he said, pointing at Joe. “Why are you in my daughter’s kitchen?”

Joe glanced at the pancakes. “Currently? Breakfast.”

You choked on a laugh at the worst possible time.

Your father looked offended. “This is funny?”

“No sir,” Joe said, dead serious. “Terrifying, actually.”

That almost made it worse.

—

Twenty minutes later, your dad sat stiffly at the table while Joe plated pancakes like he was hosting brunch.

“You expect me to be okay with this?” your father asked.

Joe set down a plate in front of him. “Honestly, no sir.”

“Then why continue?”

Joe’s expression changed—less playful now, more steady.

“Because I care about her. A lot.”

The room went still.

Your dad looked at you, then back at Joe.

“You hurt her,” he said, “and I’ll make conditioning drills look merciful.”

Joe nodded once. “Fair.”

Then your father took a bite of pancake.

Another bite.

He sighed. “These are good.”

Joe leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, Coach.”

“Don’t thank me. I still don’t like this.”

“That’s fine,” Joe said casually. “I’m not dating you.”

You burst out laughing while your father glared and Joe hid a smile behind his coffee mug.

Later, after your dad finally left, you smacked Joe’s arm.

“You are unbelievable.”

He caught your wrist, tugged you gently into his lap.

“Your dad likes me.”

“He threatened you.”

Joe Burrow x Reader

You were the only reporter in Cincinnati who didn’t smile at Joe Burrow.

Everyone else softened around him—asking easy questions, laughing too hard at dry one-liners, treating every postgame press conference like story time with the city’s golden boy. You didn’t.

You asked about missed reads. Clock management. Why the red-zone offense kept stalling in the third quarter. Why he forced throws into double coverage when the checkdown was open.

And every single time, Joe looked directly at you before answering.

“Next question,” another reporter said nervously after one of your sharper follow-ups.

“No,” Joe replied, leaning back in his chair. “She’s fine.”

She.

Not your name. Never your name.

So naturally, you disliked him.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

—

“Big fan of making my life harder?” Joe asked one afternoon.

You looked up from your laptop in the empty media room. He stood in the doorway in gray sweats, practice jersey half untucked, hair damp from the shower.

“Big fan of accountability,” you answered.

He smirked. “Cute.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The attitude,” he said, stepping closer. “Cute.”

“You’re unbelievably arrogant.”

“And you’re unbelievably obsessed with me.”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “I’m obsessed with accuracy.”

“Sure.”

He walked away before you could think of a comeback.

You hated that your face felt warm for ten full minutes afterward.

—

The rain after the Thursday night game came down in sheets.

You stood outside the stadium awning, cursing your dead car battery and the fact your rideshare kept canceling. Your blazer was damp, shoes soaked, patience gone.

A black truck pulled up beside the curb.

The passenger window rolled down.

Joe looked at you from behind the wheel. “Get in.”

“No.”

“It’s raining.”

“I can see that.”

“Your car won’t start.”

You froze. “How do you know that?”

“I watched you try four times.” He tilted his head. “Get in.”

You should’ve said no again.

Instead, ten minutes later you were in the passenger seat, trying not to notice how clean the truck smelled or how his hand looked relaxed on the steering wheel.

“You always this difficult?” he asked.

“Only with quarterbacks who think they’re charming.”

He glanced over. “You think I’m charming?”

“I think you’re annoying.”

“Mm.” He smiled to himself. “Close enough.”

—

The city lights blurred through rain on the windshield.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I like your questions.”

You frowned. “That’s a first.”

“They’re honest. Most people just want a quote.”

“And you?”

He turned onto your street.

“I want someone who isn’t impressed.”

Your breath caught for no reason you wanted to examine.

He parked outside your apartment building and cut the engine. The rain drummed softly overhead.

The truck went quiet.

Then quieter.

Joe’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your face.

“You still hate me?” he asked softly.

You should’ve said yes.

Instead, you whispered, “I’m considering alternatives.”

His grin was slow and devastating.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been considering kissing you since week three.”

“Week three?”

“You asked if I was rattled by pressure.” He leaned in slightly. “Thought about it all night.”

Your pulse was ridiculous.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not stopping me.”

You didn’t.

The kiss was warm, deliberate, and far gentler than a man built like that had any right to be.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“So,” he said quietly, “you coming to Sunday’s game?”

You smiled for the first time around him.

Joe Burrow x Reader

Joe never expected a baby to ruin his composure.

He was fine in fourth-quarter pressure. Fine in front of packed stadiums. Fine under cameras, headlines, and millions of opinions.

But one tiny newborn in a yellow onesie?

Absolutely wrecked him.

You stood beside him in the living room of his teammate’s house, watching as Joe carefully held the baby like he’d been handed the world’s most fragile trophy.

“You’re sweating,” you whispered.

“I’m not sweating.”

“You are.”

“I’m warm.”

You laughed under your breath as he adjusted the baby again, jaw tight with concentration.

The baby yawned, tiny fist stretching against Joe’s chest, and something in his expression changed completely.

All the sharp edges of him softened.

His shoulders relaxed. His eyes warmed. The usual cool, unreadable Joe Burrow look disappeared into something open and tender.

Your heart squeezed.

“You look good like that,” you said quietly.

He glanced up. “Like what?”

“Domestic.”

He rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his mouth.

His teammate’s wife grinned from across the room. “Careful. Once they hold one, it starts something.”

Joe looked back down at the baby.

“It’s starting something,” you teased.

He handed the baby back a few minutes later with obvious reluctance.

Then the entire drive home, he was suspiciously quiet.

You noticed immediately.

Normally Joe drove with one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, music low, making random comments about traffic or practice or something sarcastic.

Tonight?

Silent.

Thinking.

Dangerous.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He glanced at you. “I’m thinking.”

“Even worse.”

That earned a laugh.

When you got home, he followed you into the kitchen while you grabbed water. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you.

Still thinking.

You took a sip. “Joseph.”

He hated when you used his full name.

“What?”

“Say it.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You’d make a really good mom.”

Your hand froze around the glass.

The room went quiet.

Joe suddenly looked less confident. “I’m just saying.”

“No, no. Keep going.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re patient. Warm. You make everyone feel safe.” He shrugged. “Kids would love you.”

Your chest tightened.

“And what about you?” you asked softly.

He looked down for a second before meeting your eyes.

“I think I’d be good at it.”

There was no ego in it. No arrogance.

Just honesty.

You set the glass down slowly. “You want kids.”

Joe stepped closer.

“Yeah.”

“Like… someday?”

He reached for your hips, pulling you between his legs where he stood against the counter.

“No,” he said quietly. “Like with you.”

Your breath caught.

“Joe…”

“I’m not saying tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’m saying when it happens, I know who I want it with.”

That stupid man always knew exactly how to undo you.

You touched his jaw, softer now. “You holding that baby did something to me too.”

His brows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smirked slightly. “Good.”

Then he kissed you—slow and warm and deep, hands sliding around your waist.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours.

“Can I tell you something embarrassing?”

“Always.”

“I’ve already thought about names.”

You burst into laughter.

“Joe!”

“What?”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m prepared.”

“You held a baby for six minutes!”

“Long enough.”

Still laughing, you kissed him again.

He smiled against your mouth.

And later that night, as you curled into his chest in bed, he traced lazy circles on your stomach.

Not pushing.

Not asking.

Just dreaming.

Joe Burrow x Reader

Joe had been acting strange for weeks.

Not bad strange—soft strange.

Too many random smiles when he looked at you. Too many whispered phone calls that stopped when you walked into the room. Too many moments where he’d glance at your left hand like it already belonged to something.

You noticed, of course.

“Are you hiding something from me?” you asked one Sunday morning, curled on the couch in one of his hoodies while rain tapped against the windows.

Joe looked up from his coffee, expression calm and unreadable in that maddening way he always had.

“Nope.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He smirked. “Good thing I’m not lying.”

You narrowed your eyes. He only leaned over to kiss your forehead and changed the subject.

Infuriating.

Still, life with Joe was easy in the ways that mattered. Quiet mornings. Grocery runs where he somehow added ten bags of snacks to the cart. Nights tangled together on the couch watching movies he never finished because he’d fall asleep with one arm around you. The kind of love that felt steady. Certain.

So when he asked you to get dressed for dinner on Friday night, you didn’t think too much of it.

“Fancy?” you asked from the closet.

“Very.”

“How fancy are we talking?”

“The dress I like.”

“You like all my dresses.”

“I know,” he called back. “Wear the blue one.”

You laughed. “Bossy.”

When you came downstairs in the blue dress, Joe actually went quiet.

He stood near the front door in a black suit, hands in his pockets, staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“What?” you asked, suddenly shy.

“Nothing,” he said softly. “You’re just… wow.”

You walked over and fixed his tie. “You clean up okay too, Burrow.”

He caught your wrist before you pulled away, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. His lips lingered there.

Nervous.

That was new.

The drive was longer than expected, taking winding roads out past the city until the lights faded behind you. You looked over.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“I’m romantic.”

“You’re suspiciously romantic.”

He grinned but kept one hand on your thigh the whole drive, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin.

Eventually he pulled up to a private lake house you’d visited once before in summer. Tonight it glowed with warm lights spilling from the windows, reflections dancing over the dark water.

“Joe…”

“Come on.”

Inside, candles lined the hallway. Soft music played somewhere in the background. Your breath caught.

“You did all this?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Had some help.”

“From who?”

“People who owe me favors.”

You laughed shakily as he led you through the house and out the back doors.

The lake stretched wide and silver beneath the moon. Lanterns lined the dock. At the end of it, photos hung from strings clipped between posts—memories fluttering softly in the breeze.

Your first trip together.

A blurry selfie after one of his games.

Christmas in matching pajamas.

Lazy bedhead mornings.

The ultrasound photo you’d cried over for an hour after finding out you were pregnant last year—even though that chapter had ended in heartbreak, he’d kept it because it mattered. Because it was part of your story too.

Tears burned instantly.

“Joe…”

He turned to face you halfway down the dock, eyes already glassy.

“You know I’m not great at speeches.”

“You’re doing okay so far,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh, then grew serious again.

“I spend a lot of my life trying to stay composed. Controlled. Focused.” His eyes locked on yours. “But with you… I never needed to.”

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“You made every place feel like home. Every win better. Every loss easier. Every ordinary day something I look forward to.”

He stepped closer.

“You loved me when I was exhausted, moody, injured, stubborn—”

“Still do.”

He smiled, emotional and crooked.

“I know. Somehow.”

Then he dropped to one knee.

You gasped so sharply you almost laughed.

Joe pulled out a velvet box and opened it with slightly shaking hands.

Inside was the most beautiful ring you’d ever seen, elegant and timeless and so him.

“I don’t just want seasons with you,” he said, voice rough now. “I want the boring days, the hard days, the family days, the old gray-haired days. I want all of it.”

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

It burst out instantly.

“Yes, of course, yes.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months, standing quickly to slide the ring onto your finger before pulling you into him.

You were both laughing and crying as he kissed you—slow, deep, relieved.

When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he whispered, “Thank God.”

“You thought I’d say no?”

“You took like two seconds too long.”

“I said yes immediately!”

“Longest two seconds of my life.”

You smacked his chest, laughing through tears.

From somewhere inside the house, loud cheering erupted.

You jumped. “Are people here?!”

Joe winced.

The back doors flew open and his teammates poured out shouting congratulations.

“BURROW GOT SOFT!” one yelled.

“You cried, didn’t you?” another shouted.

Joe sighed. “I hate all of them.”

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as everyone swarmed the dock.

Then quietly, against your temple, he murmured:

“Fiancée looks good on you.”

You turned to kiss him again.

Joe Burrow x Reader

You stood outside Joe’s front door with your overnight bag in one hand and your nerves in the other.

It was ridiculous, really. You’d known him for months. Long dinners after games, coffee dates hidden from cameras, late-night FaceTimes that stretched until sunrise, soft flirting that had turned into something steadier and warmer than either of you wanted to admit.

But this was different.

This was the first time he’d asked you to come to his place.

Not a restaurant. Not your apartment. Not some carefully chosen neutral spot.

His home.

The door opened before you could knock twice.

Joe stood there in gray sweats and a faded T-shirt, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. Barefoot. Relaxed. Completely unfair-looking.

And smiling.

“There you are,” he said softly, reaching for your bag before you could protest.

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to your cheek like it was habit, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

You walked inside expecting sleek designer furniture, some cold modern mansion curated by a professional. Maybe a place that looked expensive and untouched.

Instead—

A blanket was thrown over the couch. A pair of sneakers sat by the door. There were game controllers on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword on the counter, and a stack of laundry folded neatly in a basket.

You turned slowly. “You live like… a person.”

Joe laughed behind you. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Marble statues. Mood lighting. A private chef.”

“I have frozen pizza.”

You looked at him in mock seriousness. “Be still my heart.”

He grinned, dimples flashing. “Thought that might impress you.”

It did, embarrassingly.

He led you to the kitchen where a box of frozen pizza already sat on the counter. He held it up proudly.

“Pepperoni.”

“You planned this?”

“I planned dinner,” he corrected. “Try not to get emotional.”

You laughed, setting your bag down. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes warm as they met yours. “But you keep showing up.”

There was something in the way he said it—quiet, almost careful—that made your chest tighten.

You helped him shove the pizza in the oven, then leaned against the counter while he grabbed drinks. The domestic simplicity of it all made you oddly shy.

This was Joe when no one was looking.

No cameras. No interviews. No stadium lights.

Just a man opening the fridge in socks, asking if you wanted sparkling water or soda.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked.

You startled. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a zoo exhibit.”

“I’m processing.”

“That I’m handsome in natural habitat?”

You rolled your eyes. “That you’re normal.”

He closed the fridge and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Disappointed?”

“Actually…” You stepped closer. “Kind of charmed.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second.

“Dangerous thing to admit.”

“Why?”

“Because now I’m going to try harder.”

Your breath caught.

Joe took one more step until your knees brushed his sweats. His voice lowered.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“You look more nervous than I do.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve adjusted your bracelet six times since you walked in.”

Traitorous wrist.

He reached down, gently stilling your hand in his.

“There,” he murmured. “Better.”

The touch was warm, grounding. His thumb brushed your pulse once, then again.

“You do this on purpose,” you whispered.

“Do what?”

“Act all sweet when you know it affects me.”

Joe’s mouth curved. “Sweet?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He leaned in until his forehead touched yours.

“I know exactly how long I’ve wanted you here,” he said quietly. “That’s what I know.”

Every smart response disappeared.

The oven beeped.

You both froze.

Then Joe sighed dramatically and stepped back. “Terrible timing.”

You burst into laughter, the tension breaking.

“Go save your gourmet meal,” you said.

He pointed at you as he turned. “Mock me now. You’ll be begging for a slice in ten minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, you were curled beside him on the couch under the blanket, pizza on the coffee table, one of his hands draped lazily over your legs.

A game played on the TV that neither of you were watching.

You glanced at him. “This is nice.”

He looked over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled softly. “I thought tonight would feel like some big moment.”

“And?”

“It just feels easy.”

Something shifted in his expression then—softened.

He reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“That’s because with you,” he said, voice low and certain, “it always is.”

You stared at him for a second before narrowing your eyes.

“That was suspiciously smooth.”

He smirked. “Been saving it.”

“For how long?”

“Since Tuesday.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your pizza.

Joe used the distraction to tug you into his lap, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Joe—”

“Hi,” he said innocently, arms secure around your waist.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re staying the night.”

“That so?”

He kissed you then—slow, warm, smiling against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his nose brushed yours.

Joe Burrow x Reader

The fluorescent lights are the worst part.

Too bright. Too sterile. Everything smells faintly like antiseptic, and the scratchy hospital blanket does nothing to make you feel less out of place sitting on the bed with a plastic bracelet wrapped around your wrist.

“It’s nothing serious,” the nurse had said.

“Just precautionary.”

You’d nodded. Smiled, even.

But you know Joe.

And this?

This is not going to go over well.

Your phone buzzes again on the tray beside you—his name lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

You exhale, grabbing it before it can ring again.

“Hey—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were at the hospital?”

No greeting. No pause. Just Joe—tight, controlled, and already halfway to spiraling.

You close your eyes briefly. “Because it’s not a big deal.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says immediately. “Which hospital?”

“Joe—”

“Which one?”

There’s no arguing with that tone.

You sigh softly. “I’m fine. They’re just running a couple tests—”

“I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead.

Of course he is.

⸻

It’s maybe twenty minutes later when the door opens without a knock.

You don’t even have to look up.

Footsteps—quick, purposeful.

And then he’s there.

You glance up just in time to see the shift in his expression when he takes you in—the bed, the bracelet, the setting.

His jaw tightens.

“You said it wasn’t a big deal,” he says, but his voice is quieter now.

“It’s not,” you insist gently. “I promise.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps closer, eyes scanning you like he’s trying to find something wrong—something you’re not telling him.

“What happened?”

“Just felt off earlier,” you say. “Doctor wanted to be safe.”

“And you thought not telling me was the move?” he asks, brows pulling together.

You give him a small look. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the point.”

But there’s no real bite to it.

He’s too focused on you.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. His grip is immediate—firm, grounding, like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

“I’m okay,” you say again, softer this time.

He exhales slowly, but he doesn’t fully relax.

Not yet.

His thumb starts moving over your knuckles absentmindedly, a quiet, repetitive motion.

“You should’ve called me,” he mutters.

“I know.”

Silence settles for a moment.

Not uncomfortable—just… heavy with everything he’s not saying.

You tilt your head slightly. “You’re scared.”

It’s not a question.

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, he looks like he might deny it.

He doesn’t.

“…Yeah,” he admits quietly.

That alone makes your chest ache a little.

You shift carefully on the bed, tugging his hand. “Come here.”

He hesitates for half a second—like he’s not sure if he should—but then he steps closer, letting you pull him in.

You wrap your arms around him as best you can from where you’re sitting, pressing your cheek against his chest.

At first, he’s stiff.

Then—

He melts.

One arm comes around your shoulders, the other resting gently at the back of your head, holding you there like he needs to feel that you’re real, that you’re okay.

“I hate this,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile faintly. “Being in a hospital?”

“Not being able to do anything,” he corrects.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re doing something.”

“Yeah?” he asks, skeptical.

You nod. “You showed up.”

That hits him.

You can see it in the way his expression softens, just slightly.

Still worried. Still tense.

But softer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

His hand slides down to your wrist, fingers brushing over the plastic hospital bracelet like he doesn’t like the sight of it there.

“You’re really okay?” he asks again.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

He studies you for another second—like he’s committing it to memory—before finally, finally exhaling some of that tension.

“Alright,” he says.

But he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t step back.

Instead, he drags a chair closer to the bed and sits, still holding your hand like it’s non-negotiable.

You smile a little, settling back against the pillow.

“Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“You can relax a little.”

He glances at you, then down at your joined hands.

“…I am relaxed.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He almost smiles.

Almost.

“Okay,” you say, amused. “Sure.”

A small silence passes.

Then, softer—

“Still glad you came.”

His grip tightens just slightly.

“Always gonna come,” he replies.

And this time—

Joe Burrow x Reader

You knew something was wrong the second you opened the front door.

It’s… quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful, “your toddler is napping” kind of quiet. No—this is the suspicious kind. The kind that makes your mom instincts kick into overdrive before you’ve even set your keys down.

“Joe?” you call out, cautiously stepping inside.

A beat.

Then—

A crash.

Followed by a very grown man’s voice going, “I got it! I got it—oh, I do not got it—”

You close your eyes for half a second.

“…Joe.”

“I’M GOOD!” he calls back immediately, which tells you he is absolutely not good.

You slip off your shoes and follow the noise toward the living room, already bracing yourself.

What you are not prepared for—

Is the scene you walk into.

Your daughter is sitting proudly in the middle of the floor, covered—covered—in what looks like yogurt. Or applesauce. Or… something vaguely sticky. Her tiny hands are smeared, her cheeks dotted, and there’s even a streak in her hair.

And around her?

Chaos.

One of Joe’s teammates is on the floor trying to clean up what looks like an entire overturned snack container. Another is holding a baby wipe like it’s a weapon, hesitating to approach. Someone else is just standing there, laughing way too hard to be helpful.

And in the center of it all—

Joe.

Holding a sippy cup. Shirt slightly stained. Hair a little messier than usual.

He looks up at you.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

“…So,” he says.

You blink once. Slowly.

“What happened.”

Your daughter claps her hands, delighted—sending tiny droplets of yogurt flying.

“That happened,” one of the guys says, pointing like it explains everything.

“I turned around for two seconds,” Joe adds quickly. “Two. Seconds.”

“It was like a magic trick,” another chimes in. “She was clean, and then—boom—Jackson Pollock.”

“I thought the lid was on tight!” someone defends from the floor.

“You thought?” Joe shoots back.

You press your lips together, trying—really trying—not to laugh.

And then your daughter looks up at you, grins wide, and proudly goes, “Mama!”

You lose it.

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and suddenly the whole ridiculous scene softens.

“Oh my god,” you say, stepping closer. “What did you guys do?”

“Hey,” Joe says, a little defensive but mostly amused. “She’s alive. That’s a win.”

“Barely,” someone mutters.

You crouch down in front of your daughter, brushing a bit of yogurt off her cheek. She immediately grabs your wrist with sticky fingers.

“Yep,” you sigh. “She’s definitely yours.”

“Wow,” Joe says. “That’s disrespectful.”

You glance up at him, smiling. “You’re the one who said you had it under control.”

“I did have it under control,” he insists. “For, like… a solid ten minutes.”

One of his teammates snorts. “That’s generous.”

You shake your head, standing up again. “Okay, new plan. Bath time.”

“Already tried,” someone says.

You pause. “…What do you mean, already tried?”

Joe rubs the back of his neck. “She escaped.”

You stare at him.

“She what?”

“She’s fast,” he says simply.

You look down at your daughter, who is now happily smearing the last of the yogurt across her own arm like it’s body lotion.

“…Unbelievable.”

“I told you,” Joe adds, stepping closer to you now, lowering his voice just a bit. “She’s chaos.”

“She learned from the best,” you shoot back.

He grins at that, unbothered.

Then, without much warning, he reaches down and scoops your daughter up—sticky mess and all—earning immediate protests from the room.

“Joe!” someone shouts. “That’s on you now!”

“Yeah,” he says easily, settling her on his hip despite the mess. “I figured.”

Your daughter immediately grabs his face with her yogurt-covered hands.

You wince. “Oh, that’s—”

“Yep,” he says, eyes closing briefly as he accepts his fate. “That’s happening.”

The room erupts in laughter.

And you just stand there for a second, taking it in—

The mess. The noise. The chaos.

Joe, covered in yogurt, holding your giggling daughter like none of it matters.

You shake your head, smiling.

“Next time,” you say, “we’re hiring a babysitter.”

Joe opens one eye, glancing at you. “What, you didn’t enjoy the show?”

You laugh softly. “Oh, I did.”

He smirks. “Good. Because I think we crushed it.”

From behind him: “You absolutely did not.”

Your daughter squeals again, smacking his cheek one more time for good measure.

Joe sighs.

“…Alright,” he mutters. “Bath time. For real this time.”

You fold your arms, amused. “You want help?”

He looks at you, then down at your daughter, then back at the disaster zone around him.

“…Yeah,” he admits.

You grin.

Joe Burrow x Reader

The facility is louder than you expected.

Voices echo down the hallway, bursts of laughter, music faintly playing somewhere in the background. You linger just half a step behind Joe, your fingers loosely hooked around his, letting him guide you through a space that so clearly belongs to him.

“Relax,” he murmurs, glancing down at you with the smallest smirk. “They’re not that bad.”

“That’s not convincing,” you whisper back.

He huffs a quiet laugh, squeezing your hand once before pushing open the door to the locker room.

And immediately—

“OH, there he is!”

“Burrow finally brought her!”

“About time, man!”

You freeze for half a second as heads turn, attention snapping straight to you. Heat creeps up your neck, your grip on Joe tightening instinctively.

He notices. Of course he does.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding, steady.

“Alright, relax,” he calls out, but there’s no bite to it. Just familiarity. “Y’all are acting like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

“That’s your girl,” someone shoots back. “Different situation.”

A few of them start drifting closer, curious but not overwhelming. Introductions blur together—names you’ve heard before now attached to faces, handshakes, easy smiles.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” one of them says, grinning.

Your eyebrows lift. You glance sideways at Joe. “Oh really?”

He exhales through his nose, already knowing he’s been set up. “Don’t start.”

“Man talks about you like you hung the moon,” another adds.

“Okay,” Joe cuts in, sharper this time—but when you look at him, there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck.

That alone makes your chest warm.

“You’re embarrassing him,” you say lightly, trying to deflect, but your voice softens at the edges.

“He’ll live,” someone laughs.

Still, Joe shifts a little closer to you, his hand sliding from yours to rest at your lower back—subtle, but intentional. A quiet claim. Not for show. Just… natural.

The room eventually settles, the attention easing as conversations break off again. You exhale, shoulders dropping slightly.

“See?” Joe murmurs near your ear. “Survived.”

“Barely,” you reply, but you’re smiling now.

He looks at you for a second—really looks. Like he’s checking, making sure you’re okay, that it wasn’t too much.

“You good?” he asks, quieter.

You nod. “Yeah. Just a lot of… energy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees dryly. “That’s one way to put it.”

Before you can say anything else, someone calls his name from across the room. He glances over, then back at you, clearly torn for half a second.

“Go,” you tell him. “I’m fine.”

He hesitates—just enough to make your stomach flip—before leaning down slightly.

“Don’t let them steal you,” he mutters, just for you.

Your breath catches a little at the tone—low, almost teasing, but there’s something real underneath it.

“I’ll try,” you whisper back.

He smirks, but his hand lingers at your waist for a second longer before he finally steps away.

You watch him go, the way he slips so easily back into that version of himself—the leader, the quarterback, the one everyone gravitates toward.

But even from across the room, his eyes find yours again.

And when they do—

Everything else fades just a little.

Like even here, in the middle of all this noise and chaos…

Joe Burrow x Reader

The house is still.

No alarms, no schedules, no reporters, no noise—just the slow, golden stretch of an offseason morning. Sunlight spills lazily through the curtains, warming the bed in soft patches, catching on the edges of rumpled sheets.

And you.

Joe’s been awake for a while.

He lies on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting loosely across your waist. He hasn’t moved much—just enough to pull you closer at some point in the early morning when you shifted away in your sleep.

Now you’re tucked against him, breathing slow and even, your face half-hidden in the pillow.

He studies you like it’s second nature.

It’s not intense, not overwhelming—just… steady. Quiet. Like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart.

Your hair’s a mess, your cheek slightly squished, lips parted just enough to let out the softest breath. There’s something about seeing you like this—unguarded, completely his—that settles something deep in his chest.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your side, barely there.

You stir.

Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer, your hand instinctively curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. He smiles at that, small and private, pressing his lips gently to your temple.

“Morning,” he murmurs, even though you’re not quite there yet.

You hum in response, voice thick with sleep. “Mmm… what time is it?”

“Early.”

“Then why are you awake?” you mumble, eyes still closed.

He shrugs slightly, even though you can’t see it. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You peek one eye open, squinting up at him. “You’re staring at me again, aren’t you?”

A pause.

“…maybe.”

That earns him the smallest, sleepiest smile.

“Creep,” you whisper, but there’s no bite to it—just warmth.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Your creep.”

You huff out something like a laugh and shift, tucking your face into his neck now, your leg sliding between his. He tightens his arm around you automatically, like it’s instinct, like it’s always been this way.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Just breathing. Just existing.

His fingers drift up your arm, slow and lazy, tracing patterns that don’t mean anything except I’m here. Your hand rests over his heart, and he swears it beats a little steadier under your palm.

“You have anything today?” you ask eventually, voice still soft.

“Nope.”

“Mm. Me neither.”

Another pause.

You tilt your head back just enough to look at him, really look this time—eyes still heavy, but clearer now. “So… we’re doing nothing?”

He meets your gaze, something warm flickering there. “Yeah. Think we’re doing nothing.”

Your lips curve. “That sounds perfect.”

He leans in then, slow about it—like there’s no rush, like there never is with you—and presses a soft kiss to your lips. It’s gentle, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Not heated. Not urgent.

Just love.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Stay here a while?” he murmurs.

You nod immediately, eyes slipping closed again. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

His arm tightens around you just slightly, like he needs the reassurance even though you’ve already given it.

Outside, the world can wait.

Joe Burrow x Reader

The first thing you notice about Joe isn’t that he’s attractive.

It’s that he’s distant.

Not rude. Not cold in an obvious way. Just… controlled. Measured. Like every word he says has already been filtered three times before it leaves his mouth. In interviews, in group settings, even just sitting around with teammates—he’s composed to the point of being unreadable.

People respect him. Admire him.

But no one really gets close.

Except somehow… you did.

⸻

It starts small.

You’re not even sure when it changes—just that one day, he’s answering your questions a little longer than necessary. Looking at you a second too long. Standing a little closer than he does with anyone else.

At first, you assume it’s nothing.

He’s polite. You’re around a lot. It makes sense.

But then—

“Hey,” he says one afternoon, catching you as you’re packing up. “You heading out?”

You glance up, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his pockets, casual in a way that somehow feels intentional. “I’ll walk with you.”

It’s such a simple thing.

But you notice it.

Because he doesn’t do that with anyone else.

⸻

It becomes a pattern after that.

Little things.

He saves you a seat without making a big deal of it.

Brings you coffee without asking—but it’s always exactly how you take it.

Checks in on you in quiet moments no one else pays attention to.

And the strangest part?

He doesn’t seem aware of how obvious it is.

⸻

“Okay, I need you to explain something to me,” one of the staff girls says one day, leaning across the table toward you.

You blink. “What?”

Her eyes flick past you, toward where Joe is across the room. “That.”

You follow her gaze. He’s mid-conversation with someone—but the second your name is mentioned, his head tilts slightly, attention shifting without him even realizing it.

You look back at her. “What about it?”

She gives you a look. “He doesn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Care.”

You laugh it off. “He’s just nice.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“Not like that,” she says quietly.

⸻

You try not to think about it.

You really do.

Because once you start noticing, it’s everywhere.

The way his voice softens when he talks to you.

The way he listens—really listens—like what you’re saying actually matters.

The way his eyes linger, just for a second too long, before he looks away like he caught himself.

It doesn’t make sense.

Joe doesn’t blur lines. He doesn’t get messy.

And whatever this is?

It feels messy.

⸻

The moment it shifts isn’t dramatic.

It’s quiet.

Late evening. Most people have cleared out. You’re sitting on the edge of a bench, scrolling through something on your phone, when he walks in.

He looks tired.

More than usual.

You glance up. “Long day?”

He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh. “You could say that.”

There’s a pause.

Then he walks over and sits next to you.

Close.

Closer than he needs to.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

He nods at first—automatic. Like it’s his default answer.

But then he hesitates.

And that’s new.

“…Yeah,” he says, but it’s quieter this time. Less certain.

You don’t push. You just sit there with him, shoulder barely brushing his, the silence stretching in a way that feels… comfortable.

Safe.

After a minute, he exhales, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“I don’t really—” he starts, then stops.

You wait.

He glances at you, something unguarded flickering across his face. “I don’t really talk about stuff like this.”

“I know,” you say gently.

Another pause.

Then, almost like he’s deciding something—

“…But I can with you.”

Your breath catches.

Because that?

That’s not small.

⸻

After that, it changes.

Not all at once. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But you do.

He seeks you out more. Talks more. Lets you see pieces of him that no one else gets.

And it’s not just you noticing anymore.

“You two are a thing, right?” someone asks casually one day.

You almost choke. “What? No.”

They frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“…Huh.”

That should settle it.

But it doesn’t.

Because the doubt creeps in.

If everyone else can see something…

why can’t you?

⸻

The breaking point comes when you’re not expecting it.

Of course it does.

You’re talking to someone—laughing, relaxed, not thinking about anything except the conversation in front of you.

Until you feel it.

That shift in the air.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Watching.

Not in a casual, passing way. Not detached like usual.

No—this is different.

His jaw is tight. His eyes locked on you with something that looks dangerously close to—

Jealousy.

Your stomach flips.

Because he doesn’t get to feel that.

Not if this is nothing.

⸻

Later, you find him alone.

Or maybe he finds you.

Either way, the tension is already there.

“You good?” he asks, like he always does.

But there’s an edge to it now.

You cross your arms slightly. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze flickers over your face, searching. “You just… seemed busy earlier.”

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. “I was talking to someone, Joe.”

“I know.”

“Okay… so?”

He hesitates.

And that’s all it takes.

Something in you snaps—not angrily, but enough.

“You don’t get to act like that,” you say, quieter now but steady. “Not if this is nothing.”

Silence.

His expression shifts—confusion, realization, something deeper all tangled together.

“…Nothing?” he repeats.

You swallow. “Isn’t it?”

He stares at you.

Really stares this time, like he’s seeing something clearly for the first time.

Then he runs a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling slowly.

“I didn’t think—” he starts, then stops.

Your heart is pounding now. “Didn’t think what?”

“That it was obvious.”

Your breath catches.

“It’s obvious to everyone else,” you say.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess I’m a little late to that.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“I’m not like this with anyone else.”

You already know that.

But hearing him say it?

It hits differently.

⸻

He steps closer.

Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just… certain.

“I don’t do this,” he admits, voice low. “I don’t let people in like that.”

“I know.”

“But with you…” He shakes his head slightly, like he still doesn’t fully understand it himself. “It just—happened.”

Your chest feels tight. “Joe…”

His eyes meet yours, steady and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You’re not just… easy to talk to,” he says. “You’re the only person I want to talk to.”

That silence again.

But this one?

It’s different.

Charged.

⸻

You don’t even realize you’ve stepped closer too until there’s barely any space left between you.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you whisper.

A small, almost self-aware smile tugs at his mouth.

“…Didn’t think I had to.”

You huff out a quiet laugh. “You did.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I see that now.”

His gaze drops—just for a second—to your lips.

And this time?

He doesn’t look away.

⸻

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It’s slow. Intentional. Like everything he’s been holding back is finally allowed to exist.

His hand comes up, hesitating for the briefest second before resting lightly at your jaw—like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

And when your lips meet, it’s soft at first—but it doesn’t stay that way.

Because once he starts?

He doesn’t hold back.

⸻

Later, when you’re both still standing there, a little closer than before, a little quieter than before—

You smile slightly. “So… cold and distant with everyone else?”

He glances at you, something warmer in his expression now.

“Yeah,” he says.

A beat.

Then, softer—

Joe Burrow x Reader

The party around you was chaos—music pounding, laughter spilling, the smell of perfume and alcohol mixing—but somehow, it felt distant. Blurred. Irrelevant. Because Joe had found you.

Not casually. Not politely. But in that way that made your chest tighten, your pulse hammer in your ears, and your skin suddenly alive under his presence.

He appeared beside you as if he had materialized from thin air. Close. Too close.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and deliberate, brushing your ear with a warmth that made your stomach flip.

“Hey,” you breathed, your voice barely audible over the noise, yet somehow intimate enough that it felt like a private conversation between just the two of you.

He didn’t say anything else at first—just leaned against the counter behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. The proximity was electric, almost unbearable, yet somehow thrilling.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he whispered, not a question, more of an accusation.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you tried to answer, voice tighter than intended, betraying the truth.

“Sure?” he murmured, shifting ever so slightly closer. The press of his shoulder against yours was subtle—but it was deliberate, and it made your entire body respond.

Your breath hitched. You tried to focus on anything else, the papers on the counter, the music, the laughter—but his closeness was impossible to ignore.

“You’re lying,” he whispered, almost teasing, almost dangerous.

You froze.

The words themselves weren’t loud—but the way he said them, the proximity, the low growl under his tone, made every nerve in your body flare.

“I’m not—” you began again.

“I know,” he interrupted softly, voice dropping even lower. “And I like it when you try to hide it.”

Your chest fluttered. Your hands fumbled, brushing against the papers for leverage, though it did nothing to steady your pulse.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, leaning slightly toward him despite yourself.

“I could say the same,” he replied, leaning in closer, his lips nearly grazing the shell of your ear.

The air between you was thick, heavy, impossible to ignore. You felt his breath, warm and deliberate, teasing your skin. Your body betrayed you, pressing subtly toward him even as your mind screamed to stay composed.

“Why… why are you doing this?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?” he murmured, voice low, intimate, leaving you shivering.

“This,” you said, turning your head fractionally, so close that your lips almost touched. “Being like this. Making me feel… this.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand hovered near yours for a moment, his gaze locked on yours with a smoldering intensity that left you dizzy.

Finally, he let out a low chuckle. “Because I can,” he whispered, leaning closer, his lips brushing a whisper over your jaw. “Because I want to. Because… I want you to feel it too.”

Your breath caught. Your knees threatened to give out. Every nerve ending in your body was alight with his nearness.

“You’re insane,” you breathed.

“And you like it,” he countered softly, leaning so close that you could feel the heat of his chest against your back.

You swallowed hard. The world seemed to shrink until the only things that existed were his hands, his lips, and the raw tension crackling between you.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face with deliberate slowness, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck. Goosebumps erupted under his touch.

“Joe…” you whispered, barely audible.

“Shh,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “Don’t talk. Just feel it. Right now.”

You didn’t fight. Not really. You let yourself lean back against him, the press of his body behind yours igniting a heat that made your head spin.

His hands moved lower, one resting lightly on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer, enough to feel the weight of him without touching too much—though every inch of contact was deliberate, charged, electric.

“God…” you murmured, your voice trembling as your body responded to his closeness.

He pressed closer, his chest against your back, one hand sliding to cup your hip. “I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your ear, low, intimate, possessive. “I’ve wanted you. Right here. Right now.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to speak, to protest, to tell him no—but your body betrayed you, leaning into him, arching subtly, craving more of his nearness.

He tilted your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his in the mirror across the room. His dark eyes were smoldering, unreadable, and utterly magnetic. “Do you feel it?” he asked, voice low, gravelly with need.

“I… yes,” you whispered.

“Good,” he murmured, lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Because I don’t want to stop. Not yet.”

You could feel his pulse against your back, his breath brushing your ear, the tension between you spiraling higher, a mix of need, desire, and something impossibly tender underneath it all.

Then, just a fraction of movement—the slightest lean—and his lips were on yours, slow, teasing, testing the boundaries. Not rushed. Not aggressive. But electric.

Your hands went to his chest instinctively, pressing into him, feeling the strength, the warmth, the intensity.

He deepened the kiss, a low growl vibrating through him, and you felt every ounce of longing, restraint, and lust in that single, intimate motion.

The world fell away. Noise, people, music—none of it existed. Only the two of you, pressed together, whispered confessions turning into heated reality, every touch and gasp speaking more than words ever could.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling, eyes dark and smoldering, he whispered, “You’re mine. Right here. Right now.”

Joe Burrow x Reader

You didn’t think this would be the hill you’d die on.

But as you stood in the kitchen, flyer clutched in your hand, it felt like everything had led to this moment.

“It’s one hour, Joe.”

Your voice was steady—but barely.

Across from you, Joe leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I know what it is,” he said. “You’ve told me three times.”

“Then act like you understand why it matters.”

“I do understand,” he snapped, pushing off the counter. “I just can’t be there.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Or maybe exactly as hard as they always did.

“You can’t,” you repeated slowly. “Or you won’t?”

Joe exhaled sharply, already frustrated. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn this into something it’s not.”

A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “Something it’s not? Joe, it’s his kindergarten program.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” your voice cracked. “Because it feels like just another thing you’re okay missing.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once like he always did when he felt cornered.

“It’s not ‘just another thing,’” he said. “I have practice. Meetings. I don’t get to just leave.”

“You’re not asking to skip a game,” you shot back. “It’s a school program. Parents take time off work for this stuff all the time.”

“I’m not ‘all the time,’” he said, sharper now. “You know that.”

“And that’s exactly the problem.”

The words hung in the air.

Heavy. Final.

Joe stopped pacing.

“Say that again.”

“You heard me.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Say it again.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t back down.

“I’m tired of coming second to football.”

Silence.

Complete. Deafening silence.

Joe stared at you like you’d just said something unforgivable.

“Second?” he repeated, quieter now—but somehow worse. “You think that’s what you are?”

“It’s what it feels like,” you said, your voice breaking despite your best effort to hold it together. “It’s what it’s always felt like.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You always say that,” you whispered. “Every time I bring this up, it’s ‘not fair.’ But it’s true.”

He shook his head, disbelief written all over his face. “I’ve built everything for this family.”

“And we’re grateful,” you said quickly. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t need you here.”

“I am here.”

“No, you’re not!” The words came out louder than you meant, emotion finally spilling over. “You’re there, Joe. On that field, in meetings, traveling, training—everywhere except where we actually need you.”

His expression hardened.

“You knew what my life was when you chose this.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t choose to do it alone,” you said softly.

That one landed.

Hard.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“He asked about you,” you added quietly.

Joe’s head snapped up. “What?”

“He asked if you were coming,” you said, your grip tightening on the flyer. “He told his teacher his dad plays football and he’s really important… but he still might come.”

Joe’s jaw clenched.

You saw it—the crack in his armor.

“He’s five, Joe,” you whispered. “He doesn’t understand schedules or obligations. He just knows his dad might not show up again.”

“That’s not—” Joe stopped himself, swallowing hard. “That’s not how it is.”

“Then what is it?” you challenged, tears finally spilling over. “Because from where we’re standing, it looks exactly like that.”

Joe turned away, dragging a hand down his face.

You could see the conflict in him.

The pull.

The weight of it.

But you were so, so tired of watching him choose.

And knowing which way it would go.

“I can’t be in two places at once,” he said finally, quieter now.

“I’m not asking you to be everywhere,” you replied. “I’m asking you to be there.”

He turned back to you, frustration bleeding into something else now—something heavier.

“And if I can’t?”

The question hung between you.

Your chest ached.

“Then we stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” you said.

Joe’s expression shifted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you said, your voice shaking but firm, “that this isn’t sustainable. Not for me. Not for him.”

Realization hit his face.

Slow.

Sharp.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum over a kindergarten program?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m begging you to show up for your son.”

Silence.

Long. Painful.

Joe looked at you like he didn’t recognize you.

Or maybe like he finally did.

“I don’t want him to grow up thinking he’s second,” you whispered.

That did it.

You saw it in his eyes—the moment it broke through.

The moment this stopped being about you.

And became about something bigger.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping just slightly.

“When is it?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

“Thursday,” you said quietly. “10 a.m.”

Joe nodded once, like he was already doing the math in his head. Practice. Meetings. Expectations.

Everything pulling him in the opposite direction.

“I’ll try,” he said.

And somehow—

That hurt too.

You gave a small, sad nod. “That’s what you always say.”

Joe stepped closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand.

“You think I don’t hate missing this stuff?” he said, voice low. “You think I don’t feel it every time?”

“I think you’ve learned how to live with it,” you replied. “And I haven’t.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he admitted.

Your heart clenched.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “But you have to choose us sometimes, Joe. Not just everything else.”

The room fell quiet again.

But this time—

It wasn’t just anger.

It was fear.

And love.

And the terrifying realization that sometimes—