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He was all heavy breath and frantic grip, his hands digging into your hips so hard you were sure tender bruises would bloom there by morning—secret, pretty little proofs of tonight that only you would know were hidden beneath your clothes. Every thick inch of him stretched you perfectly, dragging against your soaked, sensitive walls, sending electric jolts up your spine that made your thighs quake. Sweat practically dripped from your chest to his, slick skin sticking together as the humid Baton Rouge air swirled through his apartment from the cracked window, thick with the heady scent of sex.  

The way you pulsed around him made another sound rise from his throat, his chest heaving like he couldn’t catch enough air. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack, completely lost to the way you pressed against him, how your body seemed to pull him deeper with every languid grind of your hips. Everything had blurred into the heated weight of his body under yours, the smooth, desperate slap of skin on skin. Your mouth was slowly going dry from all your breathless cries as you chased every dizzying high only he ever seemed capable of giving you. Each roll of your hips sent another burst of stars behind your eyes, his hands maintaining their tight grip on your body like he was terrified you’d slip away before he could give you everything, before he could take everything you had left to offer.

His abs clenched under your palms, hot and slippery with his sweat, the salty taste of it still lingering on your tongue from where you’d lazily dragged it over his skin a few minutes ago. “Shit, Joe. I’m so close,” you gasped, nails raking down his chest and leaving angry, red trails, the sensation making his hips jerk. His hands found your ass, palms spreading over the curve of you, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper. He thrust up into you with a slow, punishing rhythm—like he wanted to feel every inch of you around him, leaving no spot untouched, like he was trying to engrave himself into your body one stroke at a time because you were only like this for him.

You felt his cock drag against your cervix, hitting that one spot in particular that always seemed to unlock something within you, something strong, something no one but him could reach. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard thudding against the wall in a shameless rhythm that seemed to echo your racing heartbeat. Somewhere distant, you might’ve worried about the noise, about his neighbors hearing you both for the past hour, but tangled up in Joe like this, nothing else existed but the restless slide of his cock and the way he made you cum, over and over and over again.

“Yeah? You gonna cum all over my cock again? Hm? Gonna let me fill you full? Fuck, keep going, baby. Just like that,” he grunted. His face was flushed deep pink, the blush making him look maddeningly adorable and sexy at the same time, hair damp and tangled over his forehead. Those ocean eyes were nearly black with lust, pupils blown wide as they devoured every inch of you, like he couldn’t believe you were real, spread out, shaking, dripping for him.

You tried to lean down for a kiss, needing to be as close as you could to him, but his hips were driving up so forcefully that your mouth kept sliding off. A needy sound ripped from his throat when you hit a kegel, then his hand tangled in your hair and dragged you down, crushing your mouth to his, giving in to the desire. Your mouth collided into his in a messy, desperate kiss that bordered on feral, like he hadn’t kissed you in days rather than mere minutes. It was all clashing teeth and tangled tongues, wild, consuming, the kind of kiss that scorched through your chest and tore the breath right out of your lungs. It didn’t soothe anything; it just devoured. Made you forget the suppressed emotions, the distance, the questions. Made you forget everything but him. You pressed in closer, mouths falling open as you greedily swallowed down each shaky breath he offered, like you couldn’t stand the thought of any part of him escaping you. 

His voice broke through the haze of your uneven breaths, soft, deprived, barely more than a whimper that sent a shiver down your spine. “Keep going, you’re doing so good angel, fuck…need you all over me,” he murmured, his words dragging you deeper into the spinning heat between you. His lips traced a trembling path along your jaw, each touch feather-light but charged, as he whispered against your skin, “You feel so good princess, need you like this every day,”. Every broken syllable echoed the desperation in his eyes, pulling you further into the dizzying circle of want and need, until the rest of the world fell away and all that mattered was the way you fit perfectly together.

His warm breath ghosted over your mouth as you bit down on his plush bottom lip, catching the faint, sweet taste of yourself still clinging there, a reminder of how he’d been between your thighs just moments before, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough of what you had to offer. When your tongue slid back into his mouth, his groan vibrated straight through your chest like a struck chord. It rolled into your mouth, and you drank it down like you had been parched for centuries, like you just couldn’t get enough of the way he numbed every last one of your senses. He kissed you like he was trying to melt into your skin, like if he just went deep enough, he’d carve his name right into your bones, and you’d let him. You’d let him do it over and over, until you couldn’t remember where he ended and you began.

“God…baby…shit,” he whispered, the words tumbling out almost like a sigh, unguarded and instinctive. That…that name. It lit something deep inside you, made your pulse trip, and your entire body tighten around him in a way that had him sucking in a sharp breath. That did it for you. Hearing him call you that, soft and without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he didn’t even realize how badly it would make you fall apart for him. It was maddening how your breath caught, how your muscles tensed, how every nerve lit up until you were strung out and trembling, barely able to take it. The heat curled tight in your belly, higher, higher, until it finally snapped, sharp and all-consuming, pleasure tearing through you in a blinding wave that left you gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. 

Whenever he spoke to you like this—so sweetly, so sure, like you were his in every way that mattered and not just in the secret gardens of your imagination—it made everything feel sharper, deeper, real. Like maybe it wasn’t just a dream. Like maybe you really were his. And God, that made it so much better. Every touch, every breathless thrust, every whisper against your skin felt laced with something heavier, not just want, but pure, undeniable need, the kind that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with you. The kind of need that came from missing you before you even left, from craving your laugh in the middle of a crowded room, from catching his breath when he looked at you and realized, again and again, that you were real. 

You clenched around him with a choked, shuddering sob, back bowing in a helpless arc as your nails scraped down his fever-warm skin. Stars continued to bloom behind your eyelids, dazzling and cruel, while his name slipped out on a trembling breath, “You feel…you feel so good, Joey,” almost small, like a secret you weren’t supposed to share. Your hips kept moving in a steady rhythm, grinding down to draw out every last aching surge of him inside you. No matter how many times you found yourself here—tangled up in him, laid bare under his hands—it still felt impossibly new. Like he was unlacing you carefully, stitch by fragile stitch, until there was nothing left but this pure, desperate version of you that only he ever got to see. “Joe…Oh my– fuck, Joe–,” you gasped, voice fracturing around his name, clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in a world suddenly spinning too fast to hold onto.

“That’s it…that’s my good girl. So tight, n’warm, fuck, keep fuckin’ me just like that…,” he groaned, hands sliding up the curve of your lower back. His fingers curled, nails scraping lightly along your spine, sending shivers skittering through your body while his eyes drank you in greedily, the way your tits bounced with each rock of your hips, how your messy hair clung to the sweat-slick curve of your neck and shoulders, the dazed, blissed-out smile that curved your kiss-swollen lips. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wished he could’ve said that to you, but something inside of him prevented the thought from taking shape before he could even part his lips.

“Y- yeah, right there, Joey,” you whispered, head tilting back to expose your neck, breath hitching as his cock rutted into you, your pupils dilating, signaling your impending orgasm. His hips rolled upward with eager, almost frantic urgency, each stroke driving him closer while stealing your breath in ragged gasps. His palm spread wide over the gentle swell of your lower belly, pressing down just enough that he could feel every thick, eager throb of him buried deep inside you. The contact sent a warm shiver racing through your core, making you hyperaware of how snugly he fit inside you, how each beat seemed to echo in the delicate pressure of his hand, like he was claiming every last inch of you from the inside out. A soft, breathy whimper spilled from your lips, answered by a rough groan from Joe, the two sounds weaving together in the dim space between your mouths.

His cock twitched inside you as hot, messy spurts of his cum poured out in rhythmic waves, flooding you with a heat that made butterflies fill your body, your pussy desperate to hold every bit. Each drop of his release felt like a brand against your slick walls, sending delicious tremors through your entire body until your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell open on a soft gasp. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you, perched above him, flushed and glowing, your lashes fluttering as you tried to catch your breath, still faintly moving your hips like you couldn’t bear to lose the feel of him while you chased your high. Heat pooled low in your belly as he filled you completely, until you felt impossibly tight, impossibly full, until his release was leaking out of you and mixed with your arousal, like the two of you were teetering on the fragile edge of something neither of you could yet bring yourselves to name.

A fractured, almost startled noise slipped from your lips, caught somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, as your fingers tangled desperately in his messy, golden brown hair, clutching tight to ground yourself while pleasure rolled over you in dizzying swells. Your entire body seized with a quick, shuddering movement as the orgasm finally ripped through you. It hit hard, flooding through your body, sending shockwaves through your veins, your thighs tensing, hips stuttering against his as your walls clenched tight, spasming around him in pulsing waves. Joe held you tighter, burying his face in your neck, mouth moving against your skin in a fervent litany of your name. His voice cracked from the flutters making their way through his stomach, barely audible in the mix of your cries, but still there, like he was trying to stake his claim on the air between you, so even the shadows would remember it long after you both fell still. “Agh…fuck, you’re unreal. Always so fuckin’ good for me. Can’t ever get enough of this pussy, you know that?”.

When you finally collapsed forward, utterly spent and trembling, he caught you without hesitation. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to him, while his other hand cradled your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart twist. He guided you into a slower, lingering kiss that left your lips tingling with a certain heat, the kind that curled low in your belly and made your thighs press together instinctively. It sparked something hungry inside you, even though you both knew neither of you had the energy to act on it again. His chest heaved under your palm, heart pounding wildly like it was desperate to break through and fuse with yours, each frantic beat a bare, unspoken admission of just how hopelessly entangled the two of you had become.

Eventually, you rolled off him, bodies slick with sweat and each other’s release, lungs straining as you both struggled to tame the pace of your hearts. The ceiling fan above offered only a low, lazy drone, its faint rattle the sole sound slicing through the heavy, humid stillness of his bedroom. Beneath the tangled sheets that clung to your legs like soft restraints, his hand found yours without hesitation, fingers threading through with urgency, almost desperate in nature, like he was terrified of letting this haze fade away. “Fuck, that was…,” Joe murmured, his other hand running shakily through his damp, tousled hair. His eyes were wide, glazed over with exhaustion and the lingering heat of spent desire, dark pools that held you captive in their unguarded honesty. 

“Got him so good he’s seeing the pearly gates right now,” you smiled to yourself before turning to look at him. 

“Good. Obviously,” you teased, your voice dropping into a stifling rasp that wrapped around each word like velvet and fire. There was a teasing edge to it, but beneath that, a natural undercurrent—a flicker of pride mixed with something understood, a dangerous kind of certainty. Your lips curled into a smirk, the kind that hinted at secrets you weren’t quite ready to share, but that he already felt like he owned. Your eyes locked onto his, sparkling with mischief but also tracing the quiet hunger lingering in his gaze, the way his breath hitched when it caught the curve of your smile, the almost imperceptible shiver running through him like electricity. 

You saw it, the way he fought to keep control, but couldn’t hide how utterly drawn he was to you, how deeply entwined he was in every inch of your skin and every stolen touch. “It’s me,” you added, every syllable laced with playful satisfaction and a touch of something reckless; a challenge and a promise all at once. You wanted him to know you were the one thing he couldn’t resist, the addiction he never wanted to break, even if he pretended he could.

He let out a short, shaky laugh, something between a mock scold and genuine wonder, chest stuttering like he still couldn’t quite catch his breath, something that was common for him when he was around you, something you hadn’t picked up on. His head tilted, eyes soft and a little dazed before they rolled in mock exasperation, the reluctant smile giving away how he still couldn’t believe the way you always managed to get to him. “You’re so cocky,” he muttered, but it was clear the words carried no bite. His fingers brushed against your arm almost absentmindedly, a small touch that betrayed how much he liked this—liked you. 

“You say that,” you breathed, inching closer until your lips hovered dangerously near the soft skin behind his ear, your voice low and edged with a teasing dare, “But every single time I’m on top of you, you look like you’re about to fucking levitate,”. Then you said it—quieter now, like it slipped past your lips before your heart had the chance to second-guess it. “You don’t look at anyone else like that,”.

It was merely a breath of truth laid bare and vulnerable in the hollow between you. A soft confession veiled as an observation, tenderly extended like a fragile, bleeding thread woven through the silence. He didn’t reply immediately. That wasn’t like him. Joe Burrow, quick with a joke or a clever retort, always ready to shield himself behind humor and keep the mood easy. But now, there was a silence, a pause stretched longer than any before, like your words had struck a chord too deep, landing in a place he rarely let surface.

“...Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, but his voice was high, a sign of a lie. Just a thread of weakness in the seam. But it was enough. Enough to break the surface. Enough to let something else spill through. 

You let out a breath, half-laugh, half-resignation, soft, sad, and knowing. “...Yeah, you do,”.

He laughed too, but it wasn’t the easy kind you were used to. It felt like it had been forged under pressure, like it was meant to hold up the weight of everything he wouldn’t say out loud, like he was trying to hide something. There was something heavy in it, maybe even something bruised. And for the briefest second, you saw it. The thing he hid under all his teasing and charm. That flicker of need. Of longing. It burned in his eyes, quiet and unguarded, before the mask slid back into place, and the moment was gone.

The silence that followed was thick. Tense in the way that made your pulse thrum louder in your ears. One of those silences that dares you to fill it. That makes every breath feel like a risk. Every glance feel like a confession. But still, he looked at you. Steady. Dark eyes locked on yours like he was trying to say something without moving his mouth. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. You didn’t know exactly when it stopped being just play, only that it had. That somewhere between the teasing, the dreams said out loud, and the late-night tangles in his sheets, something shifted. For you, at least. And sometimes, in the quiet between his touches and his promises, you swore he felt it too. That maybe he’d crossed over the same invisible line and just hadn’t dared to look back.

But neither of you named it.

Because names made things real. And real came with consequences, you weren’t sure either of you was brave enough to face.

You glance over at his nightstand, eyes catching on the bright yellow Spongebob alarm clock that looks almost comical in the dim, sex-warm glow of the room, its wide grin frozen at 11:45 p.m. It’s late, so close to midnight. You should be in your own bed right now, wrapped up in cool linen sheets, half-asleep with the hum of your sound machine playing soft raindrops or stormy waves, getting some rest before tomorrow’s early drive to New Orleans with Jules and Lyra. But instead, you’re here. Of course you are. You’re always here when Joe calls. Tangled up with him in his narrow, creaky full-sized bed, the mattress soft in the middle from years of use, the corners always threatening to squeak when you shift too hard. One of his pillows smells like his lavender detergent, the other like his skin. The fitted sheet is slightly askew, twisted from the way the two of you had stumbled in, kissing through the doorframe, clothes falling in a trail from the front hallway to the foot of the bed. His comforter is heavy and too warm, but you’re both underneath it anyway, limbs knotted, hands mapping each other like you’ll forget if you stop. The walls are thin, the fan overhead rattles like it’s on its last life, but none of it matters…because you’re here. 

With him. Always.

“God, I’m gonna sleep for three days straight after I get back from New Orleans,” you chuckle, words muffled as your nose nuzzles into the warm curve of his neck. The apartment around you is decent-sized and perfectly imperfect—cracked plaster walls dotted with faded Star Wars posters, a scattering of old high school trophies proudly displayed on worn oak shelves, each one a silent testament to Joe’s relentless drive and long nights spent chasing his dreams. The mismatched furniture tells its own story; scuffed coffee tables, a well-loved recliner that’s clearly seen better days, making the space feel lived-in, real, and somehow undeniably his. 

Yet in this moment, it feels like your own sanctuary. He just has this way of making you feel so safe, so cared for, so…lov–

Your laugh cuts through the haze like a sudden flare of light, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth that still clings stubbornly to your skin. You’re still buzzing, caught in the dizzy aftermath of finishing college for the year—your last final just this morning, his yesterday—and the relentless weight that had settled into your shoulders over endless months has finally cracked and crumbled away, leaving behind a delicious, almost addicting frivolity. Maybe that’s exactly why Joe had called you over tonight, to finally breathe again, to let the pressure unravel and fall away, to celebrate with the kind reckless abandon that only he seems to understand—a celebration whispered through heavy touches and careless kisses that drown out everything else.

You never pushed for answers, never needed to. That careless, door’s open if u wanna come through text from him was all the invitation you required. The kind of half-hearted call you should’ve dismissed, but never did. It was enough to send you slipping into your shoes with a racing heart, whispering to yourself that it was only for the sex, just for the rush, just for the feeling, just for the way he made you feel alive in a way nothing could come close to. You told yourself you weren’t desperate for more, even as you craved every fragment of his attention, every scrap of being wanted—no matter how little or how fleeting. You didn’t mind dropping everything at the slightest beckon, didn’t hesitate to let him pull you back in. 

Your fingers curl lazily against his chest as you shift, just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw, still tasting the faint, artificial tang of the cheap Gatorade he’d downed earlier to replace all the fluids you keep stealing from him. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, then smiles, that crooked, half-lidded grin that’s so unmistakably, achingly Joe. His arm snakes tighter around your waist, pulling you against him until your leg slides easily over his hip again, your bodies slotting together like you were always meant to fit this way. “Good,” he murmurs, voice scratchy, sounding just like his voice did before he fell asleep, his lips ghosting over the mark he left on your collarbone. “Means I can keep you here,”.

Your stomach flips at the way he holds you, the way he speaks to you, not casually or carelessly, but like he needs you there, his big palm splayed across your bare back, thumb tracing idle, featherlight patterns that make your skin prickle and your heart squeeze painfully tight. It’s gentle, almost adoring, and it doesn’t feel like friends. 

It never does. 

You shift closer until your nose bumps clumsily against his, your grin softening into something quieter, more vulnerable. Every breath he exhales brushes warm over your lips, the steady rhythm of his chest beneath your hand reminding you how close you still are, despite everything left unspoken. “You’re sappy as shit for someone who could barely bother to text me back during spring ball,” you joke, voice coming out too breathless, too fond, betraying everything you wish you could keep hidden.

You could barely get hold of him during spring ball, and it gnawed at you in a way that felt unfair for something supposedly casual. One minute, he was circling around you like gravity didn’t apply, waiting outside your lecture hall just to walk you home, blowing off plans with the guys to linger around your plsvr for hours, his big hand splayed possessively over your bare stomach when you’d be watching a movie on the couch, as if to say mine. Then, like someone had flipped a cruel switch, he was gone. Calls rolled to voicemail, your texts went unread for hours or even days, and when he finally did answer, it was short, distracted. The weekends that used to be filled with his raspy laugh, tangled sheets, and midnight snacks from that rundown Circle K off Highland Road were suddenly hollow. You tried to tell yourself it was fine, it was supposed to be fun, easy, but it felt anything but.

Then one night, weeks later, he showed up on your doorstep at 3 a.m, sharp ring of your doorbell snapping you right out of slumber. Heart in your throat, you opened the door to find him standing there, hood pulled up, eyes wild and blown wide with something you’d never seen in him before. He was panting, the bags under his eyes giving away his clear exhaustion, chest heaving like he’d run across half of Baton Rouge to get to you, hands flexing restlessly at his sides. Before you could even say his name, he pushed inside, crowding you back against the wall, his lips crashing down on yours in a kiss so desperate it nearly stole your balance. It was all heat and hopeless hunger, his breath tearing out of him in shallow, uneven bursts, like he’d been starved for air, for you, for weeks. The second your lips met, it was as if something inside him finally snapped, all that pent-up tension flooding out in a rush. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t drink you in fast enough to soothe whatever had been clawing at him from the inside.

You never asked him what happened to him that night, though you wanted to many times, but bit your tongue. You never pressed or tried to coax it out of him, because that was where the invisible line was. The one you both danced around so carefully, despite slipping up a handful of times. It was difficult to maintain that boundary with Joe, especially when you were so caught up in the moment to the point where you’d forget that he wasn’t yours to keep, or yours to lose. 

His answering laugh rumbles through his chest, jerking right under your fingertips as it snaps you back to the present, and for a second, it makes your pulse pound so hard you swear he must feel it. But then there’s a flash in his eyes, a quick, guilty shadow that passes almost before you can catch it. Still, it tugs at something inside you, a tiny ache that blooms painfully behind your ribs. Then his hand tightens at your waist, thumb sweeping slow, conscious circles into your side, like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he’s fraying; he can feel it. It’s a small, instinctive gesture, but it feels dangerously close to an apology, one he’s never going to put into words, one he knew he wouldn’t mean, no matter how badly your foolish heart hopes he might. 

“Don’t start,” he warns playfully, but there’s something else, something heavier lurking between those words. 

Then, he’s pressing his lips to your bare shoulder; not a quick, sloppy kiss just to hush your curiosity, but one that stays, his breath spreading over your flushed skin in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s gentle, but like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, or brand something implicit into your flesh so it doesn’t fade when you leave. When he finally pulls back, his eyes find yours, soft and searching for any sign of discomfort, but there’s something else there too, that you can’t understand.

It seemed like a hint of sadness. 

“Hey,” he breathes, so softly it nearly gets lost beneath the lazy spin and groan of the old ceiling fan. His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing as if he’s forcing the words up from somewhere deep inside him. It’s quiet, almost casual, but there’s a faint tremor in his voice that gives him away. His hand twitches where it rests on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to grip tighter or let go altogether. You watch the way a faint muscle jumps in his jaw, the way his eyes roam your face with an almost frantic kind of softness, taking in your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your still-damp hair fanned across his pillow.

“Don’t forget me this summer, okay?”.

It’s such a simple plea, but it hits you like a lightning strike, knocking the breath clean out of your lungs. For all the times he’s pulled you close, all the nights entangled in his sheets, the quiet confessions whispered against your bare skin, neither of you has ever dared to name how deep this runs beneath the surface. It was supposed to be straightforward. Friends-with-benefits, no strings attached, just fire and touch and escape from all your problems and commitments. But somewhere along the way, those invisible strings have wound tighter and tighter, knot after knot, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins. You want to tell him you couldn’t forget him if you tried, that he’s already stitched into your bones, a ghost burned into your skin by those campus lights and late-night walks back to yours, by the careless laughter and whispered regrets that swirl around you both. But you stay silent, because the truth is messy and twisted in that knot you don’t know how to untie without fully ripping the threads, full of misread signs and missed chances, and the painful ache of wanting something more from something that was never meant to last. 

The words won’t come, not like how you want them to. So you just nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, forehead tipping forward until it rests against his. His sigh rattles through both of you, his hand tightening on your waist again like he’s trying to hold you there, like if he grips hard enough, he can stop time from rolling forward without him. The moment stretches, just seconds away from fading, so you force out a breathless laugh to keep it from breaking, bumping your forehead lightly against his cheek as you roll over. “How could I?” you tease, voice cracking on the edges despite your best effort. “You’d hunt me down and kill me in Madden from three states away,”. As you turn your face toward the ceiling, you exhale a quiet, bitter little sigh that only you hear. “Humor always hides true feelings,” you think. Weren’t you an expert at that?

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes like it usually does, flickering out too fast, like something is sitting just behind them that’s not allowing him to be at ease in this moment, casting shadows where light should live. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck. He tugs gently, guiding you down until your lips meet his, and the kiss starts slow, hesitant almost, like he’s trying to pace himself against whatever this is that keeps blooming between you in defiance of everything left unsaid. But it deepens too quickly, the way it always does. His mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to breathe you in. It’s a kiss that trembles with something too big, too real, something that has no place in the safety of a no-strings arrangement. There’s nothing casual in the way he kisses you now. Nothing detached in the way his breath stutters against your skin.

He holds you like you matter. Like you’ve always mattered. Like he can’t stand the thought of forgetting even a single inch of you once you’re gone again.

And when he finally pulls back, it’s only by a breath, just enough to let the air return between you. His lips still ghost yours like they’re reluctant to let go, and his eyes, wide and glassy in the dim glow of the room, stay locked on yours. Searching. Hungry. Afraid. As if there’s a question trembling on the tip of his tongue, one neither of you has ever dared to ask out loud. One that could shatter whatever this is…or finally give it a name.

It hits you then in that fragile pause between breaths; this is where you always lose yourselves. Not in the distraction of sweat-slicked urgency, the desperate web of limbs and gasping moans, but right here, in these quiet, stolen seconds where it’s so painfully obvious there’s something else burning beneath your skin. 

His name slips from your lips before you can stop it, “…Joe,”. The sound is so soft it barely exists, yet it feels earth-shaking in the small space between you. You raise your hand without thinking, your fingers trembling faintly as they brush through the damp curls stuck to his forehead. The strands cling stubbornly until you sweep them aside, giving yourself the excuse to touch him. The pads of your fingers linger against his temple, your palm drifting toward his cheek as though it belongs there. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like the most natural thing in the world—to cradle him, to hold him steady, to let your touch confess everything your mouth won’t. 

But then you see it happen, the subtle flinch in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers and shutters over, like steel doors clanging shut, “Mmhm,” he clears his throat, using the awkward sound to distance himself even further. He’s pulling back, retreating into himself, and in an instant, you both remember exactly what this is supposed to be. The ache rushes in to fill the void, curling tight around your ribs, nestling into old, familiar hollows. You swallow it down, knowing it’ll only wait there, patient and hungry, until the next time it rises up to drown you both all over again.

Then his phone buzzes harshly on the nightstand, slicing through the fragile quiet like a bomb bursting under pressure. The vibration rattles against wood, jarring and unwelcome, and in a single moment, the closeness between you begins to slip through your fingers. You feel it like a tide turning. Joe sighs, dragging a hand through his already-tousled hair, and mutters, “It’s just the O-line groupchat,” voice low, casual. Too casual. His eyes flick away, never quite landing on yours, like he knows—knows—if they meet yours now, he won’t be able to lie with his mouth, let alone his eyes.

You nod like you believe him, like your heart isn’t already tripping over itself. But the buzzing won’t stop, and neither will your mind. Is it really them? You’ve seen how much they text, how dumb the memes are, the pre-game motivational bullshit. But something in the way he said it, too fast, too practiced, makes the words settle heavy in your stomach.

What if it’s someone else? 

Some girl?

Someone he texts when you’re not here? Someone he hasn’t kissed the way he just kissed you? Someone who gets pieces of him, you’ll never see?

The thought punches the breath right out of you, your throat tightens, burning, as a sunken kind of discomfort climbs up your spine and spreads through your chest. The silence that follows is suddenly splintered at the edges, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe. But even that hurts. Every inhale feels too tight, too shallow, like your lungs have turned traitor. Still, you laugh—if you can even call it that. It’s brittle, more reflex than humor. Like maybe if you make it sound light enough, it’ll lift the weight from your chest. Like maybe you can fool him. Fool yourself. “Get it together,” you scold silently, but the words feel limp and useless against the sting behind your eyes.

He shifts beneath you, just a small movement, but your heart lurches anyway, like it’s bracing for the end. You close your eyes, press your face into the warm skin of his neck, and breathe him in like he’s oxygen, like if you inhale deeply enough, he might stay. Stay in your air. Stay in your body. Stay in your life. But the phone is still buzzing, and the silence is still loud, and your mind won’t stop whispering all the ways this moment could fall apart.

You gather it all up, his warmth, his piercing gaze, the ache blooming down in your chest, and tuck it away like a secret, something sacred. A keepsake for the drought to come. Because some part of you, quiet, trembling with doubt, already mourning, knows this might be the last time you’ll get to hold him like this. Because with Joe, everything shifts on a breath, and the tide always pulls away before you’re ready.

Then, in the smallest, saddest corner of your mind, his words settle like dust, “Don’t forget me this summer,”.

You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a plea anymore. Like he was preparing you for the pain of being forgotten, or bracing himself to be the one left behind.

Maybe it was both?

Maybe he was already halfway gone when he said it.

End of flashback 

You didn’t forget, Joe. 

But he forgot you.

Maybe not on purpose….maybe. But the truth of that lived only in Joe’s heart, buried beneath the grind of daily workouts, the relentless churn of two-a-days, the mounting expectations that came with being LSU’s golden boy. The chosen one. The pressure of it all stretched tight across his shoulders, the weight of the team, the fans, the future he’d worked so hard for. But maybe there were distractions, the kind you didn’t want to think about. Girls with plump, glossy lips and perfect eyeliner and easy laughs, girls who didn’t press too close or hold on too tight. The kind who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer, who didn’t look at him like you did and see straight through the accolades and the spotlight to the boy underneath. 

They didn’t touch him like he was breakable. They didn’t know how to pull him apart the way you did—but maybe that was the point. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen, not like that. Not by someone who kissed him with everything they had and still waited by a silent phone hours after he left, waiting for the next time he’d reach out. Maybe it was easier to be touched by people who never really had him at all. Because you had him. You had him. In the breathless pauses between games, in the hush of midnight when it was just skin and sweat and the sound of his voice in your ear. 

Maybe there had always been others, but you wouldn’t know since you’d never asked. You didn’t get to, or maybe it was because you knew you didn’t want to hear his answer, so you never tried. There were never any rules when it came to the two of you. You didn’t say don’t kiss anyone else, or call me every night, or don’t fall for someone new. You didn’t want to tie him down, at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was supposed to be easy, light, something fun and fleeting, born in the hazy heat of fall and sustained through winter’s sharp edges, bleeding into the blossoming spring. And maybe it was, until it started to feel like more. Until your phone stayed dark for too long, until you kept unlocking it just to make sure it hadn’t glitched, hadn’t somehow missed him.

You caught yourself waiting during those sticky, humming summer nights, bare-legged, sprawled across your bed with the fan oscillating uselessly in the corner, the air polluted by thoughts of him. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, cicadas and crickets droned outside the open window, and still, you hovered over your phone like it might blink to life with something that mattered. Every buzz had your hands reaching out, your stomach flipping in somersaults. It never said “joey <3 ,” but god, you wanted it to. The heat made everything feel heavier. Your limbs, your thoughts, the ache of missing him, his presence, his space in your world.

The misery of waiting lingered inside you, seeping into the small flashbacks of stolen moments you managed to carve out together. It had always been like this with the two of you—quiet, sometimes fleeting, secret little things. Those secret moments snuck between the madness of the grueling College Football season had to be your favorites. You remember the sweat on his skin after games, the rasp of his voice as he pressed you back into his mattress and mumbled things into the crook of your neck that you were never quite sure were meant to be heard. You remember waking up tangled together in the glow of dawn, legs braided, fingers laced, soft kisses and giggles being exchanged as you watched him stumble around his room to find you a clean shirt. His scent clung to your body long after he'd left your side.

You remembered his hoodies draped over your shoulders during those chilly morning walks to your favorite coffee shop after leaving his place, the fabric still warm with him. You remembered the flowers waiting on your doorstep every Monday, without fail—because he knew you hated Mondays and wanted your first smile of the week to be because of him. You remembered the nights he’d skip gaming with his friends just to sit beside you on the couch, pretending not to care about Dancing With The Stars but cheering anyway when your favorite couple nailed their routine. You remembered his bucket hats pulled low over your eyes at crowded frat parties, the way his hand always found yours—steady, sure, curling around your waist like it was intuition. Like you already belonged to him, even before either of you dared to say it out loud.

He made you feel like his girl.

But he never said the words like he meant it. And now, with the insistent silence pressing between you, it felt like those words might never come—like maybe he was never meant to mean them at all, no matter how much your heart yearned to hear them.

You told yourself to move on, to keep things simple, to believe it was nothing more than just a season passing. But no matter how hard you tried, your heart still jumped every time your phone buzzed. Deep down, you were still holding on to hope. 

You hoped he remembered. Hoped he missed you. Hoped you weren’t the only one stuck in the in-between.

Because you didn’t forget. You just couldn’t. But it sure as hell felt like he had.

Present Day — End of August, Baton Rouge 

“One thousand pink balloons?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as your eyes skim over the now-creased corner of your hyper-organized party checklist, pen tapping anxiously against the clipboard.

“Check,” Jules replies, her voice bright, if not slightly amused at the number of balloons you wanted at this party. “Well…kinda. The Party Depot didn’t have a thousand pink ones, so we had to compromise. Two hundred pink, two hundred purple. And….they’re all shaped like stars. I figured you wouldn’t hate that,”.

You could already see it, your little rented house drowning in a galaxy of helium stars, soft shiny shapes bobbing at every corner, their glossy skins catching the fading light like constellations in motion. They’d be tangled in string lights, bumping softly against the ceiling beams, drifting with the lazy Louisiana air that seeped through the windows and clung to your skin like longing. 

It was gaudy. It was extra. It was completely ridiculous.

And it was perfect.

Because maybe if the house felt like a dream, if everything shimmered just right, if the lights glowed warm enough, the drinks poured fast enough, and the music played loud enough, it would distract you from the ache in your chest. Maybe the night would stretch long enough to fully forget. Or maybe…just maybe, he’d walk through that door like it–

No. 

“Fuck no. Get it together,” you muttered under your breath, too sharply, like saying it out loud might make it true. Like pretending you didn’t care might eventually make the caring stop.

You’d put too much work into this to go back now, to let yourself spiral. Not tonight, not over him. You’d been planning this party for weeks, a blowout sendoff to a summer that had left you sun-kissed, sleepless, and strung out on feelings you couldn’t name. One last night to let loose before fall swept in with its endings and silences. Your rental off-campus had been transformed into something out of a fever dream—windows thrown open to the heat, floorboards vibrating beneath the bass of a half-finished playlist that still sparked heated debate in the group chat. Someone had dragged the big speakers out to the front porch, letting the entire block know that tonight was the night. Ice clinked in coolers tucked into every corner, and the unmistakable scent of cheap tequila and sugared mixers already hung in the air like a dare.

“That sounds perfect, actually. What about the playlist?”.

“Check,” she stretches the word like it deserves a gold star. “Got all the tunes you love, some early Britney, Taylor, Miley, Paramore, a bunch of club classics, a bunch of songs from Matt’s frat playlist, hottest songs of this summer, and your weird little requests,” she says, pausing to raise a suspicious brow. “Gunna, Tame Impala, Cudi,” she ticks them off like they personally offended her, her face scrunching up by the time she gets to the last one. “I mean, seriously, babe. Since when have you ever listened to Kid Cudi? Is it 2010 or something?”.

You shrug, too casually, like your heart doesn’t beat double-time at just the sound of his music. “I like the vibes, okay?” you snap a little too fast, voice more competent than you mean it to be. The defensiveness creeps in before you can stop it, curling around your words like barbed wire. Because admitting the truth feels like cracking open a door you’ve fought hard to keep shut. “Can’t I just listen to the music for the vibes without it…without it meaning anything? Like, not everything has to have some big, deeper meaning or connection or whatever. Sometimes a song is just a song,”. 

You're rambling now, the words tumbling out faster than you can control, and it’s clear neither of you believes it. “Keep it together. It’s not worth it,” you silently scold, the words sharp and clipped inside your mind like a slap on the wrist. You straighten your shoulders, forcing a deep breath past the tight coil in your chest. Your heart’s been threatening to give you away all morning, and now your nerves are fraying at the edges, pulled thin by memories you’ve been pretending don’t sting anymore.

You blink, shake it off, and refocus. A 3-step plan you’d mastered this summer, thanks to all the long, empty days spent sitting alone with your thoughts, haunted by memories you couldn't outrun. All because of him. That blue-eyed, maddeningly charming fuckboy with a chokehold on your heart. The one who knew exactly how to ruin you with a smile, who’d wormed his way into your bloodstream so slowly you didn’t even notice until it was too late. “Drinks?” you ask, voice a little too high, too chirpy, as you pivot toward something safer, easier. “Did we get all the drinks?”.

“Check,” she snorts. “Lyra’s bringing her concoctions with her, bar is stacked with any and every drink possible, and Jason even stacked the High Noons, Surfisides, and White Claws into little towers like they’re champagne towers at the Met Gala. It’s giving frat-boy Gatsby, and he’s real proud of himself. Part of me thinks he did it to impress you,”.

You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself—it was unexpected, a burst of sound that startles even you. For a second, it feels good, like breaking the surface after holding your breath too long. But the moment is fleeting because the laughter tapers off almost as quickly as it came, collapsing into the awful feeling that’s been humming beneath your skin all week, persistent and unshakable no matter what you do. “Cake?” you ask, quieter this time, like the word itself is too heavy for you to speak out loud. 

“Jalen's on his way with it. He texted me all confused because the bakery labeled it ‘birthday cake,’ and he swore we weren’t celebrating anyone’s birthday. I told him to let it go; it’s probably just the flavor. Oh, and he picked up the candy from Jessica’s. Purple Smarties in little plastic “L” cases, just like you wanted. They kinda look like molly though, so if cops show up, maybe show them they’re not drugs and just a product of your obsession with all things purple,” Jules says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she scrolls through her phone. 

The product of your obsession with all things purple…or his?

You nod absently, letting the conversation drift for a moment as your gaze sweeps across the decorated space. Those pink and purple balloons start to fill the room and bob like starlit dreams above the beerpong table that has seen much better days, catching the light and twirling lazily in the breeze filtering through your double-pane windows. 

The pink ones were for him, specifically him, because you remembered the way his eyes had lit up when you surprised him with those shiny pink balloons that one Valentine’s Day. A holiday meant for couples, for grand gestures and soft declarations, yet somehow you’d ended up spending it together, just the two of you, because back then neither of you really had anyone else. Not officially. Not in a way that mattered. But that night hadn’t felt like an accident or a consolation prize; it had felt electric, like striking a live wire. Everything about it was charged; the hunger in his kisses, the way his hands had roamed your body, the breathless laughter that spilled between whispered curses and bitten-back moans. You’d torn through his apartment like wildfire, attached to each other for hours, insatiable and starved, chasing that feeling like it might devour you whole. The air had gone thick with heat and sweat and something heavier—want, maybe, or something dangerously close to those 4 letters, to that one word that you just couldn’t speak out loud. 

And afterward, you’d collapsed into a tangled mess of limbs and stolen breath, eating cold Chinese takeout in bed, your bare back pressed to Joe’s glistening chest, his lazy smile warming over your shoulder as you licked dumpling sauce from his finger, and sometimes from the salt-slick of his skin. Between bites, he pressed soft, deliberate kisses to your shoulder—the kind that always made your heart skip.

You rambled on about how your professor was pissing you off by giving you 8 tedious assignments to do every day with little to no time to actually absorb the content, the frustration rolling off your tongue, while he nodded along, eyes crinkling with that easy, understanding look only he gave you. As your voice slowed, exhaustion pulling at you, Joe slipped an arm around your waist, his calloused hand tracing lazy circles on your stomach, soothing your tension like only he could. His voice softened to a low murmur, nerding out about some new science book he’d dived into the night before, the same kind of obsessive, offbeat passion he had for everything he loved—football plays, his stats, and sometimes you—his words a gentle, steady rhythm that carried you deeper into sleep, safe in the warmth of him.

The playlist was stitched together with intention, every track laced with his favorites. Songs only he would recognize, only he would understand. It was subtle, quiet even, but purposeful. Cudi, of course, always Cudi, because he’d sworn by him since freshman year of high school, called his music scripture when he was seventeen and searching for something to hold on to. You’d memorized the way he hummed those same verses under his breath on long drives and slow mornings, after brutal losses and gritty wins, when the world felt too loud or too quiet or just off. There was nothing random about it, not a single shuffle or skip. You wanted him to feel seen before he even realized it, wrapped up in something familiar, something that sounded like safety, like history, like him.

And the cake…god, even the fucking cake was for him. No one else knew what it meant, not really. No one knew how last December had slipped through your fingers like smoke, how his birthday had come and gone while you were miles apart, swallowed by winter break and everything you couldn’t control. He’d brushed it off with a casual shrug, like it was nothing, like it didn’t sting him the way it did you, but you saw past the easy dismissal. He had driven all the way from Athens to your hometown for your birthday during Thanksgiving break, seven long hours just to be there because he knew how much it mattered to you, how much you needed him by your side in the mix of your entire extended family that always managed to drive you up the wall. But when it came time for his birthday, you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same for him. It felt like crossing a line you weren’t ready to cross, because that wasn’t your role in his life, even though he had already crossed it for you and took on that role without hesitation. 

So, to make it up to him in your own silly, apologetic way, here it was, his birthday cake months later, waiting to be placed in a quiet corner of the room—a cake rich with dark chocolate ganache and layered with silky hazelnut filling, the exact one he always picked up from that cozy, family-owned bakery near his house in Athens. It was more than dessert; it was a promise you never said aloud, that you’d always be there for him when he needed you, a whispered apology for not reciprocating his actions baked into every slice, a celebration of him even when the words felt too heavy to speak.

Deep down, it wasn’t just about decorations or the logistics of throwing a party. Every choice, the shimmering pink and purple balloons, the carefully curated playlist, the cake picked with quiet, secret meaning, was soaked with him, threaded through the night like an unspoken vow. Your hands moved as if by habit, arranging and organizing things until it was picture perfect, but beneath that motion, your heart beat louder than ever, pulling you deeper into memories and feelings you barely dared to name. This night, every flicker of light and every echo of music carried the remnants of a boy you hadn’t spoken to in months, yet whose absence carved out an ache that stretched like an endless shadow. It felt like a lifetime since you heard his voice, yet here you were, building a world for him, an echo of what once was, or maybe what you still hoped could be.

You tuck the clipboard under your arm, the worn edges pressing firmly into your ribs as you rise, muscles aching from days of preparation. The bass hums through the thin walls like a slow, steady heartbeat, its vibrations threading through the floorboards and settling deep in your chest. Above, fairy lights twinkle softly, casting pools of warm, golden light that flicker like fireflies caught in glass—soft and inviting now, but later tonight, those same lights will blur into dark hues, smeared by laughter and spilled drinks, pulsing wildly as the party spirals into drunken chaos. Jules’s eyes catch that glow, shimmering with mischief and something almost conspiratorial, as she twists a loose strand of hair around her finger. Her voice breaks the quiet,  cutting through your spiraling thoughts, “So, you sure you’ve got everything? No last-minute freakouts because the buffalo chicken dip tastes like chalk or the beer pong table collapses ‘cause we forgot to hot-glue that weak leg back on?”.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the familiar pain settle deep in your muscles, a slow-burning reminder of the last few relentless days spent darting between crowded stores, juggling endless phone calls, and scribbling through never-ending checklists. The feeling was like a dull thrum beneath your skin, like a tug at your heart that reminded you you were still human, not some flawless machine churning out a perfect party. Still, you forced a steady smile, trying to inject confidence into your voice despite the physical and emotional exhaustion pulling at your bones. “Yeah, it’s all locked down,” you said. “I went through the every last boring detail myself this morning, triple-checked everything. There should be no incidents of the food poisoning or table collapse nature,”.

Jules leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the door, then snapped back to yours, shimmering with a mix of mischief and something unreadable, an unspoken question hanging just beneath the surface. She knew you better than anyone, saw through the careful smile you plastered on and the way your eyes darted away. “He’s back in town, you know,” she murmured, the words slipping out like a secret meant only for you, sinking deep into your chest and making your heart stutter despite every effort to stay composed.

Your breath caught, a sensation of pressure pushing on you like an unseen fist curling around your ribs, pulling inwards until the air in your lungs felt paper-thin. The room didn’t quite stop, but it shifted. The bass, once quick and careless, seemed to drag, each thud elongating into a heavy, reverberating echo that rattled through the floor and climbed up your spine, syncing to the thrum of your heart. Heat crept up the side of your neck, not from the gust of hot air filtering through the backdoor where a frantic Lyra stumbled in clutching a towering pitcher of jungle juice that blocked her view, making her sway and weave as she tried to navigate the room, or the one shot of tequila you took earlier to pre-pregame burning faintly in your chest, but from something far quieter, far more dangerous. You swallowed, the motion slow, almost painful, the back of your throat dry as if you’d been thirsting for something just out of reach, taunting you.

You tried to smooth your features, to wear that effortless, unreadable calm you’d perfected. A tilt of the chin. Relaxed mouth. Eyes that saw but didn’t feel. But inside, a crack had formed, thin and delicate, threatening to split wide open. And Jules saw it. She always did. She caught that half-second betrayal in your gaze, the one you thought you’d buried deep, and her lips curved into a grin. The kind of grin that said she’d spotted the fracture and was content to watch it widen, piece by piece, until you couldn’t hide it anymore.

He was back in town. Of course you knew he was back in town. How could you not? That dumbass practically broadcast it for the entire world without saying a word to the one person he should’ve told directly. It was just an Instagram story three nights ago, blurry but calculated. Him, Ja’Marr, and Justin out front of Fred’s, the neon beer signs bleeding red and gold into the damp sidewalk, the glow catching in the glass of half-finished bottles. The caption? In good company. And there he was, half in the shadows, half lit in that ugly warm neon, leaning against the brick like the whole block belonged to him. 

Like he didn’t give a damn if you saw it.

Like he knew you would, which is why he didn’t care.

The moment your thumb lingered over the screen, the memory of Fred’s came crashing back with brutal clarity, impossible to ignore. You could almost feel the greasy, smoky haze that clung stubbornly to your hair for days after those nights, thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. That pungent, metallic tang of cheap draft beer lingered on your tongue as you watched the bartenders work frantically behind the sticky counters, their shirts damp with sweat, shoving cups across to eager hands. Neon beer signs buzzed faintly above the wooden booths carved up with initials and hearts, their red-and-blue glow throwing soft halos over faces flushed from too many shots. The floor was perpetually tacky under your shoes, every step a reminder of spilled drinks and nights blurred by the pounding bass of bad pop remixes. You remembered how the laughter there always came a little too loud, loose from the bottom-shelf liquor, how the air itself seemed alive with the heat of bodies pressed too close together, shoving and swaying in the narrow aisles. It was chaos, it was messy, but in those moments—bathed in golden bar light with Joe’s shoulder brushing yours—it had felt like the center of the universe.

You saw him there quite often, framed by the dim, flickering lights that cast long shadows over the bar. His lean figure slouched against the worn wood, eyes always on high alert and darkening whenever some overconfident idiot got too close to you. You remembered the way he’d catch your eye across the room, that smoldering look, equal parts warning and desire, a silent claim. His gaze would cut through the noise, zeroing in on you with a possessiveness that sent an electric jolt straight through your veins. 

All it took was one simple gesture with his fingers, one glance from his eyes toward the side door, and the world shrank down to just the two of you, even in the middle of Fred’s chaos. That one particular night, when the tension between you finally cracked into something more than a rendezvous in a storage closet at some random party a month ago, he pulled you away from the pulsing crowd, his hands rough but sure on your hips, guiding you with a silent authority. The chipped paint behind the dartboard scratched your skin through the thin fabric of your top as he pressed you flush against it, his heat searing through the dense, smoke-scented air. His lips found the soft skin of your neck, dragging kisses that left a trail of fire, each brush of his mouth making your pulse spike. He murmured your name like a prayer, words slurred from the drink he’d been nursing all night. His hands tangled in your hair, tugging gently, as his mouth traveled from your neck to your jawline, and lower, tracing a path of need and promise.

The crowd’s laughter and the clatter of darts faded into nothing; the space around you existed solely for his hands and lips, the brush of your skin against his chest, the warmth radiating between you. When his mouth finally claimed yours, it was urgent, desperate—a messy, heated collision of teeth and tongue that stole your breath. Your hands fumbled to peel away buttons, to find skin beneath layers of fabric, each touch igniting a fire that raced through your stomach and thighs. The dartboard corner was too small, too exposed, and the world outside too loud, so he pulled you toward the bathroom, his hands sliding lower, gripping your ass, pulling you to him.

The transition was dizzying, one moment you were pressed against the wall in the shadowed corner, the next you were stumbling through the narrow hall toward the bathroom, your chest heaving, lips still locked. The fluorescent lights flickered above the cracked mirror as he pushed the door shut behind you with a soft thud, the scent of alcohol and hand sanitizer mixing with the warmth of your bodies. You both paused for barely a second before he claimed you again, urgent, fevered, lips pressing against yours with all the need he’d been holding back, “Taste so sweet, beautiful. Mm, where’ve you been my whole life?”. Your bodies tangled on the cold tile countertop, skin sliding and pressing together in a rhythm that was entirely your own. His hands roamed freely, mapping every curve, every hollow, every contour you’d thought you knew, discovering new ways to make you gasp, to make you arch into him.

Breathless, gasping, lost in the taste of alcohol and skin, the scrape of his fingertips, and the raw, primal desire that pulsed between you, you forgot the rest of the world. Fred’s was never just a bar for you. It had been the place where your bodies first spoke when words failed, where the chaos of youth and the thrill of secrecy were captured in every touch, every whispered curse, every desperate, messy kiss that left you trembling and craving more.

Seeing him back there…yeah, it hurt you in a way you weren’t ready for. “Why can’t I just forget it,” was the only thought swirling through your mind, a thought which slammed into you, hot and acidic, flooding your throat until it was hard to swallow. It felt stupid, childish, pathetic even, and yet it hollowed you out just the same. Your stomach tightened and twisted, like your body knew before your mind could catch up. It shouldn’t hurt this much. God, it shouldn’t. He was never yours like that for you to act this way, never promised, never held by anything more than late-night words that dissolved by morning. But the truth was messier than that. Somewhere between the stolen glances across crowded rooms, the heat of his breath against your ear, the way his hand would find the small of your back without looking, you’d claimed him. Quietly. Secretly. Pathetically.

You just couldn’t explain it.

And you sure as hell couldn’t ignore it.

But you tried.

“Well,” you said, voice soft and careful, “I hope he had a great summer…and that he enjoys these last few days before school and football starts again,”. You forced another smile, but it’s thin and faltering, unable to disguise the strain beneath.

You felt the weight of your phone in your back pocket all of a sudden, all cool and heavy, basically mocking you because you could just…text him again, its screen dark but somewhat promising. Your mind lingered just a moment longer than necessary, “Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something, he likes it when I do this…right? Show him that I need him?” you thought, as if the right words were hiding somewhere between hesitation and hope. The thought both terrified and tempted you, twisting through your mind like a slow-burning fire. You were often always the one reaching out first, sliding into his messages, picking up the pieces when he vanished without warning, like some cruel game where one of you was always left guessing. Joe was all in when it suited him, but then just as quickly, he’d pull away, leaving you stranded in the cold with nothing but the echo of what you thought you had. The miscommunication stretched between you like a chasm, and the same cycle of doubts gnawed at you relentlessly. 

Was he avoiding you? Is he just really busy? Did he want you, or just the idea of you? Is he hiding something? Should you cut him some slack, you aren't technically his girlfriend? Was this how he showed his affection, or was this something more tangled and toxic, a push and pull that left your heart bruised and begging for more? 

Every unanswered message fed the doubt, and yet you found yourself desperate to reach out anyway, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’d stay. And here you were now, teetering on that ledge once again, despite what happened…or what didn’t happen this past summer. 

You felt Jules’s stare lingering on you from the corner of your eye, and you quickly shoved down the fluttering urge to confess your true feelings inside. Because if you let that slip, if you let her see how much you were folding beneath the surface, you’d be signing up for another exhausting, three-hour lecture about self-worth—the kind that painted Joe as nothing more than the college fuckboy you ran to when you needed a hit of something to distract you from reality, but never the man who’d be there to hold your hand through the hardest parts of life. You weren’t ready for that truth yet, not when your heart still clung to the fragile desire that maybe, just maybe, he could be more. That maybe you could fix him, because sometimes he wasn’t so bad…so you swallowed it, locked it away, and gave Jules a tight-lipped smile instead.

You already knew that tonight, as the music throbbed and bodies swayed close, your fingers would betray your resolve. They’d instinctively reach for your phone, the screen glowing like a beacon in the dim light. You’d stare at that empty message window, heart hammering in your chest, typing out words—short, hesitant, full of longing—only to delete them again, caught in a loop of hope and fear. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for you to break the silence; fear that reopening the door might let everything crash down. Because somewhere deep in your tangled heart, the part that still clung to him like a lifeline, you weren’t ready to let go…not tonight, maybe not ever.

He had settled into your bones, a quiet pulse beneath your skin, so deeply rooted that pulling him out felt impossible, like trying to unwrite the story your body was made to tell.

With a slow breath that feels heavier than air, you shake your head, “He can come with Ja’Marr and Justin if he wants, but honestly, I don’t care. He’s not my problem anymore,”. The words fall like armor, a carefully crafted shield you wrap tight around your body. Then, with a clipped edge meant to close the conversation before it starts, you add, “So, to answer your question before you even ask…no. I’m not texting him,”.

You don’t wait for Jules to respond; you don’t want her to see through the gaps in your mask even more than she already has. Because beneath the surface, you know it’s a lie you’re telling yourself. That the hunger to reach for your phone will gnaw at you all night, pulling you back toward a past you’re desperate to forget but can’t quite let go of. Still, in this moment, you don’t care. You need to believe it, even if only for a little while. 

Turning sharply on your heel, you start up the stairs, the worn auburn wood creaking underfoot like a slow countdown. Each step feels like you’re pulling away from everything tangled in that name, the promises left unsaid, the silences that screamed louder than words, the idea of what could’ve been. You’re climbing not just toward the bedroom where you’ll get ready, but toward a delicate hope that maybe, tonight, you can rewrite the story you’re so tired of living.

You won’t text him. You can’t. You won’t put yourself through that again.

2 hours later 

You will text him. Fuck, you already did. You’re putting yourself through it again.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, despite your subconscious telling you that eventually you’d give in. But it wasn’t supposed to happen so easily; you were going to resist. You had promised yourself that much, clinging to that vow like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. But promises made (semi) sober in the quiet of your bedroom have a way of dissolving under the heat of a crowded room. Somewhere between the sharp burn of Fireball sliding down your throat, the cinnamon bite searing all the way to your stomach, and the sticky-sweet aftertaste coating your tongue, your resolve began to soften.

The music wasn’t helping—New Rules by Dua Lipa pounding through the walls, the bass rattling your ribs, the lyrics threading themselves into your veins like they owned you. Ironic. Cruel. A challenge you didn’t need. The song looped and looped, vibrating through the soles of your heels until even the air seemed to hum with temptation.

And then there was the top. That reckless, dangerous purple corset tank, the one you’d told yourself you were saving for a night that mattered. Tonight, apparently, mattered. It hugged your body with ruthless precision, as if it had been crafted by someone who had studied you from every angle, memorized every dip, every swell. Sequins were stitched into the fabric like shards of starlight, catching every passing flicker of neon and fairy light, glimmering as though the room itself was conspiring to make you impossible to ignore. The thin straps framed your shoulders and collarbones like deliberate brushstrokes, guiding the gaze downward to the neckline’s daring plunge, where your tits, pushed up just enough to catch the attention of anyone interested, looked almost too perfect to belong to you. The boning cinched tight around your waist, a constant reminder with every breath that you were dressed like a weapon, and tonight, you were willing to aim.

It wasn’t just the alcohol buzzing in your bloodstream; it was something stronger, headier. That risky kind of confidence that makes you stand a little taller, makes your gaze linger longer when someone’s looking back. The room smelled of liquor and perfume, your friends' bodies pressing close in a haze of heat and noise while they finished their makeup, and somewhere in the middle of it all, your pulse began to race with the thought of him. The thought of being seen by him.

“Text him, Idiot. Just text him,” a voice hissed inside your head, curling around your skull like smoke from a 3-alarm fire, impossible to ignore. “You know you want to, you know you want him. You miss him. Miss the way he whispered in your ear. Miss the way his lips crushed yours, tasting like everything you’d ever wanted, like he actually cared when he kissed you. Miss the way he fucked you like he didn’t give a single damn about the world around you, how he hit every nerve, every spot inside you that left you gasping and trembling. You miss the way he listened to you, the way he laughed around you, the way he made you forget every single problem in your life. He was like a drug, and you crave it. You crave him. You crave it so much it aches, right here,” it murmured, a hot, almost tangible pressure against your chest. “You know you want to feel his hands on you, dragging you into him, you know you want to lose yourself in him again, just like you always do. So why don’t you?”.

Maybe it was the Fireball. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the way the corset made you feel like you could walk into a room and make it yours. Or maybe it was that fucking voice in your head, but whatever it was, it pushed you over the edge. Your phone was already in your hand before you’d fully decided to pick it up, the glow of the screen lighting your face in the dim, flashing dark. You hovered, thumb trembling over the keyboard, the word don’t whispering weakly somewhere in the back of your head.

But your body was already leaning into do.

And without giving the rational part of you time to intervene, you typed out those three reckless little words and hit send on the message you swore you’d never send again.

you: u coming over? 

Three simple words. That’s all it took. Plain on the surface, nothing more than a casual invite, but beneath them sat everything you’d never dare to say out loud. At least not to his face. 

You’d told yourself it was harmless. Everyone in his circle had been invited, all of his friends, even some mutuals from out of town who were here to see him, every name ticked off the list with careful precision. Leaving him out would’ve been obvious, too planned. It would’ve painted you as cold, petty, the villain. And you weren’t that person. 

Not really.

So you typed it out, thumb pausing over the send button for a single, tight breath. Long enough to feel the weight of the choice, short enough to pretend it didn’t matter. And then…send. Gone. Out there in the universe, where you couldn’t pull it back. You told yourself you wouldn’t check. Wouldn’t wait. Wouldn’t give the thought of him a single second more than necessary. If he showed up, he showed up. If not, well, that was that. You weren’t going to hover over your phone like some lovesick idiot, willing a reply into existence. Not tonight, and certainly not after months of what felt like psychological torture.

But, as Lyra’s fingers traced slow patterns across your chest and arms, spreading the warm, sticky shimmer of BodyGlow glitter oil across the expanse of your soft skin, her voice droned on, a mix of frustration and worry about how her boyfriend had been ghosting her all day, your resolve slipped as quickly as the oil down your arm. The sweet, almost intoxicating scent of the liquid—hints of vanilla and something floral—mingled with the warmth of her touch, the subtle sparkle catching the soft light and dusting your skin in tiny flecks of light. Yet, none of it distracted you. Your mind wandered, caught in a restless spiral, fixated on that text, the simple message silently glowing on your screen, a potential unread thread of hope and anxiety tangled together. It hovered just out of reach, a whisper of what could be, pulling at your chest like a pull you couldn’t ign–

“Ah, fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, the words barely audible over the hum of the party, which was slowly kicking off below your tiled bathroom floors. Your fingers brushed the smooth, cold surface of the marble countertop, then snatched your phone back into your hand like it was the lifeline you couldn’t let go of. Your thumb hovered over the screen before you finally tapped his contact, the simple message sent earlier appearing in stark black letters,

you: u coming over?

— read by do NOT text at 9:21 pm. 

You blinked, heart tightening as the seconds stretched out, your breath shallow. The glowing screen mocked you with its silence. Then, just as you began to slide your gaze away, your eyes caught the little timestamp below the message, read at 9:21 pm.

Half an hour ago.

Your heart sank. 

The realization hit like a sucker punch, twisting low in your gut as you felt a burning sensation in your throat, almost as if you were about to throw up the entire contents of your stomach. He’d seen your message—he’d seen you reach out, lay yourself bare in three simple words—and then he’d done the one thing that hurt the most. Absolutely fucking nothing. Again. No reply, no acknowledgment, just cold silence stretching across the digital space between you. And that silence wasn’t just an absence; it was on purpose, heavy, and louder than any answer he could’ve given. You hated yourself for hoping, hated how your pulse had jumped the second you hit send, how you’d imagined him showing up, the way his eyes might find yours in a crowded room with that adorable grin of his. 

And now? Now you were left with the emptiness, with embarrassment, the knowing that you’d reopened a door he never intended to walk through again.

You should’ve known better. God, you did know better. This was his game, pull you in close enough to taste him, then vanish before you can breathe him in. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t play again, but here you were, standing in a glitter-dusted top, hair curled just so, every detail of tonight’s party unconsciously built with him in mind, the music he liked, the drinks he’d never turn down, the crowd he’d want to be seen with.

And for what? For a half-hour-old read receipt?

Bullshit.

He was acting like nothing had ever happened, like the nights you’d shared, the words whispered, and the heat tangled between you had vanished into thin air. As if last year, every stolen look, every brush of lips, every promise that hadn’t been named, meant absolutely nothing to him. You could still see it, clear as day, that night in his apartment, the soft lighting, his chest pressed against yours, the way his eyes had held a glimmer of something promising, something tender, something that said don’t forget me just like his mouth did—like he’d meant it, like it was real. 

You thought it was real.

And now? Now he was here, in your thoughts again, indifferent, untouchable, like you were a puzzle piece he’d tossed aside. Was this some sick joke to him? Were you just a punchline, a thrill that faded as soon as the laughter was over? 

You drew in a shaky, uneven breath, trying to calm the storm twisting in your chest, willing yourself to release it, to stop caring. To stop imagining that lazy, crooked smile that always made your stomach clench, or picturing his eyes sliding over you with that hungry, secretive intensity that had haunted your dreams more than once. He was an asshole; it was that simple. He always had been. Every charming word, every fleeting touch, it had all carried a double meaning you’d ignored for far too long. 

Maybe tonight, maybe finally, you’d force yourself to see it for what it was.

Joe Burrow moves through life in the orbit of his own wants, and you…you were never the sun he revolved around, no matter how bright he made you shine. 

The drinks made it worse. 

You honestly felt like you were one shot away from entering full-blown psychosis. You were spiraling...hard.  

The cheap liquor, all bitter, sticky, and sloshing in plastic red cups, was supposed to sand down the jagged edges inside you, to smudge the outline of that feeling lodged so deep in your chest it had begun to feel like part of your anatomy. You’d hoped it would strip you down to that warm, reckless haze where nothing mattered, numbing your neurotransmitters, almost like you wanted to return to that euphoric trance that you felt because of Joe, but this time your only decision would be which stranger’s hands you’d let on your skin tonight just to erase the mark of his touch. But they betrayed you, just like everything had been lately. Instead of numbing the thought of those blue eyes, those cold, consuming eyes that had never once looked past himself, they sharpened it. Each swallow was a slow twist of the lens, dragging him into perfect, merciless focus. 

You saw his smile in every face—that infuriating, devastatingly perfect smile—the one that curled slowly at the corners when you’d say his name in that flirty, sing-song tone that was second nature whenever you caught him after your last class of the day.

You’d stumble into his apartment, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air like he’d left it there just for you, the door already unlocked in silent anticipation of your arrival. Your baby blue bag would slide from your shoulder, landing with a soft thud against the worn leather of his couch. Sometimes you’d hear the hiss of the shower, steam curling out from the cracked bathroom door, or catch him slouched in his gaming chair, sweat still clinging to his skin from another grueling practice under the suffocating Baton Rouge heat. No matter where you found him, you’d close the distance. You’d slip into the shower with him, water cascading over the sculpted lines of his shoulders, your lips pressing a slow trail of kisses along the hard curve of his biceps, tracing upward until they met the warm, intoxicating softness of his mouth. Or you’d climb into his lap, sinking into the solid breadth of his frame, feeling the tension melt from his body as you wrapped your arms around him, tucking his head into the curve of your neck like you could shield him from the world—and for those moments, maybe you almost did.

You heard the sound of his voice in your ear every time someone spoke to you, carrying that dark rasp that seemed to scrape right along your nerves. It wasn’t just a whisper; it was a possession, each word threaded with heat and command, dripping with the most salacious things a person could say to you, things that left your skin flushed and your pulse stuttering. You could still feel the ghost of those nights, the way the world would narrow to the four walls of his room the second he pulled you inside, door slamming shut with finality. He’d press you deep into the plush give of his mattress, his broad frame caging you in, blocking out everything but him—his scent, recognizable and warm; the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms; the shadows of his body moving against yours in the dim light. After every game, it was the same ritual, the same urgency. His hands rough, his touch greedy, as if you were the only thing strong enough to bleed the leftover tension from his bones. He didn’t just take; he devoured, and you let him, every time, because the way he claimed you felt less like sin and more like gravity.

And then, afterward, when the storm had quieted and the air between you still hummed, you’d lie tangled together in the wreckage of it all, sheets twisted and clinging to skin still slick with sweat. The glow from his bedside lamp would spill across the sharp lines of his shoulders, catching the gold in his hair, the small moles scattered across his chest. Those were the moments that ruined you—the quiet ones, when the world felt smaller, safer, like maybe this thing between you could survive the noise outside. He’d trace slow, absentminded circles against your thigh while he talked, voice softer now, no longer the commanding rasp that undid you, but something vulnerable, something achingly real.

He’d ramble about anything and everything—his next game, a play he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, how he missed his mom’s cooking, how sometimes he wondered what his life would’ve looked like if he hadn’t been good at football. You’d listen, cheek pressed against his chest, your lips brushing his skin every now and then just to feel him exhale. And when it was your turn, he’d listen, too. He’d ask questions, trace the edge of your jaw when you got emotional, press soft kisses to your cheeks like he could anchor you there, in that fragile bubble of warmth and exhaustion.

Those were the nights that fooled you into thinking he was yours. Not the kisses, not the sex, not the whispers that came right before dawn—but the way he looked at you then, like you were the only thing in the room that made sense. Like he would melt right into you if it was possible.

The distortion of every memory you wanted to forget just became clearer, and clearer, and clearer, no matter how many drinks you had in your system, no matter how many guys were looking at you like you were the prey to their predator. It was as if he was in the air you breathed, and the blood coursing through your body.

And what didn’t make it easier was that Ja’Marr and Justin had shown up too, striding through the kitchen with arms slung over each other’s shoulders, their easy grins strong enough to cut through diamond. They moved through the party as if they owned the place, like they’d been here a hundred times before. Like they could find that secret Pink Whitney stash blindfolded—the one you and your friends had hidden behind a cutout in the wall, covered by a Geaux Tigers dartboard—the bottles tucked away there since Parent’s Weekend last year, when someone’s dad nearly stumbled onto it after throwing a dart a little too hard. 

But the truth was, they’d never been here. Not once, not even with Joe. You were sewn into the seams of Joe’s world, into the booths of his favorite bar, the dim corners of his apartment, the toothbrush you kept in his bathroom next to your favorite philosophy body wash that you swore he’d use when you weren’t around, that seat in Tiger Stadium that always belonged to you, but he was never stitched into yours. He never stepped over your threshold with the same casual ease, never made himself at home in the spaces you called yours unless it was when nobody was looking, except for that one birthday earlier this year, which you still don’t know how he agreed to. Regardless, it was not enough to bring his friends into your space despite you bringing yours into his, not enough to blur the lines between your worlds, no matter how many pieces of yourself were lost in his. 

That’s why the sight of them here, laughing too loud, pouring themselves drinks like they’d been doing it for years, scraped like salt against the open wound he’d left behind. It didn’t happen by accident; guys like Ja’Marr and Justin didn’t just “wander in” to places they’d never been. They were too known, too I’m gracing you with my presence to just…show up. He’d told them to go. Which meant he knew, and still, he didn’t come. He knew the text you sent hours ago wasn’t some lazy “you up?”. It was a hand reaching out, asking him to show up in your space, in your life, without the shadows. Together. But instead, he’d sent his ghosts, letting their presence fill the corners where you’d imagined him standing. 

“Did he send them because…because he’s done? It’s over? So now it doesn’t matter if they’re here? Because he doesn’t plan on coming back into my life?”. The thought looped relentlessly in your mind as you leaned against the windowsill, fingers curling around the cool cup, eyes straining down the street for the man of the hour. The echo of Mr. Brightside blasting over the speakers vibrated through the wooden floor, shivering up your spine and settling low in your chest, mixing with the jittery adrenaline that always seemed to follow him, even in his absence. 

And then it hit you—an unwelcome epiphany, cutting through the drunken haze, the music, the chaos unfolding around you. Ja’Marr and Justin weren’t just bringing their physical presence into your home when they strolled through the front door. With them came the echo of a truth, a revelation you’d been avoiding all summer, a truth that throbbed with every pulse of the music and every phantom vibration in your pocket. 

He'd never walk through the front door. He'd never done it before, and he'd never do it now.

Those late nights Joe told you to leave the back door of your house unlocked for him weren’t about spontaneity, or some movie-scene kind of romance; they were about making it easier for him. No knocking, no waiting, no chance of being seen. Just slipping into your space like it was his, like you would always be there waiting in the dark. At first, you had told yourself it was kind of thrilling, the sound of the door clicking shut, the low tread of his footsteps down the hall, the way your stomach would leap in anticipation even if you were half-asleep. You told yourself it meant something, that he wanted you enough to come to you in the quietest hours of the night. But it was always the same. When the world was asleep, or just wasn’t paying attention close enough, you were allowed to have him—his laugh muffled against your pillow, his hand lazy on your thigh, his head tilted back on your shoulder while the glow of the TV softened his profile. He’d kiss you in those moments, recklessly, like this was the greatest thing he’d ever done, like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like kissing you was as natural as breathing. And you let yourself believe that was intimacy, that was what it meant to be wanted.

He’d never walk through that crimson colored front door, not where the welcome mat and the warm light could catch him, not where anyone might see and wonder who he was to you. He’d never walk through the front door like friends did—even people like Ja’Marr and Justin—like family did, like you wanted him to. He’d only ever slip in the quiet way guilty things do, silent, quick, the air barely disturbed behind him, leaving no sign he’d been there at all. That door, those thresholds, were for people who belonged, people who could stake a claim in your life without leaving scars or shadows behind. He’d never be that person. He’d never be the man you wanted him to be, the one who could hold your gaze in public, who could stand fully present in your world without slipping away into silence the second someone looked too long, the second someone started asking too many questions.

Which is why it was so pathetic, the way your eyes kept flicking to the front door all night, each making the disappointment worse. Every time the hinges creaked or someone with his build stepped inside, your breath snagged in your throat. Stupid, foolish hope flaring before it burned out again.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely registered Ryan weaving through the crowd until he collided with the wall beside the windowsill, a graceless thud that made you flinch. His bleary, half-lidded eyes found yours, and he grinned like he’d just discovered something brilliant. Ryan was…a character, to say the least. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had enough street smarts to navigate a party without making a total fool of himself. You remembered the night you met him—the same night you met Joe, ironically enough—how the two of you had been locked in a ridiculous, delightful debate over what your last-ever meals would be if you were on death row. You were laughing so hard your ribs ached, clinging to every absurd suggestion he made, the warmth of the conversation wrapping around you like a soft, familiar blanket, when Joe had cut in without warning. He’d snagged you mid-laugh for a game of beer pong, his presence magnetic, impossible to ignore, like he’d been waiting just to stake his claim. 

One thing led to another, the night dissolving into a blur of stolen touches and heated whispers, and by its end, you found yourself in some random storage closet with his head buried between your thighs, the rough scrape of fabric against skin replaced by the shocking softness of his mouth. Your fingers tangled in his golden, star-dusted hair, tugging gently, memorizing the feeling of him, the slick heat of desire that had nothing to do with anyone else in that room. Every gasp, every shiver, every flicker of light across the walls pressed itself into your memory like ink on skin, impossible to erase, impossible to forget.

You often wondered what might have happened if Joe hadn’t barged in on your conversation that night. Ryan wasn’t…bad, not by a long shot. He was sweet in an earnest, goofy way, sometimes dorky, effortlessly athletic, and undeniably easy on the eyes. There was something comforting about his energy, a warmth that didn’t demand or consume, unlike the fire that had always burned between you and Joe. Maybe, just maybe, if the circumstances had been different, he could have been something more than a footnote in the chaos of that night.

“Great fuckin’ party, Y/N,” he slurred, and before you could step back, his hand landed on your bare shoulder. The touch sent an involuntary shiver up your spine, a flash of warmth that should have felt electric, should have felt comfortable, but instead it felt foreign, just wrong. Your body tensed automatically, leaning just slightly away even as a small, guilty part of you was tempted to lean into it, to feel something, anything, but it wasn’t him. That’s why you didn’t like it, because it wasn’t Joe. Every instinct screamed that this hand didn’t belong, that the familiarity and desire you craved with Joe couldn’t be replicated here, no matter how much you tried. 

Ryan’s gaze roamed over you, opal eyes sliding over every curve you’d spent hours shaping for tonight, lingering too long where it shouldn’t, consuming with a greedy, drunken curiosity. “Damn…you look…hot,” he murmured, voice hanging heavy in the humid air like a warning you didn’t want to hear. He leaned closer, breath warm and slightly sweet with liquor, and added, almost boastfully, “I’m glad to see you finally movin’ past…him. ‘Cause you…you’re hot as fuck, and anyone would be stupid to waste this,” he gestured toward your body with his free hand, “on that small dick bitch Burrow. I mean, he don’t know how to handle all this,” his hand shifted, sliding up your collarbone in a slow, deliberate graze, and the heat of his palm made your chest tighten, coil, and constrict with tension. This wasn’t fireworks. This wasn’t the dangerous, intimate pull you remembered. It was invasive, unfamiliar—a brazen touch that carried no memory, no history, only the weight of plain, entitled desire. You stiffened, lips pressing together as you forced a laugh that fell hollow, trying to stabilize yourself against the pulse of the bass thrumming through the floor. 

“I think you needed to throw this party, y’know?” he teased, lifting a random cup off the windowsill in a lazy salute before leaning back against the wall. “To prove to yourself there’s more to life than mediocre college quarterbacks who think they’re God’s gift, only to end up pushing paper in some soulless finance firm once they realize the NFL isn’t calling their name. Trust me, he isn’t worth shit,” his laugh broke out, thinking that he was saying something to lighten your mood when in reality, you just wanted to slap him in the face. 

“Pppfh,” you snorted, shaking your head. His audacity was infuriating, like a slap you couldn’t land. You thought about Joe, about how if he were standing here right now, Ryan wouldn’t even dare open his mouth. Not a word. Joe would make it so obvious, so final, that Ryan wouldn’t know whether to crawl under the nearest couch or recite the LSU fight song backwards just to save face. And honestly… that thought made the edges of your anger blur with something warmer.

Joe might’ve been an asshole, might’ve been the worst decision you’d ever made inn your life, but he was also the most talented person you’d ever met. Even when he was being smug or quiet in that annoying way that made you want to wring his neck, there was something undeniable about him. He carried himself like he knew where he was going, like he had it all mapped out, down to the very last destination, the very last play. The first time you actually talked, sober, about football, you’d felt it. The sharpness of his mind, the way he saw the game like it was a language only he was fluent in. You knew then he’d make it far. There was no other option for someone like him. Glory was written in the stars for him long before he showed his face on this earth. 

Each time Ryan leaned too close, each time his eyes lingered, the thought of him, the one who should be here, pounded louder, an intense ache threading through your chest, tightening your throat, making your eyes burn. In the space between the beat of the music, between the laughter and clinking plastic cups, you felt Joe there—the ghost of him. And yet, you were here, caught between instinct and desire, between the touch of someone who wasn’t his and the memory of the only touch that ever mattered, haunted by the knowledge that nothing Ryan could offer could ever fill the space Joe had claimed inside you.

Once you’d managed to peel away from his clumsy, alcohol-heavy attempt at pressing himself into your orbit in a way that made you want to throw up, you slipped back into the crowd like you needed a distraction, desperate for air that didn’t reek of cheap beer and bad intentions. The kitchen became your refuge, not quiet, not really, but less suffocating than the growing chaos outside. Cups littered the counters, the faint sticky tug of spilled liquor clinging to your shoes as you stepped around bodies. It was a mess, but what more did you expect? 

“This’ll be a pain in the ass to clean up,” you sighed to yourself as you leaned back against the fridge.

Your phone stayed in your hand like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the glass as you pretended to scroll, a half-hearted cover that no one cared enough to question, but your eyes never moved far from his name. It sat there like a beacon, a curse, the thread holding you hostage. Sometimes you swore if you stared long enough, you could will it to light up. You checked every few minutes, feigning disinterest, but your heart still tripped over itself each time the screen blinked awake only to reveal nothing new.

Twice now, no, maybe more, you’d caved and called him. So much for self-restraint and telling yourself to stand up. 

Once in the corner of the kitchen by your budding Peace Lily, another time in the locked pantry with the old light buzzing overhead like a secret keeper. You pressed the phone to your ear in the chaos, the sound of muffled bass bleeding under the door as you clutched the device like it could make everything around you disappear. The low, automated rhythm of his voicemail was both relief and torture. Relief, because you weren’t brave enough to hear him answer, what would you even say? 

I hate you, but I miss you. Please come over to this stupid party I threw for you? 

Tragic. Literally tragic. 

But going to voicemail was also torture, because it meant silence, absence, distance. You always hung up before the beep, pulse racing like you’d been caught stealing something. Shame pooled in your gut, thick and sour, like wanting him still was wrong, foolish.

You should’ve been moving on by now. That’s what everyone said, what you told yourself you’d do tonight, what you pretended to believe in daylight when the ache wasn’t so strong. He’d made his choice, hadn’t he? Left you to piece yourself together while he walked away without a backward glance. Still, here you were…standing in the midst of what should’ve been the best way to start off the new school year, with the taste of liquid freedom burning your throat, trying not to crumble every time your phone stayed dark or the hinges of the door squeaked. 

The spiral wasn’t stopping, no matter what you did. 

“I only threw this party for you. Please come through. Please, Joe,” the mantra hissed in your head, threading between the walls of chatter and the glittering lights, sinking into your veins like a persistent undertow. You wondered what he was doing—if he was sprawled on some battered couch with his playbook open, if he was out with his other teammates, if he was with some other girl, or if he was just sitting in that brooding silence he wore so well. The thought twisted in your chest like a sharp vine, constricting and sweet all at once, pain laced with the ridiculous hope that he was thinking of you too. “Wish I knew what you were thinking,” you murmured under your breath, letting the words vanish into the air as you poured another shot of cheap liquor into a red solo cup, the bitter burn searing down your throat and doing nothing to numb the feelings, making you dizzy.

Your fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles blanching, as your eyes flicked to your phone for the hundredth time, half-expecting, half-hoping that he’d text you or call you back. And the thought that hit the hardest, more vicious than any thought of anyone else, was this.

If his name flashed across your screen right now, if even a single syllable of you escaped his fingertips in a text…you’d cave. You’d fold completely. No hesitation. No armor. No pride. You’d forget every bitter feeling, every time you cried until there were no more tears, every awful thought you’d had about him. 

But…why. Why was it so hard to move past him? Why were you so hurt? Why were you so hung up on him? 

Why were you acting as if he lov–

Crash.

The abrupt crack of glass splintering tore through your thoughts, the sound so sudden and violent it felt like it split through your chest. Your head whipped toward the window, your pulse leaping as shards burst inward and scattered, raining down in a glittering, chaotic cascade. They bounced across the floor like jagged fragments of ice, catching the light in harsh, fractured gleams. For a beat too long, you were motionless, lungs locked, unable to draw in air as you stared at the destruction. It wasn’t until your eyes dropped lower, drawn instinctively to the thing that had landed at your feet, that your stomach twisted, your body snapping back into focus.

A football.

A Wilson. 

But not just any Wilson football. His Wilson football.

You knew before your brain could form the thought. The scuffed leather was etched into your memory, the pigskin dulled from countless snaps and practices, the seams worn smooth in certain spots where his hands always settled. Even from a distance, you recognized it the way you’d recognize the slope of his shoulders or the cadence of his voice—instinctively, unshakably. There was a faint smear of dirt along the laces, the kind of mark that came from the way he gripped it, spinning it endlessly when he thought no one noticed. You remembered how it would rest against his thigh when he leaned back on your bed, or how he’d toss it lazily into the air and catch it again, each motion threaded into the rhythm of your days together. The football wasn’t just a ball. It was him, it was everything he carried with him, and suddenly it was here, in front of you, like a cruel reminder dropped into your orbit.

Your chest tightened, your breath thinning until it barely reached your lungs. The party around you dulled, the chatter and laughter warping into something distant. The thrum of conversation blurred into static, until all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat—and underneath it, rising unsolicited, the sounds you thought you’d buried. The deafening roar of a stadium crowd, the rhythmic slam of cleats against turf, the cadence of plays barked through the haze of adrenaline. And then softer, more dangerous, his voice. Quiet and steady, pitched with that warmth he reserved only for you.

You weren’t at the party anymore. You were there, on that night, the one etched into you with unbearable clarity. The night when you finally understood just how dangerous he was to your heart. The night you realized you might not survive the gravity of Joe Burrow.

Flashback to Tiger Stadium – Midnight, October 18th, 2018. 

“Joe, b- be careful…we’re gonna get caught,” you giggled under your breath, clutching his hand as he tugged you further down the tunnel that spilled out onto the broad, turf field.  The echo of your footsteps against the walls felt deafening in the quiet that fell over Death Valley tonight, and your heart raced at the thought of someone discovering you both goofing around after hours. But Joe didn’t even glance back, his long strides confident, his hand firm around yours like he knew exactly what he was doing. Walking through the same tunnel he ran out of every Saturday felt electric, almost like you were high on something, like the walls themselves hummed with the ghostly roar of past crowds. 

The air smelled faintly of turf, sweat, and history, and every step seemed to match the rhythm of his life on that field. You could feel it, the energy he carried, the way it lingered in the very concrete beneath your feet, coiling around your veins and making your pulse sync with his. The world outside the stadium, the worries and rules you’d left behind, faded into nothing, replaced by the thrill of secrecy, adrenaline, and the impossible intimacy of moving through his world unnoticed.

When the heavy shadows gave way and the wide-open expanse of Tiger Stadium unfolded before you, your breath caught. The massive stands—the same stands you’d be in every Saturday—loomed overhead, empty and dark, but even without a single fan in sight, the place oozed with glory and possibility. You felt the cool October breeze crawl up your spine once you’d stepped out of the tunnel, the grey Super Mario hoodie you’d stolen from his closet not doing much to shield you from the chill that the night brought you. The sleeves fell past your hands, and you tugged them tighter, burying your face into the worn cotton that still smelled like him.

Your voice trembled with half-giggle, half-fear, and it only made him laugh under his breath. That low, boyish chuckle that always seemed to spark a fire somewhere deep inside you. “Relax,” he drawled, his lips so close that the word brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your neck. His arms slid around your waist from behind, strong and certain, the kind of hold that promised he’d never let you go, tugging you back into him until your spine curved against the solid warmth of his chest. 

You could feel the steady pitter-patter of his heartbeat pressing into your back, its rhythm calm where yours raced. “Joe Cool. Always,” you whispered with a small, knowing smile, the words tasting like a secret only you shared. Even here, off the field, in the desolation of the empty stadium, you could feel the same effortless calm radiating from him—the same unshakable, stoic composure that made him untouchable on game day. It wasn’t an act, it never was. It was just…him, every steady breath, every sure step, every slow grin that tugged at the corners of your heart and reminded you why you’d been drawn in from the very start.

His breath fanned against your hair, carrying the faint trace of mint gum mixed with something more pungent, wilder—adrenaline, danger, the rush of what you were doing. And when his chin dipped just enough for the rough line of his jaw to graze your temple, you thought you might actually melt into him, lost in the safety of his body even as the world beyond the tunnel threatened to catch you both. You shifted subtly in his arms, just enough to tilt your head and catch the glint in his eyes, a mischievous sparkle layered over that familiar, controlled certainty that seemed to radiate from him. But beneath the teasing glint, there was something softer, more vulnerable. He was here, with you, fully present, and in that fleeting moment, the stadium lights reflecting off his irises revealed it all. The thrill of sharing this secret world with you, the candid joy of having you beside him, and the unmistakable glow of someone who closes himself off to the rest of the world, but has found a rare, unguarded happiness in your presence.

“Joe,” you warned again, softer this time, though the curl of your lips betrayed your words. You tried to sound stern, to remind yourself that sneaking into the stadium after hours was wildly reckless, a risk far beyond your usually cautious nature, especially on a scholarship that demanded perfect grades and impeccable behavior. But your pulse betrayed every attempt at control, beating in your ears, racing along your veins, as his lips grazed the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. That little touch sent a shiver curling down your spine, making it impossible to focus on logic or consequences. 

“You’re too worried, princess,” he murmured against your skin, each word punctuated by a soft, willful kiss. Then another, lingering longer this time, warm and insistent. His hands flexed lightly against your waist, pulling you tighter into him, molding you to the shape of his chest as if challenging the whole world to try and pry you away. “It’s just us,” he whispered, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles into your side, “No one’s watching, made sure of it,”.

You should’ve asked him what he meant by that, “Made sure of it.”, but you were too distracted by the idea of just the two of you being in this behemoth of a stadium, alone, with nobody to interrupt you or pull you away from each other. You could run across the field, twirling like Misty Copeland in Swan Lake, spinning and leaping across the turf as if the stadium were your stage and no one existed outside these walls. You could practice your touchdown celebrations in the end zone, stomping, spinning, and flinging your arms in dramatic arcs, each movement a little wild, a little ridiculous, a little gloriously free. You’d spent an embarrassingly large number of hours inventing them in your head, imagining the perfect mix of flair and mischief after watching Joe practically have none. Part of it was selfish, just the sheer joy of moving without rules, of being completely silly in the middle of a stadium that had seen so many cutthroat, intense games, but never anything like this. Part of it was hopeful, too, a secret mission to teach him some of your moves, to see that spark of competitiveness mixed with carelessness in him, even if he’d never admit it. 

The entire stadium could have vanished into thin air, and you wouldn’t have even noticed, not with the way his arms caged you in, not with the way his lips seemed to map every inch of your skin like it was his favorite thing. You were here tonight, at this ungodly hour, because he wanted to show you what the stadium felt like from his perspective. It was because his dream was so big it didn’t just belong to him anymore; it felt like it lived inside these walls, stitched into the turf, painted onto the end zones, humming in the silence and waiting patiently for him to claim it. And somehow, standing there with him in the dark, it began to feel like maybe it lived inside of you too. 

Those hours he spent dreaming out loud in your bed painted a picture too vivid for you not to see. The words would spill from him late at night, when the world was quiet and the only light came from the golden streetlamp cutting through your curtains. His voice carried a belief he rarely let slip in front of anyone else, a rhythm so stable like he was reciting scripture, although he hardly ever talked about it. But somehow, it was so rooted inside his brain, as if he had been telling himself this in silence every single day. 

He wanted to go far, farther than anyone would’ve ever expected from the kid who’d been buried on a depth chart, forgotten behind bigger names. He showed you a side of himself no teammate, no coach, no reporter had ever been allowed to see. The side that dared to believe he could climb from being a third-string afterthought to the one standing at the top of the mountain, the name on everyone’s lips, the QB who changed the game not just in College, but in the big leagues. In the NFL. His eyes would gleam in the shadows at the mention of making it there, and you could hear the way his heartbeat sped beneath your palm when you touched his chest, as if just saying it out loud made it all feel like it was happening right in front of him.

“You really think you’re gonna be out there one day?” you asked, your voice careful, tentative, as though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer. “Holding the gold, everyone wearing your name proudly, millions across the country chanting your name…,” you trailed off, afraid you’d said too much, afraid you’d revealed how completely you believed in him even when you weren’t sure you should. In your mind, you could already hear it; he roar of the crowd, the commentators’ voices rising over the air, “And at quarterback, number 9, Joe Burrow!”. The image hit you like a wave, the stadium lights blazing down, fans screaming, the snap of the ball, the crunch of cleats on turf, and there he was, all confidence and determination, living the dream he’d been sketching out in your bedroom for hours, every whispered ambition and secret hope laid bare.

Joe’s lips stilled against your shoulder, and for a suspended moment, the world narrowed to the hush of the night, the faint rustle of the wind, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against yours. His breathing fanned across the hollow at the crook of your neck, a rhythm that somehow calmed you in a way nothing else had. The chaos of your life—classes, obligations, late-night parties, the endless churn of your thoughts—faded into static, leaving only this unexpected pocket of tranquility, a pause you hadn’t realized you were craving.

And yet, he did.

He shifted then, straightening until his chin rested lightly against the crown of your head. You felt his breath brush the top of your hair before his voice came, “…Not think,” he murmured, each word carrying weight, certainty, a fire that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. His hand glided over your stomach, a flutter rippling throughout your lower belly, pulling you impossibly closer, as if the simple press of his palm could stitch a promise directly onto your skin. “…I know,” he added, and it wasn’t a boast or a challenge. There was no arrogance in the way he said it. No bravado, no inflated ego. It was just faith, simple and unshakable, carved deep into his bones, resonating through every sinew of his body. And in that moment, you believed it. But not because you had to, but because the way Joe Burrow said something with that kind of conviction made the world itself seem to bend toward it. Every doubt, every worry, every fear felt suddenly weightless, suspended in the gravity of his certainty. You were caught in it, willingly, and somehow, impossibly, you knew he’d always hold you there.

“And you know…you’re gonna be out there with me,” he murmured, the words teasing, curling into a smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips the instant they left his mouth—because he knew exactly how they wound through your chest and left you breathless. He pivoted, turning the two of you so you faced the empty stands behind him, the evening air brushing against your flushed skin, crisp and intoxicating just like his touch. His fingers found yours again, guiding your hand upward, threading your warmth with his in that familiar, possessive way that made your pulse skip. He directed it toward one of the private club suites, his gaze never leaving yours as he studied your expression. “When I’m in the league,” he whispered, voice low and steady, a rough edge of desire underneath the promise, “You’re gonna sit in one of those every Sunday, watching me work, watching me dominate. Wearing my name, my number…wearing what’s underneath it. A lace set that makes you look even more beautiful than you already are, maybe my colors depending on where I go…maybe Carolina Blue, or Arizona Red, or even Cincinnati Orange if we’re trying to finish the story…just all for me. And after every win…,” his voice dropped, huskier now, sending a spark of electricity through your veins, “…It’s just you and me. Doing what we do best. Just like we do now. Nothing has to change, baby,”. 

Your breath hitched as the images took hold, curling in your chest like fire and ice at once. 

The thought of sitting in that private club suite, draped in lace and colors that belonged to him, the subtle teasing reminder of your connection hidden beneath the polished veneer of the stadium, sent a shiver spiraling down your spine. You could feel the vibration of the field below, the hum of a crowd so big even in imagination, and the weight of all those eyes—fans, teammates, maybe even his family—watching while you carried a secret just for him. And then there was the thought of continuing that…after the draft, when he’d be the center of attention, surrounded by every temptation imaginable. That clandestine ritual, the rush of post-game heat, the private, intimate ways you existed only for each other, knowing he could have anyone but still wanted you, made your stomach twist, your blood pressure spike, and your thoughts fray into delicious, reckless anticipation.

You’d get to see him before every game, pressed close enough to plant a quick, meaningful kiss on his lips, the kind that carried all the luck, all the adoration, all the fire you could muster. You’d watch him from down the field, catching his gaze as he scanned the crowd, searching for you, and feel that quiet thrill of knowing you were the only one he wanted to find. You’d cheer for him, loud and unabashed, showing your support and claiming your piece of him in front of everyone. You’d get to be with him through every first, every post-game dinner with family, every meaningful moment in his life. But behind closed doors, in the secrecy of the sanctuary he’d build for you, it would be a completely different kind of devotion. You’d be tangled together in crisp white sheets, his hands gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered, his hot breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “My girl…that’s my perfect fucking girl,” over and over. His lips would trail across your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone, every kiss deliberate, searing, leaving trails of fire in his wake as your bodies moved together, perfectly synchronized, lost in a world where no one existed but the two of you.

It all seemed so perfect…every fleeting touch, every whispered promise, every imagined future with him pressed close and alive.

It was everything you’d ever wanted, every fantasy you’d tucked into your chest, every longing you’d tried to ignore, finally taking shape. You just wanted him. That's it. Where he went, you went. And Joe knew that. Oh, he knew it with the same astute certainty he carried on the field, the same way he knew the exact weight of the ball in his hands or the perfect angle to throw a pass. He could give it all to you, this life, these nights, this kind of love and fire, with just a snap of his fingers. But that was the dark truth gnawing at the edges of your excitement. It could all vanish just as easily, disappear in an instant, because it wasn’t yours to command. 

It belonged to him. 

His choice, his power, and you…you were left waiting, hoping, wanting, and utterly at the mercy of a man who could build your world and destroy it in the same heartbeat.

But right now? You didn’t fucking care about any of that.

Why? Because he was really here. And he was saying it with so much certainty, so much trust you’d blindly believe everything he said as long as he made you feel this way. 

You turned in his arms then, slow like gravity itself had tilted toward him, pulling you in against all sense. Your palms flattened against his chest, and the thin, worn cotton of his T-shirt was no barrier against the solid heat of him beneath. His body was warm, humming, every breath expanding under your touch. Without thinking, your fingertips traced soft, distracted patterns over his sternum, mapping him as though you could memorize the beat of his heart. That steady rhythm drummed into your skin, like it belonged to you and you alone. His hand came up to cover yours, broad and calloused, pressing it firmly against him, keeping you tied to that sound.

“You’re crazy, Burrow,” you whispered, breath hitching as the words broke against the closeness of his mouth. The protest was weak, shaky, a thin veil over the fact that your heart was racing wildly. Your lips curled almost involuntarily as you tried to sound unaffected, but his closeness broke that wall down extremely quickly. He blurred every careful edge you tried to maintain, left you suspended between fear and giddiness, between knowing what you should do and aching for what you wanted anyway.

His head dipped, the soft brush of his nose against yours making your chest seize, his breath mingling with yours in the charged stillness. His lips ghosted over your mouth in the faintest tease of contact—enough to set your knees trembling, to make the stadium’s floor feel unsteady beneath you. “Maybe,” he allowed, the word rumbling against your skin, his smirk deepening as if he had you cornered and he knew you’d never escape. His voice carried the softness of a secret, but his gaze burned with something searing, something that lodged itself deep in your chest and wouldn’t let go. “But you’re here with me right now, aren’t you? Means you trust my vision…my dreams,”. His gaze flicked from your lips to your eyes, “I’m gonna take you to the top, baby. Right to the top of the fucking mountain. Where I go, you go,” he whispered, and when he finally pressed his mouth to yours, it wasn’t a brief kiss meant to be stolen in passing. It was a claim, a promise. His lips were warm and insistent, moving with a heat that unraveled every coherent thought you’d ever had around him. 

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, urging you impossibly closer until the very air between you ceased to exist. Without hesitation, he shifted, slipping one strong arm beneath you and lifting you clean off your feet as though you weighed nothing, holding you to his chest like you belonged there. The sudden loss of the ground beneath you made your breath catch, but then you melted, trusting him instinctively, your fingers tangling in the back of his hair as his mouth consumed yours. Your legs wound around his waist, pulling him closer still, locking him against you in a way that said you’d never let go. “They’re gonna love m…us. They’re gonna love us,” he mumbled as he stumbled forward a step, steadying you both with an easy balance born from hours of drills and body control, and continued kissing you as if nothing else in the world mattered. 

The stadium was silent except for your heated breaths, the sound of your mouths devouring each other like it was the last time, your laughter swallowed into his kisses as he swayed you around. And in that moment, standing in the middle of his empty kingdom, wrapped up in the arms of a boy who dreamed out loud, you just knew he was going to make it. You knew he would take everything he touched and turn it to gold. And you knew, without meaning to, that he had already started with you. Maybe it was reckless of you, maybe it was naïve, but you believed him when he said he’d take you to the top with him, closing your eyes as if you could already feel the gold confetti in your hair, already hear the crowd’s wild devotion, already see him standing at the center of it all with that fire in his eyes.

For a fleeting second, you let yourself believe those fiery eyes would be looking right back at you.

Just when you thought the world might tilt forever in that kiss, he pulled away suddenly. The absence was sharp, your lips chasing after his before you could stop yourself, but he only grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. The stadium lights caught the sheen of sweat on his cheekbones, the curve of his smirk cutting through the quiet like a spark. “Get on my back,” he said, breathless, still so close you could feel the ghost of his mouth brushing yours. You blinked, confused, a laugh catching in your throat as your hands slid against the front of his shirt. “What? Why do I need to get on your back?” you asked, disbelief curling in your voice, though your heart already thumped with the instinct to obey. His grin only widened, that cocky, boyish tilt you knew always meant trouble, the kind that would pull you apart unwillingly. 

“Just get on. Trust me,” he murmured, the rasp of his voice signaling a dare.

You lingered on him for a heartbeat, as if the answer might be hidden in the quiet storm of his eyes; something unnamed, unformed, yet already pulling at you with invisible gravity. You couldn’t define it then, not in words, not even in thought, but it was somehow enough. 

As you slid from his front to his back, every brush of contact made your stomach flip. Arms looped tight around his broad shoulders, your cheek pressing briefly to the damp warmth of his neck. His big hands reached down, fingers curling under your thighs, his grip firm, possessive, secure in a way that made your breath catch. Twisting his head just enough, he caught your eyes, and the wild, daring spark there left your knees weak even though they were no longer on the ground. “You ready?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in mischief. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out, though it sounded softer, shakier than you intended. Butterflies thrashed in your stomach, your nerves tangled with exhilaration. You tightened your hold instinctively, nails biting lightly into his shoulders as if you were holding on for dear life.

And then…he was off. His legs exploded into motion, muscles coiled and uncoiled with each stride, sprinting from one end zone to the other like it was the last drive of his life. You squealed, the sound bubbling out of you somewhere between laughter and disbelief, holding on tighter as the blurred field streaked by beneath you. Your hair whipped back with the force of the wind, the rush of speed stealing the air from your lungs. “Oh my god, you’re fucking insane,” you shouted into his ear, your voice breaking with laughter. He only laughed with you, unrestrained, the sound ricocheting through the empty stadium as if it belonged to the two of you and no one else.

His feet pounded against the turf, long strides eating up the yard lines as if the whole field belonged to him. For a moment it was only the slap of his shoes on the turf, then his own booming call—half announcement, half victory cry—rolled across the empty stands.“And he’s in for the touchdown…number 9, Joe Burrow!” he announced it himself, grinning like a kid, the sound bouncing off the stands as he picked up speed toward the endzone.

“Joe, slow downnnn,” you giggled breathlessly, pressing your mouth against the crook of his neck as if to shield yourself from impending doom, but there was no real protest in your tone. You were enjoying this way too much, and the sight of that carefree, relaxed smile on his face just made this entire moment even better. 

Your laughter spilled into the night, uncontained and golden, echoing through the hollow stands like a hymn written just for him. It wove through the metal bleachers, past the ghosts of a hundred games, catching in the cool air that always seemed to bend toward him, like even the wind had learned his name. Under the halo of the stadium lights, he looked almost unreal. Untouchable, radiant, a boy who had built an empire out of chalk lines and heartbeat and the blind faith of those who believed in him. And you…you were the one he’d let close enough to feel it, to touch the edge of that glory and call it something you still couldn’t say out loud..

You thought that meant something. You thought being let in was the same as being chosen.

But kingdoms have crowns, not equals—and some queens were only ever meant to be part of the story, not the ending.

You just didn’t know that yet. 

End of Flashback

“Dude, holy fuck! Are you okay?”. 

Jules’ frantic voice sliced through the fog of your thoughts, dragging you back from the vivid, intoxicating memory of the stadium and that night. Your hand went limp, the red solo cup slipping from your chilled, sticky fingers, tumbling to the floor with a wet smack. Cold, sugary liquid pooled around your feet, sticky tendrils clinging to the threads of your jeans. The football—his football—lay there, scuffed and now soaked, the leather darkened and slick, glinting under the harsh, buzzing lights above. It mocked you with its details, its familiarity, a cruel tether to both the past you couldn’t escape and the chaotic, fluorescent mess of this stupid fucking party. 

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine,” you croaked, your breath coming out a little too quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to your own ears. 

You shoved past Jules, mumbling something about needing air, though the words barely reached her ears. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a steel band around it, squeezing with each heartbeat. The memory of that night—the stadium, his words, those promises he made, his laughter, the way his hands had held you—was too vivid, too raw, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Every step through the crowd felt like moving through thick molasses, bodies pressing past you, bass vibrating in your skull, the alcohol in your system causing everything around you to melt together into a purplish neon haze. Lyra caught sight of you from the beer pong table, concern etched across her face. “Y/N, are you okay?” she asked, voice soft but urgent, reaching out to steady you as you struggled forward. You barely gave her a glance, waving her off with a trembling hand, your mind already elsewhere. You stumbled, caught more by momentum than intent, and sank onto the leather couch, letting your body collapse into the cushions like they might somehow hold the weight of all your thoughts.

“What is wrong with m- me?” you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the loud chatter around you. Your voice cracked on the end, soft but sharp like a splinter under skin, as though saying it aloud might somehow release you from the trap of your own head. You squeezed your eyes shut, too hard, the way you used to as a kid when you thought darkness could erase nightmares. Maybe if you held them closed long enough, you could patch up whatever dam had just burst inside your brain, because it was flooding, pouring, drenching you in memories you’d spent months meticulously sealing away. Every laugh, every promise, every touch you told yourself you’d forgotten came roaring back, uninvited and unrelenting, until you felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore.

You thought you’d done so well. The entire summer had been one long act of pretending, and for the most part you’d convinced yourself it was working. You built walls with your silence, smoothed over cracks with excuses, filled the holes with distractions that felt just sturdy enough to keep the truth at bay. But tonight, your resolve collapsed like it had been made of paper.

Because apparently, all it took to undo you was a red plastic cup of jungle juice and the sight of his fuckass football at your feet. That stupid, scuffed, leather thing, the same one you knew had been in his hands a hundred times, the same one you’d tossed back and forth in the yard, the same one he’d pressed against your stomach with a laugh when he tackled you to the grass like he couldn’t keep himself from touching you even in play. The second your eyes landed on it, it was like a trapdoor opened beneath you, sending you spiraling back into those days you swore you’d buried.

Classic. Just classic.

Your laugh was bitter, broken in half before it even left your throat. Of course this is how it would happen. Not in some meaningful moment, not in some quiet midnight epiphany—but here, in a sweaty living room, drunk kids shouting around you, with the burn of cheap liquor still coating your tongue. You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, as if you could push the thoughts back in, force them into whatever dark corner they’d crawled out from. “I should stop drinking,” you muttered, your voice shaking more this time. “I think it’s making it worse,”. The admission felt pathetic on your tongue, and you hated yourself for it. You weren’t supposed to be weak like this. You weren’t supposed to let alcohol open old wounds that should’ve scarred by now. And yet, here you were, clutching a half-empty cup you didn’t even want anymore, hating how quickly your defenses fell apart the second the liquor hit your veins.

Your eyes darted around the room, desperate for something, anything, to anchor yourself to. A distraction. A lifeline. Maybe a water bottle lying abandoned on a counter, maybe a familiar face to drag you back into the present. Anything to dilute the effects, the feelings. But every corner you looked to only reminded you of him—his friends, his team colors, the sound of his name carried carelessly through the noise. And suddenly, the thought hit you like a cruel joke: no matter how much you drank, no matter how many times you swore you were over him, it was always going to come back to this. 

Him.

Your eyes landed on a framed photo on the wall, another memory, one you hadn’t noticed in weeks because you’d been deliberately training yourself to look past it, to blur it into the background. Tonight, though, your gaze snagged on it like a fishhook. It was a photo from your 21st birthday—the night that had felt golden in every way possible, though now it burned like a wound that had never healed. You were smiling so wide your cheeks dimpled, eyes sparkling from laughter and champagne, a smudge of cake frosting still clinging to your fingers. Around your neck was the necklace Joe had given you, the delicate silver infinity symbol that had caught the light in every photo that night. He’d pressed it into your palm right before the celebrations began with an easy shrug, insisting it was “just a small thing,” a nothing gift, meant only to mark the night and mean nothing to anyone else. But you knew better. Even then, with the way his thumb had brushed the crook of your neck when he finished clasping it, with the glimmer in his eyes when he looked at you, you knew it meant more.

You remembered more than just the photograph could capture. The warmth of the candles burning on the red velvet cake, the way your parents had fussed over you before bed, the hum of voices dying down as the house settled into sleep. Then him, slipping quietly into your bedroom like a shadow. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, the mischievous curve of his mouth when he whispered, “We’re just friends, right?”, something he’d repeated multiple times to your family members that evening when they poked and prodded at what it meant for him to be here. That smirk was a lie, one that only the two of you shared, covering the truth of what had already passed and what was about to happen again.

You could see the words he’d scrawled in your birthday card, his loopy, boyish handwriting looping across the page with that familiar, careless charm, though his words never felt careless. 

“Happy Birthday to the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. The one who makes every win worth it, every quiet night feel like home, every laugh and every look worth holding onto. You’ve seen me at my best, my worst, the parts of me I don’t show anyone else, and still, you stayed. I’ll throw every day I have at you, and somehow, even after all that, I’ll want more. You’re in my bones, my chest, my every thought. Never doubt that. I hope this year treats you half as sweet as you’ve treated me, though I don’t think the world’s got that kind of kindness in it.”

You could still feel it, the firm, possessive press of his hands against your waist, the way the floorboards groaned beneath him as he guided you back onto the bed, the look on his face still burned into your eyes. Your laughter had been caught, muffled against his mouth, the sound sliding between you like a secret, a pulse in the dark that belonged only to the two of you. The rest of the house slept on, oblivious, while you gave yourself to him with a reckless sort of surrender, like every stolen second throughout the night had been building to this. It was intoxicating, a thrill wrapped in warmth and shadow, a memory that could soothe your chest one moment and set it ablaze the next, lingering long after the world had reclaimed its quiet.

You lingered there for a long time, staring at that photo until your reflection blurred into his—until you couldn’t tell where the past ended and the present you were dreaming of began. It was cruel, how something so small could still break you. A fresh rub of salt on a wound you thought had been stitched shut a long time ago. You told yourself to look away, to stop giving it power. But your eyes stayed locked, like maybe if you stared long enough, you could step back into that night and warn yourself. Tell her not to let him in. Tell her that the necklace will start to feel like a shackle, that the warmth in his voice will one day sound like an echo in an empty room.

Finally, you turned, pulse hammering, but his voice lingered anyway—soft, teasing, echoing like a ghost. 

We’re just friends, right?

You wanted to scream, to shatter something, to claw at the world for the cruelty of it. That was the first lie you ever told each other, and it had grown like poison, bleeding into every memory, every hope, every quiet second you thought you could forget. It left fingerprints on your bones, a pulse in your veins that no distraction could drown out, a hunger for something that was never truly yours to keep.

And in that suffocating, twisted memory, a cold truth pressed against you.

You weren’t just heartbroken. You were a question left unanswered, a story left unfinished, a door left open that might never close.

Would he come back? Or had he only ever loved the chase, leaving you stranded on the edge of a promise that would never be kept?

End of Part 1. 

hope you enjoyed part 1! feedback is always welcome and highly appreciated because i love yapping. stay tuned for part 2!